The Costa Shortlist

My phone rang when I was on a train. ‘I’m in a quiet carriage,’ I whispered, expecting heads all around to turn accusingly.

The caller was my wife Sue. ‘You need to phone Kirsty,’ she said, urgently. ‘She has exciting news.’ (Kirsty is my editor at Orion. Her news is always exciting. But what could this news be?)

‘What kind of ….?’ I began, but I barely had time for those three words before the train disobligingly plunged into a signal-free zone. There’s a stretch of the West Coast mainline up through the Lake District where you can normally guarantee blissful freedom from telephone disturbance for half an hour or more.  But could there be a less convenient stretch of the rail network, when you know there’s exciting news, but have no hint to suggest what that news might be?

I phoned Kirsty an age later when the train pulled into Carlisle. I had very few nerves left. ‘What’s the news?’ I asked.

‘Ahh well … it’s very exciting ….,’ she said. She was toying with me.

‘Please,’ I begged. ‘In twenty seconds, I’ll be on the long stretch of line to Beattock Summit and I don’t think cell phones have ever made it this far north.’

‘You’ve made the shortlist for The Costa.’

I have now discovered the reason why they have quiet carriages on trains. It was only the threat of opprobrium from my fellow passengers that prevented me from leaping onto the table and whooping.  Actually, of course, that last bit isn’t true. We British don’t go in for whooping much, do we? Especially not on trains. That would be an American response. So instead I said something very polite; ‘Oh gosh, how splendid,’ or words to that effect.

One week later and I’m still trying to come to terms with the news. It seemed (and still does seem) faintly unreal. Even sipping champagne with Kirsty and Sophie from Orion in Jamie’s Italian to celebrate, didn’t altogether dispel the feeling that I’m somehow occupying a dream that rightly belongs to someone else. I’m quite prepared for the letter that reads, ‘due to an unfortunate error your book was mistakenly placed in the wrong list, please accept our apologies…’ 

The truth is, I suppose, that book prizes do matter. They shouldn’t. But they do. I’ve recently emerged, scathed, from the ordeal that was the Guardian’s ‘Not the Booker Prize,’ from which contest Max Ponder managed to stumble home in third place. It’s a well-meaning attempt by the Guardian to democratise the book award circus, and to introduce a level of X-Factor voting into the mix. But it ended, this year, with a nasty squabble between the winner and the Guardian, and an unseemly email campaign for votes. So the news that Max Ponder had made the final four for the Costa First Novel Award was especially gratifying.

The other three books look impressive, and a little scary. I’m going to try to read them all before the announcement of the category winners on January 3^rd so that I can nod enthusiastically and say, ‘well deserved,’ when the decision is announced. The reviewer on ‘Front Row’ referred to us collectively as ‘young authors,’ which was kind.  The other three deserve the adjective, but I shall enjoy the association all the same. And I am looking forward to the announcement. That is true. It would be fantastic to win, but it’s great simply to be recognised. So I’m not thinking about winning. Well. I’m trying not to. I’ve got three more chapters of Book Three to finish, and a whole set of edits for The Coincidence Authority coming my way very soon, and a day job that actively consumes my time, and a Christmas calendar that is filling up fast, and those three novels to read, and a cryptic crossword to complete every day, and a five year old retriever that needs walking, and Christmas shopping to start thinking about, and a running machine that beckons from the conservatory every time I look out of the kitchen window. So let’s put all thought of the Costa aside – for the next six weeks at least. And if anyone confronts me, as they sometimes do, with, ‘OMG you made the Costa Shortlist!’ I shall smile like an Englishman and say, ‘yes, isn’t it splendid?’ Or words to that effect.