Singular life
Week of agony
Petronella Wyatt
The gossip columnist had me pinned behind a door. The questions kept coming, insistent and accusatory. The situation was becoming as sticky as a fudge sundae. Then a voice said, 'Petronella, what are you doing? Come out of there at once.' It was my mother. Who was the more terrifying, the gossip columnist or she? The answer was easy. She was.
It was the middle of my book launch for Father, Dear Father. Book launches are always hazardous events, especially if they are one's own. It is like asking for a mas- sive vote of confidence from a rowdy public meeting. Often the public meeting is hun- gry and thirsty as well as rowdy and conse- quently hates your guts, the dinky wildebeest canapes from The Incompara- ble Wooster and the cunning little Aus- tralian plonk having run out three-quarters of the way through.
Yet things went alarmingly smoothly at first. Okay, so Robin Day groped my Aun- tie Lavinia — just joking, Robin — and those nice-looking teenage shop assistants from Papyrus Dreams, etc., got off with my dog — but otherwise it went swimmingly, thank you.
That was the problem. Everything was swimming. Suffering from pre-party nerves I had tanked up on some wine at 5 o'clock. By seven I could barely stand and was reclining, Recamier like, on a sofa. Indeed, it would have been better if the book had been called Look Back in Languor.
This would have been all right if the guests had just talked among themselves and left me alone. But guests have an irri- tating habit of expecting the hostess to do things for them. Bloody inconsiderate that. Chiefly, they wanted me to inscribe their books. Inscribing books at a party is not like doing a book signing at Hatchards at 9.30 in the morning.
I mean it's fine at the beginning. One writes to so and so, with best wishes and or regards. End of story. But, after a few more drinks, one thinks that isn't really good enough. Not imaginative enough. Not giv- ing the punters their money's worth. So one starts to write more. This, too, is fine at the start: one just adds, To dearest so and so, all my love from a grateful friend ... ' or Tor Nicholas whom I have always regarded as an inspiration and an ideal, with fondest love.'
But emboldened by their seeing me scribbling away so diligently, people began making special requests. These took a number of forms. Some were of the say- how-much-you-treasure-my-friendship sort but then they started demanding something `personal'. One man said, 'Say something erotic.' I had another swig of champagne.
Personal? I could do personal. 'Dearest John, all my love from a grateful f—, I mean friend. Why you married that witch and not me is totally bemusing. Hope you like my little book.' Then I really got going. `Dear Boot Face, I always thought you had the most terrible legs but now is not the time to discuss them. Hope you like the book. Love Petronella.' What ho, Alexan- der. You look less like a leek than usual tonight. Cheerio. Good joke on page 39.' `To Susie. I bet this book makes you green with envy. You can't write for toffee. Read and learn ... love Pets.' On some flyleaves, I believe, I began transcribing whole verses and dirty limericks.
What to do? What to do? What to do? I can't ask for the wretched books back and in any case the damage would already have been done. My only argument against the wrath of recipients and their wives or girl- friends is the well-known illegibility of my handwriting. No, no, it didn't say 'You were always a fat slob', it said 'You always did a great job.' That wasn't 'a great shag- ger' you see before you, it was 'with great swagger'. I sold 80 copies of the book that night. Oh, hell.
Now that our children have grown up and the house is paid off, what do you say we get married?'
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