After weasel-eyed tax inspectors question her work-related claims, Katya Livingston is forced to keep a financial diary. As well as documenting the cruel and parsimonious ways of her ad agency boss, Katya waxes lyrical about putting up with loser friends, mortal enemies, and thoroughly bad restaurants. She also throws in a completely candid account of her love life, just in case some of it is tax deductible. What begins as a private account of expenses rapidly becomes, through Katya's chronic delusions of grandeur, a matter of public record: first as a tawdry gossip column, then as a salacious book, and finally as a Hollywood B-movie.
Bitingly written with wit and style reminiscent of Candace Bushnell, Adèle Lang's Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber is a cutting, bitchy, hilarious take on the young-single-British-woman genre.
After weasel-eyed tax inspectors question her work-related claims, Katya Livingston is forced to keep a financial diary. As well as documenting the cruel and parsimonious ways of her ad agency boss, Katya waxes lyrical about putting up with loser friends, mortal enemies, and thoroughly bad restaurants. She also throws in a completely candid account of her love life, just in case some of it is tax deductible. What begins as a private account of expenses rapidly becomes, through Katya's chronic delusions of grandeur, a matter of public record: first as a tawdry gossip column, then as a salacious book, and finally as a Hollywood B-movie.
Bitingly written with wit and style reminiscent of Candace Bushnell, Adèle Lang's Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber is a cutting, bitchy, hilarious take on the young-single-British-woman genre.
Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber: The Katya Livingston Chronicles
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Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber: The Katya Livingston Chronicles
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Overview
After weasel-eyed tax inspectors question her work-related claims, Katya Livingston is forced to keep a financial diary. As well as documenting the cruel and parsimonious ways of her ad agency boss, Katya waxes lyrical about putting up with loser friends, mortal enemies, and thoroughly bad restaurants. She also throws in a completely candid account of her love life, just in case some of it is tax deductible. What begins as a private account of expenses rapidly becomes, through Katya's chronic delusions of grandeur, a matter of public record: first as a tawdry gossip column, then as a salacious book, and finally as a Hollywood B-movie.
Bitingly written with wit and style reminiscent of Candace Bushnell, Adèle Lang's Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber is a cutting, bitchy, hilarious take on the young-single-British-woman genre.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466872196 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 05/27/2014 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 208 |
| File size: | 326 KB |
About the Author
Adele Lang was born in London, but moved to Perth, Australia when she was 16, living mostly in Melbourne after that, and finally she moved back to London in 1997. She also began her career as an advertising copywriter, but segued into TV scriptwriting (in Australia), magazine columnist, newspaper feature writer, and author. She has had several books published, including Bosstrology, The Best Book of Girls Behaving Badly... Ever, How To Spot a Bastard by His Star Sign and Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber, her first novel. Currently Adele is the astrology columnist for Marie Claire.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
PARTI I
9 July
Tuesday
England's foremost diarist, Katya Livingston, is feeling extremely unwell and would like to apologise to her readers – male or otherwise – for the absence of her debut entry in today's edition of London Goss. Her much-vaunted column about life in the fast lane will start tomorrow instead.
10 July
Wednesday
Today, whilst taking a cigarette break in the office lift (because smoking has been banned in the office building), spot potential breeder. I think he works for the computer data processing company on the fourth floor. He's got an exotic northern European accent ('Rygning forbudt i elevatoren') and a thunderous look on his face. So from now on I shall call him Thor.
Heart beating wildly, breathlessly make my way out of the lift into the ad agency, ruing the day I switched from Marlboro Lights to Marlboro Reds. Heart nearly stops altogether at the sight of my boss in the foyer: jowly face livid with anger and too much drinking before office hours, he's just been informed by a baffled chemist that the koi in the fish tank were poisoned. Typically, he's decided to blame me. Put out by his predictable prejudice, I shriek like a banshee, threaten to smash the Damien Hirst that hangs behind the Gatekeeper's desk and ask if I look like someone who'd intentionally kill a harmless fish. My boss gives me a peculiar look but drops the subject quickly enough.
Back at my desk, receive further inflammatory comments by way of a call from perpetually failing writer, Teddington. Unaware of my recent appointment at London Goss, because he can't afford to buy a newspaper, Teddington mournfully informs me that due to the new mystery columnist's allegedly excessive pay demands, the paper's human resources budget had to be cut and so his erstwhile mentor and dispatch boy, plus 30 other employees, have just been made redundant.
11 July
Thursday
Haven't seen Thor again, even though I've taken to taking the lift on a quarter-hourly basis in order to bump into him. Then, on my 4.15 p.m. shift, walk into my fog-filled hunting ground and there stands my beloved, coughing and wheezing and glowering intensely at the mounting pile of butts on the floor. Overcome by unfamiliar shyness, put my head down and scurry straight out again doing a brilliant impersonation of a Brontë. Therefore, can't say for sure if he was watching me with dark and brooding eyes.
12 July
Friday
Don't get much work done as I'm daydreaming about Thor. Sadly, he doesn't yet know he's the object of massive lust and longing and will one day will be the father of my children; and neither is he likely to, thanks to some spoilsport office cleaner who grassed to the building's security firm and had me banned from smoking in the lift and reduced to puffing in the fire-exit stairwell instead. At my insistence, plain but pliant Eliza from accounts volunteers to find out Thor's real name. Whilst I breathe heavily down her office phone extension, she anonymously calls the computer data processing company's receptionist and pretends someone there rang her about a business matter but she can't quite recall his name though: 'he did have a rather exotic northern European accent,' I hiss.
Helpful receptionist says the company employs several foreigners. Of course, Eliza (nor, indeed, I) can hardly then say, 'the drop-dead gorgeous one, stupid,' since Eliza's only meant to have talked to him over the phone. To add to my woes and keep me apart from Thor forever, the Gatekeeper joins our conference call and, in excessively insinuating tones, says 'Hortense' wants me to call her back. Since this is the rather clever code name my stupid headhunter uses to get past front desk without raising the suspicions of the Gatekeeper, I ring 'Hortense' straight away and berate her for blowing my cover. Headhunter apologises feebly. Then, thinking I'll be pleased to hear this, she says there are several copywriting jobs up for grabs in Singapore. Hang up on her abruptly and vow never to return her calls again until she starts appreciating me more.
13 July
Saturday
Endeavour to buy home-office heater again for my flat. Take the long route to Dixons in order to detour King's Road's beckoning boutiques and, instead, get lured into all those everything-for-a-quid shops. End up shoplifting three hairclips, six napkin rings, one bottle of green nail polish and still no heater.
Afterwards, and only because I can eat junk food and still remain smooth-complexioned, head off to procure a Big Mac, medium fries and small Coke. To my complete and utter embarrassment, catch my thespian ex (who likes large cokes, with straw) dressed in the corporate clown suit. He, too, seems utterly abashed at being caught looking like a total idiot. Again. We briefly reminisce about the time I beat his acting peers at charades whilst he was in the bathroom blowing his nose. Conversation is mercifully cut short by a four-year-old who wants 'Ronald's' autograph. Am assured by nearby youth piling burgers on to trays that I looked suitably alluring, yet massively unattainable throughout.
In evening, was supposed to be meeting with Phoebe but she bowed out at very last minute, saying she's too distressed because she's just read that only one out of ten married men leave their wives. So, instead, stay in and call local police station and inform the smitten sergeant that my ex has now taken to stalking me in public places. Perhaps jealous of the persistent attentions I am getting from another man, my sergeant rather brusquely says he'll get on to the case as soon as he's captured the serial rapist who's presently terrorising my neighbourhood.
14 July
Sunday
Knowing full well he can't bear the thought of anyone else sleeping with me, ring Ex and demand he come round and deadlock all the windows in my flat to protect me from the marauder in my midst. Never any good at ad-libbing at the best of times, Ex makes poorly rehearsed apologetic noises and says he can't because he's got to prepare for a very demanding character role, oblivious to the fact that time – let alone Katya – waits for no man. Anyway, I've already worked out a way to deter Mr Serial Rapist. If he does come knocking on my door, I'm going to ask him for a commitment. That should send him fleeing into the night.
Nevertheless, by early evening start feeling sorry for myself so trot off to the Atlantic Bar and mingle with menopausal trendies just for a laugh. Get hideously drunk on bar tabs, other than mine, distribute business cards indiscriminately and make lots of unhappily married men happy in the process.
15 July
Monday
Spend all morning at work fending off phone calls resulting from last night's escapades, even I refuse to accept dates from men whose physical appearance I can't recall because I was too blind drunk at the time. Come noon, and face even redder than usual, boss stormtroops into my office and informs me that a telly commercial I recently shot has just been rejected by our used-car sales client who fears that using a low-rent slapper to sell secondhand goods might be bad for his image. This news doesn't impress me much for I'm trying to get as many controversial ads to air as possible so I can be catapulted to adland infamy and accompanying enormous pay cheque.
To cheer myself up at lunchtime, drag Eliza from accounts into the café next door to letch at Thor, my Scandinavian love-god. Have to grab seats in the no-smoking section for a vantage view. Whilst Thor waves away the smoke from my cigarette, hawk-eyed Eliza points out the narrow gold band on his ring finger on his left hand. That's it. It's over. I don't mate with married men. It's so desperate. And besides, I'm sick to death of sitting in sleazy pickup joints and being regaled about wayward kids, unresponsive wives and expensive baby-sitters. Plus there's nothing romantic about watching grown men scream blue murder when you deliberately give them lovebites their spouses will spot.
16 July
Tuesday
Spend all day locked away in a Soho sound studio, recording a radio ad that's a bit derogatory to the Welsh. Anyway, I'm sure taffy types are used to jokes about how they like to shag sheep. And, as I assured my doubtful boss this morning when I finally relented and let him see the script five minutes before recording started, if they don't like it, they can stop sponging off hardworking tax-paying English people like myself and naff off back to their fourth-rate peninsula. After many frustrating hours trying to get a ewe to bleat on cue, return to agency to find another message from 'Hortense' the headhunter beseeching me to call.
17 July
Wednesday
Have had to contract convincing and life-threatening Asian flu for the benefit of my boss because I've got to fly to Singapore tonight for a job interview. Have no intention of working in a third-world country but decide to take the trip because I'm being flown business class. Call the Gatekeeper and tell her to tell my boss that I won't be in today as I'm very, very sick. She replies it's probably just pre-job interview jitters but to have a nice trip all the same. Hang up on her in utter disgust.
After spending pleasant enough hours compiling my comprehensive duty-free list, arrive at executive lounge at Heathrow. Unaccustomed to corporate etiquette, stuff myself with free wine and canapés whilst counting my blessings that I'm still a recovering bulimic. On the plane, get harangued by Attila the Hostess for accidentally crossing the curtain to use the economy-class loos. I, in turn, tick her off for wearing too much make-up on the job. She informs me it's regulation uniform. This might be so, I reply sardonically, but only youthful types such as myself can get away with wearing five layers of Mac under harsh cabin lighting.
18 July
Thursday
Arrive in Singapore, eyeballs hanging out of head. Am singularly unimpressed with the city or, indeed, its inhabitants. Like I said to a particularly unswerving and surprisingly short member of the Singapore police force I met outside the airport's main entrance, it's all very well and good toting oneself as a modern-day metropolis and cleanest city in Asia, but slapping a ginormous fine on an exceptionally tall and attractive female foreigner for absentmindedly tossing a few duty-free shopping bags on to the street in her haste to get to her cut-price Marlboros is completely barbaric.
Proceed to spend rest of morning feeling like Gulliver and trying not to step on my Lilliputian potential employer who is endeavouring to convince me that Singapore is a nice place to visit. During lunch at a five-star restaurant, he expects me to eat real Cantonese food that's still trying to crawl off my plate. After that he takes me to Raffles for a decidedly hohum gin sling and proudly informs me that Somerset Maugham once shot a tiger in the billiard room. I sharply retort that he probably meant to shoot one of the liveried Oompah-Loompahs for skimping on the Gordon's.
Then, knowing full well I haven't had sleep for over two days and one night, my potential employer tries to make me sign a two-year contract on the spot. After squinting at the small print, decide there's no way I'm going to work a five-and-a-half day week even if I get paid ten times the squillions he's threatening to throw at me. But, scared he'll cancel my free flight home, smile fatuously, nod my head a lot, and promise to buy Expatriates Living in Singapore at the airport bookshop tonight.
19 July
Friday
Go straight from airport to advertising agency and arrange myself in a life-like position behind my desk. Woken from my slumber in late afternoon by my boss who is fair purple with apoplexy. Apparently, my radio ad about a Welshman's fondness for sheep has just been rejected by our woollen undergarments client who is worried about complaints from the RSPCA. Too tired to care or to dream up a clever comeback.
20 July
Saturday
Arise early evening because I've promised to meet foppish Ferguson at a Bermondsey bar after he's finished working the Canary Wharf. Don't really want to be here as this is Ex's haunt and we agreed I would stay away so he could get over me quicker. So, as Ferguson drones on about the City banker who mistook him for a girl because of all the blusher he's been wearing to hide a recently botched acid peel, I keep a furtive eye on the door in case Ex walks in and beats up the barman who's been staring at me for longer than is polite and who Ferguson reckons is cross-eyed and is really staring at him.
21 July
Sunday
Now I'm a celebrated columnist, feel obliged to attend wine-and-cheese meet-and-greet hosted by London Goss and put on especially for me. Am therefore sitting in some Forte hotel, ignoring the many black looks from various members of press who, no doubt, blame me for the paper's most recent cost-cutting exercise.
Things start looking up when my editor taps me on the shoulder and says he wants to introduce me to a fan. My distress is palpable when I discover she's female and she's got a disgusting crewcut with matching overalls and big clumpy boots. She gruffly tells me her name is Sophie, she's a landscape gardener, she writes the London Goss horticultural column and she'd love to catch up for drinks some time. Eventually relent and give her my phone number because I figure if we ever do go out together, there's no way we'll both fancy the same person.
22 July
Monday
Struggling scribe Teddington rings up and, in faltering tones, makes a truly pathetic attempt at telling me off for absconding with his 'big break'. His long-suffering girlfriend and completely useless muse (if his writing is anything to go by) treated him to a copy of London Goss so he finally got to read my by-line. He informs me that what I did wasn't very 'friendly'. I, quite rightly, point out that since he insists upon dressing out of Salvation Army shops and drinking Bulgarian wine out of a cardboard box, I don't think he actually qualifies as one of my friends.
23 July
Tuesday
Horrendously trying day at work, thanks to the fact my computer keyboard had a breakdown so I couldn't actually do any.
24 July
Wednesday
Still refusing to write any ads without the aid of a computer. Instead, spend most of the day translating a letter I've just received from Sabelo, my World Vision waif. I must say, his spelling is coming on in leaps and bounds. He asks me if it's true that if he stopped listening to do-gooder missionary types and instead took a more materialistic approach to life, he too could earn nearly as much money as me?
Write a warm and heartfelt letter back to my late-blooming scholar and enclose a copy of Running a Small Business for Fun and Profit which I found carelessly hidden in my employer's private safe.
25 July
Thursday
Days of sloth end when my computer keyboard comes back from the repairers in the late afternoon. Apparently, it was the dirtiest one the mechanics had ever come across. Some 'wit' wrote technical report as follows: Keyboard has been thoroughly cleaned and sterilised. Half a gram of tobacco or other substance was carefully removed and rolled, and subsequently smoked. No noticeable or pleasurable effect was recorded.
26 July
Friday
Still no signs of my boss relenting and hiring a lackey for me to ease my workload. Neither will he give me compassionate leave on the grounds that I'm exhausted. Indeed, when I collar him on his way to the loo today, he says it's about time I 'earned my keep'. Curtly remind him that I could earn triple what he's paying me at a less tight-wad agency and, indeed, have been approached by such a place. Can't be sure for certain since the lights in the men's loos have blown again, but I think my boss must have blanched from rare to medium-rare upon hearing this little bombshell.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber"
by .
Copyright © 1998 Adèle Lang.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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