The Bookseller.com

7th September 2008

Daisy Frost is an agent at the Edward Cecil Literary Agency. She blogs at missdaisyfrost.com.

Jonny G and J-Lo

01.02.08

What a bloody awful week. Massive Amex bill in (must be that pre-Christmas crate of Bollinger for Amanda Ross), my cunning plan to sign George Michael went down the toilet, and of course the whole town is ablaze with talk of the salaries that some agencies (okay—one agency) are paying newly-arrived staff. I feel like Cinderella, but without the cute dress and the hot date.

I barged my way in to the Costas, which was a bit yawnsville—hardly worth undressing for. Even Simon Sebag Montefiore (so good they named him thrice) and the lovely Santa failed to quicken my pulse, and the orange glowstick that is the BBC's Emily Maitlis put me off my rubber chicken. As for A L Kennedy, all that moany stuff made me feel I was back in school. I will be giving her Edfest show a wide berth this year. I bumped into Saucy Bill S-K on the way to the powder room, who said: "See you at Gail's big bash on Friday." "Yeah, yeah, I might drop in," I breezily responded, without a clue what he was talking about. Went home early to sulk.

Next morning, I made a call to Gail's office pretending to be "Chloe", my fantasy second assistant. Unfortunately, Gail's very real PA Sue didn't give an inch, so I mumbled and hung up. Even Ali Gunn wouldn't tell me what was happening, which felt like the ultimate insult. Turns out that it was Rebuck House's "Confidential Agents' Briefing" and I wasn't bloody invited. That is the last time I charitably flirt with Will Sulky or Dangerous Dan—it obviously isn't getting results.

Anyway, I got the low-down at the Groucho on Friday night, and it put a smile back on my face. Standing room only, croissants, La Michel in a backless LBD (at midday), five kinds of herbal tea, Curtis Brown's Jonny G and J-Lo saying nothing about the "ICM" issue, and Gail telling the world to go digital if it wants to survive. Until Kate Moss has a Kindle, or they start doing them in fuschia pink, I ain't jumping aboard this Digital Love Train, and will continue to use the old-fashioned equipment (my eyes).

I see that Freemantle/BBC are getting in on the sleb fiction act—Minette Walters is going to tutor six Z-listers to write fiction and then "fire" one every day (the winner gets a book deal from Maria at BigMac). Knowing Minette, the firing will involve a gun directed at a main artery or chopping their talentless fingers off with a meat cleaver. Frankly, the only chance this format has is if they have a real agent on the panel—someone au fait with the literary world and Heat magazine. Out of my way, McCutcheon: this could be my "perfect moment".

A special delivery comes in from Random House. It's a New Age hessian sack of horror courtesy of Preface—the Vicar of Dobly's new imprint. If the message he is trying to impart is "my new venture is musty and we found most of the books in an old shed", then it is spot-on.