Agent Provocateur Daisy Frost Ding dong


A funeral pall is cast over LBF, but Daisy Frost finds solace in some blue-stocking porn


Oh, this is indeed a sombre Wednesday. A day we have all dreaded for some time, but sadly, like a six-monthly re-org at HarperCollins, we all knew it was coming. Tat’s right—an end of another LBF. Te fact that it’s also the funeral of


bookseller ad52_Layout 1 16/04/2013 13:21 Page 1 being an


Mrs Tatcher makes it even more poignant. Baroness Tatcher’s death marks a coming of age for all of us publishing girls and to be honest, without Mrs T’s girl power, Dame Gail would still be in publicity, Selina Walker would be a very junior assistant and Vicky B would be really slumming it in one of the greatest stately homes in England. I feel the time is now upon me to consider how I take up the mantle to become publishing’s next “I Earn Lady”. Anyway—after 90 tough minutes


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ELIZABETH FORBES top-notch fiction


Cutting Edge Press • Fiercely Independent www.cuttingedgepress.co.uk


14 THE BOOKSELLER DAILY AT LBF | 17 APRIL 2013


yesterday trying to interest three sets of foreign publishers in anything other than the length of my skirt, I decided to cancel all my meetings by leaving a framed picture of Margaret Tatcher and Ronald Reagan on my IRC desk with a note saying, “Daisy Frost is spending the day in contemplation.” Armed with a telescope half-inched from the Patrick O’Brian display on the HarperCollins stand, I climbed to the very top of Earls Court with a bottle of gin strapped to my back. Taking a big swig, I surveyed the


scene. It was an odd one—to my left I could see hot air emerging from the Canongate stand, where Lord Byng was pitching a new series called Genome—100 literary greats each write a story incorporating their unique, 250-million letter DNA sequence. To my right I could see Scott Pack launching a revolutionary new e-book, which contains the entire internet as a PDF for a mere 99p (such value!). Far off in the distance I could see


the diamonds glinting around Lady Gush’s neck and the neon shine of her teeth blinding hundreds of impressionable male publishers, who were throwing themselves at her feet brandishing offers she couldn’t


refuse. Tis was my world and I bloody loved it. Just as I was patting myself on


the back, my phone rang. It was a very angry boss asking where the hell I was and how many deals I had closed today. I urgently contacted all my


out-of-work writers (I wish I could say the list was shorter) and said I would have to fire them all unless they started making me hard cash. Soon the ideas were flooding in. By 6 p.m., I had closed big deals for an erotic memoir about Mrs Tatcher called Fifty Shades of Blue: She Was Only the Grocer’s Daughter (pre- empted by Virgin’s new erotic list Vajazzle), a book of caustic household tips called Te Ironing Lady, and my pièce de résistance— Tatcher in the Rye—a coming-of-age novel about a narrator called Maggie Caulfield, who recounts the events leading up to being knifed in the back by Lord Heseltine. Tus I became responsible for the . . . ahem . . . “Tatcheration” of the market. BOOM! BOOM! I texted my boss to say that


Baroness Tatcher was a close family friend, so I would be taking the day off to attend her funeral and could he therefore take over my meeting schedule. Now I’ve got to decide which street party I’m going to . . .


Follow me on twitter @missdaisyfrost


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