But when I arrived, there was a scattering of no more than a dozen-odd people tucking into their preliminary rounds. I settled down near three girls huddled together on a sofa and announced myself as a journalist.They said they were from promotions and publicity. "Well what do you think? Will she win?" I asked. "Oh absolutely," chimed the trio. "Well, everyone seems to think so. But don't you think the jury's going to react to all this expectation being thrust on them?" "No, no, not at all," they chimed. "What did you like about the book?" I asked, curious about how people have reacted to the book. "Everything," went the threesome. "The prose, the structure, the silences." For a little while we talked about the virtues of the book, and then I left to attend the Booker Prize function at Guildhall. When we returned a couple of hours later, triumphant, in a stretch limousine, high on champagne, the party had assumed demonic proportions. There was barely place to stand, as the literati bent elbows with a vengeance. I shouldered my way into the crush, and ran up against the three still on the sofa, but expansive now. "So we did it," I said pumping my fist like Chang.
One of them rolled her eyes lazily, and said, "Ah, we will next time." "Next time?" And then it dawned on me. It was a joint party thrown by three publishers: HarperCollins, Penguin and Fourth Estate, all of whom had writers on the shortlist. And the trio'd been talking about Madeline St John all along.
