I’VE ALWAYS HAD a soft spot for Fergie. She’s the Bisto Kid who
climbed in through the window and grabbed the gravy. Then got the turkey, Brussels
sprouts and mince pies as well. After that she proceeded to throw the whole
lot round the kitchen making the most astonishing mess before scrambling back
out again, showing her knickers and thumbing her nose at the Establishment as
she went. A true heroine of our times. A rare, red-blooded role model the next
generation can look up to. Why, she even “bested” Ruby Wax –
if I recollect right, the royal spotty dog got the sarnie.
When I heard she was visiting Waterstones here in Manchester to promote her new book I thought I should go along. I might learn something. At my own book launch (coincidentally using the same black trestle table, in exactly the same room, exactly two months previously) I sold 24 books – and that was considered a successful evening. With hardbacks at £15.99, literary novelists these days are lucky to sell any. I’ve often attended book launches where the only person to part with good money was an author’s doting mamma. Sarah, Duchess of York, however, sold 241 books in an hour and a half – without a relative (or in-law) in sight. Total sales, at the time of writing, in this one branch alone already exceed 800 copies. This is not hype. These are actual figures validated by the till roll. How did she do it? She didn’t have to read from her book, or bring her own signing pen, I noticed. Come to think of it, she didn’t even have to write the book.
"A lot to learn"
As a scientific investigation, I made it my business to merge with bookshop
staff, security men and representatives from her publisher’s publicity
department for the afternoon. The bookshop thought I was with her and she must
have thought I was with them – so I managed to position myself right beside
her and, by pouring mineral water and helpfully opening out books on the title
page ready for her to sign, I was able to pick up invaluable tips that should
stand me in good stead for the rest of my literary career.
To start with, only people who had actually bought the book were allowed in. None of this turning up, sipping free wine and munching free crisps, then sidling away saying “thank you very much”, the book sounded quite interesting and you’ll “think about it”. The event was strictly ticketed, the tickets gave you a free book and they each cost £15.99. If you wanted to show up with your mum or your dad they would each have to buy a book. Shrewd marketing, n’est-ce-pas? That was not all. Instead of the well-worn format where an author chatters nervously about the book, then reads a chunk and answers questions like “Where do you get your ideas from? Do you work regular hours?” "Do you use a pen or a typewriter", the Duchess got straight down to business. Five minutes, admittedly, were wasted on impertinent questions from the press, but then she was hard at it – signing, signing, signing. Every signature chipping away at the old overdraft.
If the performance in Manchester was anything to go by, Coutts the royal banker has nothing to worry about. She was brilliant at the business. Disarmingly charming. And how she smiled. She positively brimmed with interest at every inanity. From as close as you are now to this page, I listened in on everything. And fascinating it was too.
In casting her off into outer darkness, Buckingham Palace has severely underestimated the popularity of this woman among the great British public. Her Majesty’s subjects came trekking in their pac-a-macs from across the frozen North – from Anglesey in the West to Scarborough in the East – to part with £15.99 apiece and tell her how much they loved her. Those at the front of the queue had waited for more than four hours outside the back door. At least a dozen people bought as many as half a dozen copies each. Many brought Christmas cards, flowers, letters and even presents for the Duchess with party bags to take home for Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie (I’m not Ms Wax, alas, so I can’t report their contents). Few did not express heartfelt support. “You will never know how much that means to me,” Fergie told them over and over – and every time she said it, she really sounded as if she meant it.
Time was short – you try signing 241 books in an hour and a half, even if someone is helpfully opening them ready at the right page – yet no one was allowed just to dump a present, and run. Aides were detailed to scribble names and addresses on post-it stickers which were then attached to the offerings. Money may be tight but thank you letters are obviously de rigueur in the York household. And the Duchess is generous to a fault. On two occasions hard luck stories prompted the authoress to call for her handbag and personally refund the purchase price. I saw the cash being handed over with my own eyes.
"All these lovely people"
And I’m still marvelling at the woman who stood there and held up the
queue while she filled Fergie in on how she’d managed to shed two stone.
Not only did the Duchess keep a straight face, she uttered cheery words of encouragement
that will doubtless shore up a fellow weight-watcher against any future temptation
from cream buns. As for the man who inquired why Fergie had not accompanied
her husband to a particular cricket match at Old Trafford five years ago …
not for one second did the royal eyes glaze over. She who had been in Dublin
the day before (complete with rosary beads, I was told), and who flew back to
London that evening to take her girls to school next day before flying to Glasgow
(wearing a kilt?) for another signing session, continually thanked everyone
for coming and waiting so patiently to see her. “All these lovely people,”
she exclaimed on a number of occasions – usually when the punter was not
wearing a pac-a-mac – “it shouldn’t be like this.”
Phantom of the opera
I’m afraid I couldn’t help wondering about Jeff Coplon. After all,
Fergie’s story, My Story, is written by Sarah, Duchess of York "with
Jeff Coplon". It says so very clearly on the cover AND on the title page
she was busy signing. But where was he? I desperately wanted him to sign my
copy. I mean, 230 pages is a lot of work. Even if he only did the typing. At
one point in the afternoon, I could have sworn someone addressed one of the
security men as Jeff – but I was too busy opening out books and pouring
mineral water to pursue that promising line of enquiry. Maybe he, too, was there
incognito. Perhaps nobody in the whole place was what they seemed. Except the
Duchess, of course. She alone gave such a consummate performance as herself
that if she was acting, she’s indisputably the star of her own soap opera.
One that will run, and run. Next time Fergie visits my friendly local neighbourhood
Waterstones, no doubt it’ll be to sign hundreds of copies of a novel.
Ah, Bisto! If only I had married a prince.
Charlotte Cory’s third novel, THE GUEST, was published in September by Faber & Faber at £15.99. MY STORY by Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York, with Jeff Coplon, is published by Simon & Schuster £15.99.
THE BOOKSELLER 17 JANUARY 1997