METAFICTION

Chapter 3. THE FALL OF EDDIE SHARPE

DEEP IN THE HEART of the City of Cambridge, England, two publishing agents were sitting at a table opposite Eddie Sharpe. The three of them were all huddled together in a cramped office high up on the twentieth floor of the Colberton Publishing House office block, which stood proudly among the other commercial buildings and against the driving rain.

To Eddie, the tall thin man and the short plump woman were opposites in physical appearance but bosom pals of the mind—Bill Travers and Helen Mallory. The pair sat highly animated, profusely enthusiastic, as if life was something worth living. Eddie, in stark contrast, was losing the will to live. He looked out at the grey driving rain firing down from the heavy black April sky and half-tempted himself to plunge out of the window and merge depressingly with it.

The three of them had just finished drinking their cups of coffee and a meaningless conversation about life the universe and nothing in particular, when...

"Eddie, Eddie, Eddie," dripped beady-eyed Travers, the words tumbling down like the rain outside, "how long ago was it since you were runner-up for the Man Booker Prize?"

"Just over fifteen years," mumbled Eddie, finding it hard to maintain focus. He stroked his unshaven cheeks with the back of his hand defensively. "I lost out on a split decision," he added.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you coulda been a contender, and all that claptrap. But the fact of the matter is, Eddie boy, you came a close second and have produced nothing in the same class since."

Eddie thought beanpole Travers was enjoying his act of human demolition.

"Don't be too hard on him, Bill," piped in Mallory. "We have published seven of his other novels." She waddled herself slightly while examining her reflection in her compact makeup mirror, as she meticulously applied some gaudy lipstick. Eddie thought she was attempting the impossible task of making herself look pretty. He was sometimes overweight himself and knew he was being a touch hypocritical, but really, to him she looked like a bloated sea lion. Her neck was wider than her head, and the moustache sprouting above her upper lip gave the appearance of whiskers.

"Yeah—yeah—yeah," retorted Travers, raising his voice and punctuating each "yeah" with a pounding bony fist on the tabletop, "but six of them died a death and cost us a substantial loss, and the only one that made a meagre profit was the follow-up novel to the first Man Booker Prize runner-up novel we published. And let's be honest, people only bought the follow-up because they had expected it would be at least somewhere as good as the precedent. It wasn't!"

Eddie gazed down forlornly at the office's patterned Axminster carpet.

"No, I'm sorry, Eddie, we can't publish this current effort," said Travers waving Eddie's latest manuscript in front of Eddie's nose. "To cut a long story short—and I mean literally that—it is pure unadulterated crap."

"Bill!" reprimanded Mallory, snapping shut her compact makeup mirror and giving Travers a fierce disapproving look.

Eddie shuffled a little uncomfortably. "Oh, he's right, Helen," he muttered, wafting his hands about indecisively. "I just can't recapture the form of my first novel. I'd rather not say why."

Mallory smiled at Eddie. "What made the novel so good were the characters. Especially that, oh what was her name...you know, the protagonist...the woman who escaped from the evil antagonist Neil Barrington...what was her name...?"

"Julia Strauss," interjected Travers. "What a character, Eddie. Why can't you repeat that formula?" Travers' blood-shot grey eyes burned holes in Eddie's so much so that they seemed to make Eddie go temporarily blind.

Eddie stared back vacantly, his blinded eyes unfocused. "Just can't create anything like her," he mumbled, lurching unexpectedly to the side of his chair as if he were drunk. "She created herself if truth be told."