The Duke of Arcadia

Post-lunch, the office is full again. Having spent the last two hours overhauling Arcadian Rhapsody, Jody's new magazine column about moving from London to the sticks, I feel it is in acceptable shape now.

That is to say, I have completely changed all the references she made to V and me to make them more favourable towards me, and have toned down some of Jody’s more choice opinions about her rustic neighbours. Even though I am slightly peeved with her, I wouldn’t want to see her being tied to a ducking stool by outraged members of the Countryside Alliance.

If anyone’s going to do that, it’ll be me. I call her.

“Hello, Jody.”

“Ahahaha!” she replies, shrill and perhaps a tad nervous. “How are you!”

“I’m great.”

“Glad to her it. What can I do you for?”

“Oh, hold on. No, I’m terrible actually.”

“Really? What’s up?”

“Wait, wait. Actually, I’m feeling magic."

"What are you on about?"

"Oh, Jody. I just find it so difficult to make a decision, you see, because I'm so...so...indecisive and diffident. It's like a curse.”

“Aha. I can see where this is going.”

“I bet you can. For I am subbing Arcadian Rhapsody as we speak. The male character seems weirdly familiar.”

“That Maria, eh? What a card, giving you that job to do. What a minx [mirthless laugh]. So, what do you think? Pretty bloody good isn't it?”

“To be frank, you haven’t painted V and me – or should I say, ‘D and P’ - in a very good light. And don't even think about pretending those characters aren't based on us. Well?”

“Molly? Yes? What is it Molls? You want your gnocchi now? Okay, coming!”

“Jody, Molly can’t talk yet. Anyway, who gives their baby gnocchi?”

“Look. You know the score, you’re a journo. It’s all made up. A bit of fun.”

“I doubt that V will see it like that. In fact, I'm pretty sure she'll drive immediately to your house and give you multiple Chinese burns when she reads it.”

“I could take her."

“Fortunately, she hasn't read this. Yet. Let's look at what you've written about us. My waspish, power crazed, slightly mad bezzie mate D and her lovely, but infuriatingly indecisive and diffident boyfriend P come up for the weekend from the litter-strewn hell of crack dealers and gun crime that is Hackney. 'Diffident’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on. Rattle back in the pram, please.”

“The reason I'm phoning is to tell you that I’ve had to make some changes to your copy.”

“Have you now?”

“For starters, it was short and you forgot to spell-check.”

“Shit!”

“I've sorted it. Apart from that, I’ve toned it down a bit.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

“By the fifth line, you’ve alienated your London readership by rubbishing every aspect of being in the city. By the third paragraph, you risk being the subject of whatever the East Anglian equivalent of a fatwa is.”

"Utter Tripe. Give me one example.”

“Do you really want your neighbours to know you think of them as drooling, horny-handed throwbacks who still think Channel 5 is a manifestation of pagan magick?”

“Oh yeah. The bit about the woman from the church group who came round. She was weird.”

"Some other random examples. Villages tend not to have actual 'village idiots' these days; wearing a body warmer does not make you 'a twat'; as far as I know Foot and Mouth disease was not 'invented to discourage Townies from leaving the city'. It’s too much Jody. You need to be more gently mocking, less pitilessly lampooning.”

“Well, it's an opinion. Anything else?”

“Well, yes. You’re a bit patronising, I'm afraid.”

“Bollocks! Which paragraph?”

“No, I mean just in general.”

“Maybe you just don't 'get it', sweetheart.”

“Look, the whole thing was a bit too ‘look at the funny yokels’. I’ve kept in some of the quirky bits - about the trees you have befriended and the identical twins who run the shop and so on. Quirky was your original brief from Maria, I believe.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ve also cut seven of the nine occurrences of the phrase ‘locally sourced’.”

“Oh for God’s sake! Why?”

“It just annoys the shit out of people.”

Jody snorts and mutters something untoward about 'people'.

“Now, about this stuff you’ve written about V and me,” I continue.

“Yes?”

“What’s the point of it?”

“You’re our friends. You’re so…different from the people who live round here. They're all mumsy and settled. You guys are footloose and fancy free. I created you for humour and drama.”

“You call me ‘P the Procrastinator’ and say that all me and ‘D’ do is argue about whether to have kids.”

“And?”

“You’re just taking the piss out of us.”

“Well pull your finger out and have a bloody baby! Oh…did I say that out loud?”

“Anyway, I’ve changed ‘P the Procrastinator' to ‘Duke’.

“What?”

“‘Duke’. I can make it ‘The Duke’ if you prefer.”

“You can’t choose your own nickname!”

“I am not going to become known as ‘P the Procrastinator’. Apart from anything else, It sounds like a song by The Fall.”

“Get a grip. I just wanted to add a bit of topical comment – everywhere you look someone’s writing about having bloody children. It’s the subject du jour.”

“I will not be made fun of in a women's magazine.”

Jody laughs for around half a minute, her guffaws building in waves down the phone line to a crescendo before blowing out, like a miniature storm. “Don’t be so pompous, it really doesn’t suit you.”

“And the way you describe me and V coming to visit you in Dunwell – like we’ve never seen cows before. The ignorant urbanites who don’t understand the countryside. That’s gone too."

“But that’s what you’re like! Ian told me that when he was doing the pig slaughtering bit for the telly, you were shocked to discover that pork didn’t come in a plastic, shrink-wrapped tray.”

“That was a JOKE. And we did not spend all weekend bickering about not having children and moaning about how you can't get holy basil anywhere. From now on, if you’re going to mention these characters it has to be ‘D and the Duke’, right? And you’ve got to be more flattering about us. Or else I'll show Maria your original attempt, which I have spiked for your sake, whilst keeping a copy in Word. How's that for diffident?”

“Well. We'll see.”

“Yes. You will see."

Even as I say this I realise how stupid it sounds. I carry on regardless. "A couple of closing points. The bit where you say D describes the newborn child of our local playgroup leader, Cathy, as looking like an obese version of Gollum. It was you who said that.”

“Oh sweet Jesus.”

"And by the way, Cathy heard you."

"Oh Jesus."

“I've cut it. Also, to suggest your local butcher sells ‘horsemeat’ and 'dodgy offal' is probably libellous.”

“Finished with your hatchet?" says Jody, sounding vexed. "Just email me what you’ve done. I’m going to have to speak to Maria about this.”

Before I can say anything, Jody hangs up on me. Though this is how she and V tend to terminate their telephone encounters, she has never done it to me before. I stare at my screen, silently raging. A moment later I perceive, vaguely, that Natasha, the assistant chief sub, is standing by my chair. She leans down close to my ear to speak to me, as if I’m in some way handicapped, which I suspect she thinks I am. I realise she is trying to tell me something discreetly.

“Georgia? It’s her last day today? We’re about to give her her prezzies?”

Before I know it a semi-circle of thirty women has formed around Georgia, who sits to my left. She turns around to see them and bursts into tears. Everyone laughs. The next ten minutes consist of a speech from Maria that manages to be simultaneously gushing and slightly bitchy, followed by a speech from Georgia that manages to be simultaneously gushing and slightly bitchy. Presently, a slice of M&S lemon drizzle cake, the office equivalent of a coke/heroin speedball, is thrust in front of me. I’m halfway through it when the phone goes. I let it ring, knowing it’s Jody. Maybe she'll go away.

“Is someone going to answer that fucking phone?” shrieks Maria. “It could be a fucking story for fuck’s sake.”

Reluctantly, I pick up the phone. Rather than a hot tip-off about how to get rid of varicose veins post-pregnancy, it is indeed Jody, and she's not happy.

“I want to speak to Maria. NOW.”

“Why don't you phone her number then."

"I did but she's not answering. Put her on."

"But Jody, now’s not a good…”

Like all editors, Maria has near-bionic hearing. She comes rushing over, spilling sparkling rosé from her champagne flute as she shuffle-runs in her designer flip-flops.

“Is that the Jodester?”

“Yeah.”

“Put her on speaker.”

I do as I’m told.

“Jodester!”

“Hi Maria. Listen, about my column, it’s been butcher - ”

“Love it, love it, LOVE IT!” shouts Maria at the phone.

“Oh,” says Jody, small of voice.

“Just picked it out of the basket and had a shufty. Such a funny turn of phrase. Quirky but not afraid to shine the JOY! light on the real countryside while exposing some universal truths. Proper nang. And the way you sort of gently mock the locals is pitched just right.”

“Oh, well…thanks.”

"Didn't take much subbing did it?" asks Maria, turning to me.

"Just a tweak," I lie.

“Good, good. Just one other thing. In Jody's trial column you and your girlfriend were 'P the Procrastinator' and 'D'. Now 'P' seems to have been replaced by 'Duke'. What happened? Have you been dumped and usurped by minor royalty?”

“Um…no. I'm 'Duke'.”

Maria emits a fine spray of rosé as she laughs.

“You're 'Duke'? You?"

"Yes. Me."

"So totally random! Where does the name come from?”

“Natural authority as a child.”

Maria stares at me for a second or two. She has a rather strange look on her face, like she's assessing me somehow. This little tableau, which lasts no more than three seconds, for some reason reminds me of a wildlife programme I saw the other night about desert predators.

She turns suddenly and addresses the assembled girls who are crowding around Georgia, studying the diamante encrusted ballet pumps they’ve bought her. “Hey everyone. Wanna know what our super new sub's nickname is?"

The girls look at Maria. Though obviously confused they smile, as per their contracts. "It's DUKE! How grimy is that!”

Everybody laughs, a lot. I can even hear Jody chuckling down the phone. It’s all I can do to not rip it out of the socket and defenestrate it. I look up and smile inanely. Even Natasha allows herself the slightest of grins. Although she may just have been gurning slightly as a piece of lemon drizzle cake went down the wrong way.

“That is the funniest thing I’ve heard all day,” says Maria, smiling gleefully at me. She raises her glass and winks.

“TO DUKE!”

All the girls follow suit.

As I sit drinking my lukewarm rosé, basking in bewildered fashion at my newfound popularity with Maria and the rest of the office, I can’t help but muse over the irony that an actual duke wouldn’t crave acceptance from anyone, let alone a group of slightly pissed magazine journalists. A small, crackly voice brings me back down to earth.

"Oi!" It's Jody. I forgot to hang up.

"Do you think V would mind being called 'Duchess' in future columns?"

Comments

['Duke']

Ah, Jonathan, you're far too kind. The terrible thing is, it's all true. Lemon drizzle cake is the guilty secret of the magazine industry, in my experience.

[Jonathan]

What a fine vignette of magazine life that is, 'Duke'. Your description of M & S lemon drizzle cake as 'the office equivalent of a coke/ heroin speedball' made me laugh out loud more than the last seven series of Absolutely Fantastic put together (which is to say, it made me laugh once). And I can absolutely imagine how a pair of opposing leaving-day speeches could manage to be 'at once gushing and slightly bitchy'. I think I have heard a few public exchanges like that during my time in the office jungle...