Books by Jeremy Thomas
Taking Leave
A new novel by Jeremy Thomas, published by Timewell Press on November 30th 2006
Life in 1979 looks pretty good for 25 year-old record producer Tim Lomax. His label is as hot as his new girlfriend and a mega-deal in America looms just over the horizon. But when a family tragedy occurs Tim's life starts to spin out of control, a fact that becomes increasingly obvious to everybody except Tim himself.
Jeremy Thomas grew up in Buckinghamshire and was educated at Downside. Now a full-time writer, his many and varied jobs have included hospital theatre technician, copy-writer, cheese waiter, record plugger and indie label boss.
Thomas's book "You don't have to be famous to have Manic Depression", co-written with Dr Tony Hughes,was be published in September by Michael Joseph and Penguin and will be re-published by in March 2007. Alongside this will be a two hour documentary on BBC2 about Manic Depression which he has co-produced with Hughes and is being presented by Stephen Fry to be broadcast on the 13th and 14th March on BBC2.
He lives in London and the Greek island of Patmos with his wife, Jane. Taking Leave is his first novel.
Taking Leave - Chapter 1
Part 1 - April to July 1979
I’ve never liked hospitals. The sight and smell of them make me feel quite peculiar.
The outside of the Middlesex looks just as you might imagine an old London hospital to look – frightening. Once inside, it looks and smells even worse. I share the lift with an empty patient trolley until the fourth floor, step out, take a deep breath and walk into the Tennyson ward.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, would you look at what the cat just dragged in?’ the cheeky Irish nurse says as I hover in the ward corridor holding a bunch of flowers aloft in one hand and balancing a silver dish on a tray with the other.
‘Hello, Nurse, still wearing your watch upside down, then? You couldn’t get me a vase for these, and a plate and two forks?’
‘You’ve got more front than Selfridges,’ says the nurse, smiling and walking away with the flowers.
‘Hello, Mum, are you causing trouble again?’ I call out as I walk towards my mother’s bed. She waves her hand. She tries to fix her thinning hair and dab some powder on her cheeks. Balancing the tray on my arm, I bow flamboyantly.
The doctors say the disease is in remission but she still looks as if she has been run over by a Green Line bus. I don't want her to know what I’m thinking.
‘You look absolutely gorgeous! I’ve brought you some food, courtesy of the Venezia,’ I say and sit down on the bed. She smiles a big smile with her watering eyes and points to her cheek for a kiss. There is a broad red scar hiding in the fold of her neck, and an unfamiliar smell of something medical. I quickly sit back up.
I dab my finger at the bits of scampi lying in a bed of parsley on the restaurant dish. Then the nurse comes back and with a flourish puts a plate and two forks on the bed, performs a curtsy and leaves. I like her. She makes me laugh, which is handy in these circumstances.
'Mum, you said that the food was completely disgusting here, so try one of these.’
‘I’ll try one in a minute. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
I spear some scampi and look for the tartar sauce. I dip the scampi in it and swallow. Immediately, and with ridiculous exaggeration, I start fanning my face, miming that I’ve burnt my tongue. I then remember my mother has just had twelve radium needles removed from her tongue, but is still smiling a knowing smile. I turn to examine some flowers on the bedside table, cursing myself, but keeping the grin on my face and watching her from the corner of my eye.
‘Look, Mum, it’s all a matter of positive thinking; we’ve discussed it a hundred times before.’
‘Marvellous, darling,’ she mouths, sticking her thumb in the air.
I turn back and spear another bit of scampi, feeling as soft and useless inside as the creature I’m eating. I carry on smiling, stand up, and look around the ward. Her bedside table holds an ominous assortment of medicines and her family-collage photo frame.
‘Ha,’ I exclaim, clapping my hands with relief and sitting back down. ‘I spoke with Diana and Charles last night and they told me about the plan for all of us to go to a Greek island. You know, with everyone together and a real recuperation for you. I hope it’s not supposed to be a surprise. They have told you, haven’t they? Dad, of course, is the one being difficult – can’t leave the garden – we’ll be burgled-the cats will eat all my lettuces – the house might explode – you know, the usual story.’
We both laugh and wave forks at each other.
I relax. Her pain seems to be lifting.
‘I’m sure Daddy will find a way to sort out the garden. It’s his life, you see.’
I shrug and offer her a scampi. She waves it aside and continues. ‘We’ll see what happens. I’ve got to get out of here first. Now, tell me, how is the flat, how is the love life?’
'Fantastic and even more fantastic!'
'What do you call the new love interest, then?’
‘Loveday.'
'Is she keen on you?'
'It's possible.'
'Are you keen on her?'
'Yes, quite possibly.'
'Is she pretty? Is she kind to you?’
'Mum, for someone who’s ill, you ask a lot of questions.'
'That's what mothers are supposed to do.'
My mother stares at the pieces of scampi remaining in the silver bowl as if they were pills covered in little spikes.
I laugh and wink at her. 'Are you going to eat the scampi or shall I take it away?’
She cuts a piece in half and slowly places it in her mouth. She starts to chew. Her head drops forward. She is having difficulty swallowing. She looks up at me and the fun that was there has gone and the pain is back. She starts making a pleading noise. Can I help? What is it? Oh, my God, she’s going to be sick. Oh, no, where’s the dignity? Never mind the fucking dignity, Tim, you cunt, find something for her to be sick into! Nurse Irish comes rushing over with a cardboard potty, pulls the curtains, and tells me that it’s probably best, you know what I mean. I pick up my silver scampi dish and tray and leave. As I am going I try and catch sight of my mother but the curtains are all around now and all I can hear is the sound of awful retching.
I walk away from the hospital, kicking an empty cigarette packet along the street. I want to kick it to Kingdom Come but it escapes by falling sideways down a drain.
I join the lunch-hour on Oxford Street, a blur of Blondie T-shirts, big hair, safety pins, Hare Krishna, and brightly coloured Kickers. Everyone is pushing past the man wearing the leather cap and holding up a protest board as if it is a giant crucifix, saying: ‘LESS PASSION FROM LESS PROTEIN: LESS FISH, MEAT, BIRD, CHEESE, MORE PEAS, BEANS, NUTS AND SITTING.’ I cut across towards him, wondering, out of superstition, if I should buy his leaflet and give it to my mother. I stop, turn and start walking towards the office, telling myself: Chop-chop and carry on.
The first thing to notice about my office is that it consists largely of glass. This makes it unbelievably cold in the winter and intolerably hot in the summer. It has a large desk. On the long suede shelf by the long street window sits my incredibly expensive hi-fi with its even more expensive speakers. Other than a discreet drinks cabinet, there are shelves everywhere, each one is covered in boxes of tapes and racks of cassettes. Every box is labelled ‘Barracuda Records, a division of SCG’. I have one huge picture on my wall, a framed cartoon of New York depicting the city as the epicentre of the world. I also have a three-tier ‘in’ and ‘out’, not to mention ‘pending’, tray on my desk. These trays are always full.
I have three telephones. The grey one is chunky and connects me with my secretary. The second, my private line, is white, reserved for calls from girlfriends and from Rick. The third telephone is black and known as my ‘internal’. In my three drawers I keep unpleasant things like bills that I have no intention of paying, or certainly not until we get records in the top five of the charts. In front of my desk is a rather nasty smoked-glass coffee table and two armchairs where nervous prospective singers, producers and songwriters sit.
There are always people dawdling, gawping, rushing past my Soho office window: some carry huge, flat tins of film; others, sweaty briefcases stuffed full of tapes from would-be disco stars or punk rock bands. Then there is the blind man who stands quietly and sells matches from a tray held around his neck by a single cloth strap. He wears a grey gabardine raincoat with an open and dignified expression and always looks straight ahead, the wind occasionally dislodging his brushed silver hair. For the four years during which I have run this record label, the man has always worn the same polished, brown leather shoes. He carries about thirty yellow packets of matches on a cinema usherette’s tray which he grips gently with both hands as if standing to attention. A hand-written sign is sellotaped to the tray, advertising the fact that matches can be purchased for five pence. He has no sign to say that he is blind, just a thick white stick and eyes that stare upwards at nothing.
Now read more in TAKING LEAVE by Jeremy Thomas
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS FOR TAKING LEAVE
Front pages: For Jane.
Back pages:
I am indebted to the following for providing their invaluable editorial guidance or for their support before, during or after the writing of this book: Jeremy and Gillian Gough, Simon Ryan, Alan and Martha Cowderoy, Alice Chandler, Paul Cowan, Nigel Ryan, Elene Sanikou, Ellen Sutton, Francesca Gough, Carolyn Altman, Gabby Debus, Kirsty Dunseath, Max Hole, Tim Macauley, Emma Neave, Nick Stevens, Alice Chandler, Janet Law, Matthew Bates at Sayle Screen, Chris Thomas, Trevor Morais, the Paradise squash club, Gerard Noel and Andreas Camponose, Sarah Tyrer, John Vaughan, Tony Hughes and my friends from the Hellfire Club, the Masons Arms and Art Cafe.
Those people who should have been mentioned above are named within the text or have been left out due to my memory.
My profound gratitude to Hans Zimmer for his initial and lasting belief in this novel and multifarious generosity in helping me to write it.
You don't have to be Famous to have manic depression
An insider's guide to mental health
It's 2006 and time to throw out all those old hang-ups about mental illness. Every other family in the land is or has been affected by depression and it's time to realise that good mental health is as important as physical.
This entertaining and informative book will debunk the jargon, shake off the taboos and give fascinating insight into a complex subject. At its heart are the two authors, because Jeremy was diagnosed years ago with manic depression and Tony is his doctor. The first part of the book is a wonderfully winding dialogue between them, similar to John Cleese and his therapist in 'Families and how to Survive Them'. The second part is in the style of a Rough Guide, a one-stop resources shop. Jeremy and Tony are honest, knowledgeable, funny and poignant as they explore the thin line between sanity and mental illness. And ultimately, they hope the book may simply help a few people in the same boat.
Useful Links
Buy 'You don't have to be Famous' from Amazon by clicking here
Buy 'You don't have to be Famous' from Penguin Books Here
Read Stephen Fry's BBC interview about the documentary
Reviews
"Jeremy Thomas is a complete original. His writing, like his life, is a whirlwind of brilliance, wonder and blunder, by turns, hilarious and terrifying. Highly recomended".
Stephen Fry
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