The Macmillan Women’s Fiction party was fantastic: a chance to meet my writing stablemates , some friendly booksellers and the few Macmillan/Picador staff I hadn’t harassed encountered (including the designer of my beautiful jacket and backlist who kept saying how pleased she was that I loved them, while nervously backing away). I also made a new friend and then dashed her wine glass from her hand to the floor with an expansive gesture. Class.
There was also a photographer. A photographer who gathered me and two glamorous blonde authors together, saying ‘come on, girls’. I am not a girl. Haven’t been one for years. So, naturally, I made a face, and that was the moment he took the picture. And the next day there we were in the Evening Standard: two glamorous authors and a Feminist, Horrified.
I didn’t keep the cutting. I look like a wry horse in a blouse. But a well-meaning friend saved me a copy, which I crumpled up, threw away, retrieved from my bin and attach now, for your amusement.