14.10.11 | Daisy Frost
So there I was—lying on Lord Byng of Wikiwars' bed toying with his purloined BlackBerry, when I suddenly heard the door opening. "Oh my God, Jamie's come back to shampoo his chest hair, or something," I whispered frantically to myself before bolting into his wardrobe to hide under a pile of Wikileaks Cookbooks. I could hear him muttering to himself about his missing BlackBerry when it suddenly rang in my hand—so with the stealth of a flying squirrel, I swung myself over the clothes rail and balanced on top of it like a cuter version of Olga Korbut.
As he leant in to find it I dropped down, flooring him from behind and tying his wrists with the dressing gown cord before putting some tights over his head. Worryingly, he seemed to rather enjoy it. Rushing out of the door, I swung the sign round to "Do not disturb" and slid down the bannister to the lobby.
In the bar I looked through Lucy Abrahams' gleaming tresses to see which cool parties she was going to, and using my stolen phone I emailed the hosts saying: "Please add my v. good friend Daisy Frost to the VIP list and make sure her glass is never empty. Love Jamie xxx."
Part two of my plan became operational as I passed the anatomically correct ice sculpture of Christopher MacLehose outside the Icelandic embassy party. Leaning on an enormous stalagmite and armed with my 2010 Rights List I picked the worst project possible, switched on Jamie's BlackBerry and fired off a strategic email to some likely scouts saying: "Darlings, are you hearing what I'm hearing? Daisy Frost has a white-hot
manuscript called Scientology for Cats by Euphemia Turtlebaum. We are about to preempt for £3m for UK. Good luck. Love you, Jamie xx." I actually felt perky.
Leaving Iceland, I swept into the A P Watt party just as Caradoc and Derek were on the karaoke podium singing "Georgia On My Mind". There was a frightful commotion as the three graces of scouting—Louise, Lucy and ScaryKoukla rushed over to me to shriek: "All our publishers want to pre-empt." I took a long sip of my Amaretto Sour and said coolly: "Girls—the first one of you to raise me a million euros from three territories gets it. I'll be over there singing ‘I Wanna be a Billionaire' with Ed Victor."
I had barely got to the second chorus when Louise approached. "My Germans, Italians and Dutchies will meet your demands—a million it is." We toasted our success and I snuck off to call my author with the good news. It's an unfamiliar but joyous feeling. As I dialled her number, Gail Rebuck stood in front of me with a cheque for £1m for English-language rights.
At around 3 a.m. in the lounge at the Flughagen, now on our third bottle of champers and playing "Shag, Marry or Publish" with my now very rich author, I realised something was bothering me. Suddenly a vision of Lord Byng of Wikiwars trussed up in a hotel wardrobe flashed before my eyes. I thought about heading back, but I really didn't want to risk missing my flight.
Still, not wanting to be totally unhelpful, I tweeted from his BlackBerry: "Julian Assange is holding me hostage in room 329 at the Hasslehof. Send help at once."
See you next year, bookbitches.