Over lamb and an expensive glass of wine, the novelist talks about his fears ...
, In prospect. “I used to look forward to it so much, to flying round America staying in nice hotels with minibars, but now I’m sick of it, and I think people are sick of writers doing it too. There used to be a lot more media in this country – so with a book tour, the whole purpose was to get written up in the local paper and on to the local radio station. But most of that’s gone, and it’s not worth it for 20 people in a book store.“It makes one want to stay home.”
The restaurant is rapidly filling up, the clatter rising. The interior, all heavy wood, moody lamplight and starched linen, is solid old-school chic. “It’s a kind of collision of styles, isn’t it?” Carey says. “But you know if you asked me to describe this place, I couldn’t do it, apart from an impression of lighting. It’s like an old leather slipper.”
This makes me smile: not that the guy from Bacchus Marsh is so at home in one of Manhattan’s most desirable restaurants but that the novelist has switched off his forensic descriptive powers and succumbed to sheer comfort.