I press my hands against my ears and try to shut out the Arabic music that has been coming from the speakers next to Peirene’s desk for hours. But I can’t take it any longer.
‘Je voudrais un verre de vin rouge et un expresso, s’il vous plaît.’ Peirene is sitting on a chair in the middle our office, wearing a red summer dress, dark shades and a be
Peirene and I are swimming in the Kenwood Ladies pond on Hampstead Heath. It’s a beautiful summer’s evening and we are cooling off from an exciting meeting with a producer from
Thursday 4 October • Waterstones, Brighton • 6.30 p.m. Chair: Meike Ziervogel, publisher and novelist at Peirene Press (World Literature in translation). Her alter ego, “The
‘No! No!’ Peirene shrieks in disbelief. ‘Impossible!’ Startled, I jump up from my seat. ‘What has happened?’ The Nymph stares at her screen with both hands in front of
It’s London Bookfair. Peirene and I hurry from one half-an-hour meeting to the next, up and down stairs, from one exhibition hall into the next. After years of attending internat
‘I can’t stand International Women’s Day.’ Peirene turned off the radio. ‘Women are great. Women are powerful. Women will change the world. Since I woke up this morning,
‘Freedom for all writers!’ Peirene stands in the middle of the office wearing full combat gear: camouflage trousers, camouflage jacket, camouflage cap; magazine pouch, grenade
