Good Day
Page 17
–Okay. What about a fire in the hotel, everyone has to get out—
–Richard on the pavement half-naked, standing next to a prostitute?
–All right. But then, the situation might sober him up . . .
–Perhaps. You could give us a number of different endings. Leave it to the reader to make a choice.
–Do you think so? I don’t think publishers like that.
–I didn’t think you cared what they like.
–I do with this one. I need to get it out.
–I see.
–Anyway, there’s no fire alarm. The next thing he sees is Esther checking her mobile, one arm stretched onto the bedside table. Shit man, I didn’t mean to stay the night. It’s six already, she says. She sits up and pulls off the cover. Now, he has an erection. Stay. I’ll get the money. She stares at him. I promise, look, let me give you my credit cards, my driving licence, my wallet, everything . . . if I don’t pay, you keep them. Steady on, man, I don’t want your stuff, she says. He’s grateful that she doesn’t leave the bed. He moves in between her legs, pushes open her thighs and, flanked by mountains of flesh, his mouth starts to work. He wants time to stop; he wants to spend the rest of his life licking her soft labia, burying his head between her thighs. She says: It’s wet. Here. Her foot moves across the sheet. Did you? She giggles and pulls him up towards her, kissing him. You naughty boy. Doing it on your own, she teases him.
–He has come?
–Yes.
–Hope it’s not his last orgasm.
–You’re funny. Anyway, he moves his hand across her body. Her skin is smooth and he wants her to hold him tight, make him secure. She does and after a while, he says: Will you crouch above me, with your back to my face? Sure, honey, she says. She squats above him, the two black globes only millimetres above his face. He goes on licking her. The room disappears; now it’s only him and her in the universe. She moans: Ahh, man, you’re good, here, yes, that, more here, yes, yes, yeees man.
–Would a prostitute do that? She seems to have forgotten herself.
–That’s right. And so she checks herself, moves away from him. But she can’t help enjoying it. She laughs. Her arms squeeze him. Again, she remembers and she says: No, stop it. You’ll make me come. I don’t do that. But he carries on, ignoring her. He has never licked anyone like that. She moves away. He starts crying, pleads with her to come back. He says he needs her, he needs her more than he’s ever needed anyone. She asks whether he’s all right. She is concerned. He doesn’t answer. He lifts his face towards her, sticks out his tongue. She stands up and picks up her handbag, rummages inside. She sighs, checks herself again: Fucking hell, man, why am I doing this? Breaking the rules. She drops the bag and turns towards him, staring hard. Esther, think. Don’t, she says to herself. He begs her to come back. She shouts at him to shut up. She retrieves the handbag from the floor, unzips a compartment and takes out a small purse. What the hell, she says, you’re so fucking odd. I’ll make an exception.
–Would a prostitute do that?
–This one does. She takes out a small capsule and hands it to him. He doesn’t know what it is. She smiles and says it’s a fun pill. A popper. Makes you love it, man, she says. He stares at her, holding the pill between his thumb and index finger. He thinks of antibiotics. Esther bites into the capsule and sticks it under his nose. Yeah, man. Inhale, she says. A present from Esther. Lift you up like never before. What about you? He asks.
–Kind Richard. Even when he’s down he thinks of the other.
–Esther says: Your tongue gets me as high as I can go; no need to waste it on me. She laughs. He stares at her. Trust me; it’s okay. You’ll love it. Here, take a deep breath. He inhales. She watches him and changes her mind. She breaks a capsule and sticks it in front of her nose, takes a deep breath. Lovely, let’s go, she says. She settles her buttocks above his face and he licks her, pushing his tongue further inside her, rubbing his lips against her labia. She moans, louder and louder; her moans turn into screams. He goes on licking; her body is writhing above him; her buttocks pressing down on his nose and his mouth, squashing him. The lack of air makes him light-headed and his own pleasure increases. He gasps for breath but licks and licks. His cock is about to burst; the sperm could penetrate the wall; his body knots with pain and then every last drop is spent. But he licks and licks and licks . . . hears her screaming, pushing down on his nose and mouth . . . his body presses down . . . his arms flay about in the air, like the feelers of an enormous insect. Each time her buttocks lift up, they crush down with a stronger force. He wants to scream, but has no voice and then there is nothing . . . a mass of flesh flattening him out . . . out . . . on . . . and he is going . . . going . . .
–?
–?
–Is this a pastiche of porn writing?
–I wasn’t thinking of that.
–I see. But I can’t tell what happened.
–What do you mean?
–Is he dead or is that an orgasm?
–Either.
–What did you want it to be?
–I don’t know. It’s up to the reader.
–No!
–I’m just another reader.
–Don’t give me that. You’re the author; it’s your story.
–Not anymore.
–?
–It’s yours now.
–Okay. If it’s mine, then Richard emerges from this shaken but determined to fight. He goes to Stuart, tells him what he’s done and Stuart advises him not to say anything to Anna. They start working together. Gradually Richard recovers. He learns to cope with disappointments, with low moments in his life, whether they’re personal or professional. He works as an independent researcher and lives off writing books, mostly popular, historical biographies. He and Anna stay together.
–That’s a different story.
–That’s the story I want for them.
–You old sentimentalist.
–Nothing wrong with that. What’s the point of having a depressing ending? You need to give your readers hope.
* * *
–How are you?
–Fine. And you?
–Fine, thanks.
–Good.
–I was thinking—
–About what?
–You and Anna.
–Yes?
–She’s a copy of you.
–A bit. You said that before.
–More than a bit.
–We share a few things.
–In what ways is she different from you?
–Well . . . I don’t know. For example, she runs a gallery, I write.
–Is that all?
–Well, I don’t know, can’t think of anything else right now.
–I feel you were trying to tell me something.
–Tell you something?
–Yes.
–What do you mean?
–Do I need to spell it out?
–What are you talking about?
–You know what I mean.
–No, I don’t.
–Think.
–I’m thinking.
–Think harder.
–I don’t understand what you mean.
–Anna has four lovers.
–So?
–How many have you got?
–Don’t be ridiculous.
–How many have you got?
–Don’t be ridiculous.
* * *
–I’ve been thinking.
–?
–I’ve been thinking.
–You’ve been thinking.
–I’ve been thinking about your novel.
–And?
–I want you to destroy it.
–What?
–I want you to destroy it.
–You must be joking.
–Look, I’m serious.
–But why?
–You only wrote it to trap me.
–What?
–It’s too close to us. Everyone will know what’s happened.
–What do you mean?
–Everyone will know.
–Don’t be silly. They will see it’s fiction.
–No, they will assume it’s really happened.
Post Scriptum
–Hello, darling. Good day?
–Yes, fine. And yours?
–Fine, thanks.
–Nothing happened?
–The usual. Five days to opening but this time it’s all in place.
–That’s something. Sarah must be pleased.
–We all are.
–Dinner?
–Yes, what shall we make?
–Let’s see what’s around.
–Oh, before I forget, that editor, Paul something, you know the one you introduced me to at your second book launch . . . ?
–Oh yes, what did he want?
–He wants Alan Roberts—
–He didn’t say that?
–Yes. Why not?
–He always calls me Richard and his assistant refers to me as Mr Bates.
–Well, this time he used your nom de plume.
–Are you sure?
–Absolutely. He said he would like Alan Roberts to review a novel.
–What’s it about?
–A couple. She’s a writer.
–What about him?
–A reader.
–And?
–The novel’s about her writing a novel.
–Is that all?
–Apparently, it causes them to split up. Hang on: maybe not. Can’t remember what happens at the end.
–Doesn’t sound very promising . . .
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to the women who shared their stories with me.
Thank you to my daughters, Rebecca and Hannah Partos, for their love and inspiration.
Thank you to my late friend Max Lab for sharing his medical knowledge and comments on the plot.
Thank you to Emil Simpson for Professor Sahib’s card.
Thank you to Anthony Rudolf for his insight, generosity and continued friendship.
Thank you to Peter Main, my most first reader, for his help and feedback.