Claws unsheathed in Fleet Street
Simon Heifer
PLAYING THE GAME by Sarah Sands Macmillan, 110.99, pp. 247,
ISBN 0333905547
Sometimes I have lounged in other people's bathrooms and read a few pages of what I am told are known as 'shopping and fucking' novels. This genre used to strike me as curious: I can understand the urge many people have to read about the latter, but I could never quite grasp the attraction of the former. It is only with the wisdom that comes with age, and the realisation that a surprising number of women prefer spending their husband's money to having carnal knowledge of him, that I have begun to see the point.
Mrs Sands's debut novel is remarkable for working on several levels. For those who want shopping and fucking, there is no shortage of it here, and even the most discerning member of the typing pool seeking to pass the time on the ghastly journey from Newbury Park to St Paul's (once, that is, the Central Line has finally re-opened) will not be disappointed. More discerning readers might want a sophisticated parody of the genre, and that, too, can be a legitimate interpretation of this entertaining story.
For Mrs Sands's friends and colleagues — she is, of course, deputy editor of the Daily Telegraph and a gifted columnist in that newspaper — there will be the additional amusement of trying to spot the prototypes of the various characters in her story. It is about the rivalry between two women on a television news station. The anti-heroine, Patti Ward, is an ageing but well-preserved old bitch who has lunch with the Prime Minister, lusts after Alastair Campbell, and is a pal of the Prince of Wales's too. The Daily Mail devotes huge spreads to her life and times and its legendary editor even comes out of conferences to take phone calls from her. The heroine, Alexandra Khan, is less than half Patti's real age (which advances incrementally throughout the book), decent, honest, genuinely beautiful and well-meaning. By a happy journalistic coincidence, Alex discovers a particularly nasty set of secrets about Patti, and in time serves as her nemesis: though not before Patti's flagging career is rescued by. of all people. Osama bin Laden. Since Mrs Sands hasn't worked in television, any relationship to the real world of broadcasting cannot be other than tangential. However, one or two of Fleet Street's more shocking old bags will find themselves portrayed, with wit and more subtlety than they deserve, in these pages.
It is an amusing story, its textures leavened by a humanity which refuses to go away. and which helps avoid the twodimensionality that is the mainstay of books like this. The authoress is good at characterisation — these monsters are all too believeable, as is the garbage some of them speak — and her plot races along. Those of a nervous disposition will be relieved to know that the carnality is all done extremely tastefully, and the retail experiences are similarly understated. Best of all, unlike almost all the knicker-rippers that pollute the bookstores these days, this one is entirely literate and beautifully written, all the usual clichés having been given the day off. Playing the Game is great fun, but also the signal of no mean popular literary talent.
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