Manuscripts, mistakes and the ex factor

Here I am, desperately ironing the 403 copy-edited pages of Himself’s next book, acutely aware that this crumpled mess of paper is the only existing version of the changes he has made to the manuscript, all meticulously marked with pencil for the typesetters.

How on earth did I get here? Well, remember that thing at school, when the boy you fancied was talking – laughing even! – with another girl, and it was like a knife to your heart, and then you made a fool of yourself to compound the pain? It’s that thing.

It started two weeks ago when Himself handed me the first sheaf of pages on which he had added his absolute final corrections – a comma here, a misspelling there – before it goes to print.

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I am the last safety net, the final pair of eyes prior to publication. Well, in theory. In practice, his very-ex girlfriend from 35 years ago has been sent a photocopy too. She’s been proof-reading for him (not a euphemism) for the last ten years.

She’s pedantic, a doctor in something or other, and she sees things differently. That’s what he tells me, but all I hear is that it’s a competition: who will spot the most mistakes? Who is better?

The fact that she’s married with children, that she lives in another country, that I’ve spent happy evenings with her, that her husband once kissed Catherine Zeta-Jones, that her bum is bigger than mine, that Himself married me, not her, all of this goes out the window. It’s Jennie versus Clio. And I’m botching it.

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When he first gave me the manuscript, I was hectic, and I was going to Paris: could I take it with me? No way! It’s the only copy, but don’t worry: Clio’s got it in hand – and is it okay, Jennie, if I dedicate this book to Clio? She’s been such a help over the years. Absolutely, I lied.

Now I’m back from Paris and desperately trying to slow-read the manuscript before Wednesday, because fast means sloppy, but I have other deadlines, and I’ve got a cold, and naturally Clio is long finished. Then I knocked a jug of water all over it. I tried dabbing the pages dry with a towel, but the pencil smudged. And that’s why I’m ironing Himself’s manuscript. Only 330 pages to go…