DIARY
JEFFREY ARCHER Last Friday evening I had dinner with Vanessa Redgrave at the Ivy. She's just fin- ished a successful run of Song at Twilight at the Gielgud. The first time I saw her was nearly 40 years ago when she played Hele- na. In the ensuing years, I've never seen her give a bad performance. She talked about Kosovo and the Chechens, and her role as an international ambassador with Unicef. She needs to raise money for the thousands of refugees living in such desperate plight, and we discussed ideas for an auction and a celebrity dinner.
Saturday and Sunday I'm back in Cam- bridge. In between writing my new novel, Serendipity, I watch England thrash Wales on television and in the evening my wife beats me three times in a row at backgam- mon. I now owe her £17 million. She understands the doubling dice far better than I do. On Sunday I sit in the folly at the end of the garden and read through the second act of a play I have just completed — The Accused — which is set in the Old Bailey in 1952. During the afternoon I talk to the director, David Gilmore, about some ideas for casting and where he would like to tour it before coming into London. He has firm views on who should play the two barristers — Sir James Barrington and Anthony Kersley — and agrees that scripts should be sent out to actors on Monday. Mary is working downstairs on her solar energy book, which will be published in four volumes. She's currently editing a chapter that has been written by a distin- guished German scientist, which she seems pleased with.
Mary and I travel up to London on Sunday evening to attend a presentation given by my son James on his idea for a dot.com company. After this, we go to see the film The Green Mile at the Kensington Odeon. Harrowing and long — three hours — but impressive. Stephen King is a damned good storyteller.
0 n Monday we both start the day with a training session in the gym, consisting of an hour of cardiovascular work and weights, followed by 20 minutes of stretch- ing. Mary is very good at the stretching. Today is publication day for To Cut a Long Story Short, and Adrian Bourne from HarperCollins calls to tell me that they have sold into the shops 132,000 hardback copies — the largest I've ever managed for a set of short stories. Mary comments that we've had to go via a very circuitous route to break that particular record. Mary goes off to the Royal Institution, while I do an interview on the Internet for BOL.com. I still write every word of my books and plays in longhand, and the interviewer, David Freeman, asks me about the difference between writing short stories and novels. He can't resist adding that he will be voting for Ken Livingstone in the mayoral elec- tion. So will I, I tell him — as everyone gets two votes he'll be my second preference, because of the harm he'll cause Tony Blair. My first choice remains Steve Norris — dead or alive. At 12 o'clock I phone my son William in America. He's been on Bill Bradley's election team for the past eight months and feels it will be all over tomor- row on Super Tuesday. I'm sorry because Bradley is one of the most decent men I know, and I believe he would have made a fine president. In the evening I have dinner with Gillie Gray, QC — an old friend who has been advising me on The Accused, and admits he'd rather like to play Sir James Barrington himself. Among other things, he proffers his opinion on who should be offered the part. On Tuesday morning I attend an auc- tion at Phillips, as I'm interested in a Helen Bradley watercolour that's going under the hammer. I lunch with two of my oldest friends, John Bryant and Chris Brasher. They are both preparing for the London Marathon and eat a vast amount of food to prove it. The conversation strays back to Ken Livingstone and I admit that when I was the Conservative candidate for mayor, I always assumed he'd run, despite his say- ing that he wouldn't. I recall Peter Oborne of the Sunday Express writing in his column six months ago that Ken had said to him `I'll be Mayor, one way or the other', and I for one always assumed those were his true feelings, because I couldn't see how Dob- son — a man who didn't want the job could hope to win. I spend the afternoon in the Lords listening to the debate on reform in the Upper House, and am grateful to have had seven years under the old system. Neither Margaret Jay nor Thomas Strath- clyde said anything they will have to live with in the future. Mary takes the car and goes off in search of tiles for the kitchen. The evening is a special treat, because I have dinner with Godfrey Barker whose love of politics and knowledge of the arts makes him one of the most companionable men in London. We talk about the prob- lems facing Christie's, Sotheby's and the Conservative party — in that order. He remains convinced that the Conservatives will win the next election, but refuses to take a bet on it.
Iwake up on Wednesday morning at 5.20 and switch on CNN to discover that Bradley has lost every state, and Gore is certain to be the Democratic candidate. I wonder if my son, William, will return home or look for another job in America. Mary sleeps on. Back to writing the sixth chapter of Serendipity where Lester Matthew Davenport has reached university. I manage 2,000 words during the day. In the evening we join the Thatchers for din- ner at the Ritz. I have no intention of repeating anything that was said on this occasion, but I suspect you can guess Denis Thatcher's views on Steve Norris's policy for gays.
Thursday, 9 March — my contract with HarperCollins comes to an end at midnight. I will now have to decide — following the departure of Eddie Bell as chairman of the company — whether I sign another three- book contract with Harpers or begin to look for a new publisher. But that's a decision I don't have to make this week.
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