by Paul Burston
‘No,’ Tom said firmly. ‘I’m not changing my name.’
‘Fine,’ Lucinda snapped. ‘But if we’re to move forwards, I strongly suggest that you deliver something very different.’
This was it – the ultimatum he’d been bracing himself for since the moment he arrived. Part of him wanted to tell his agent where to stick it. But another part wanted to prove to her – and himself – that he was capable of rising to any challenge she or anyone else put before him.
‘I’ll give it some thought,’ he said. ‘I may have something that would keep my existing fans happy and still allow me to take my writing in an exciting new direction.’
He didn’t really. He was bluffing. But as he said the words aloud, the seed of an idea rooted itself in Tom’s head. It germinated over coffee and continued to grow as he thanked Lucinda for lunch and they walked out onto Dean Street, exchanged air kisses and went their separate ways.
By the time he arrived back home in Vauxhall, Tom knew what he had to do: forget the book he’d been working on – he’d lost faith in that months ago. And, as his agent had made abundantly clear, she wanted something different. So he’d give Lucinda her crime novel. The protagonist would be a version of himself. Tom had been excavating elements of his own life in fiction for years and saw no reason to stop now. And he already had his antagonist. That obsessive, relentless woman had given him more than enough material to work with. The solution to his writer’s block was staring him in the face.
He went into his home office, sat at his computer and got to work.
5
DAY 3
I’m surprised you weren’t in court today. I thought you of all people would be there. This was it. The day you’ve dreamed of for so long, the moment this whole sordid affair has been leading up to – your chance to see me standing in the dock like a common criminal. At the very least I thought you’d have come to admire your handiwork.
But when I looked out at the public gallery, there was no sign of you. At first I thought you’d been unavoidably delayed – car trouble, a traffic jam, a person under a train. But you never showed up. Your dear friend Emma was there, briefly. But where were you? Did you have something more important to do today? What could be more important than watching me being grilled alive by your stern-faced prosecutor? I’d love to know.
My lawyer suggested that, because you’d requested a screen yesterday, you’d probably been advised that showing up today would weaken your case. How would it look to the judge if one day you couldn’t bring yourself to look at me and the next day you were sitting in the gallery, gloating? Was that it – another of your cheap tactics? Were you secretly wishing that you could be there to see me squirm? Was it a pleasure you were forced to deny yourself – you who never denies himself anything? How did it make you feel, Tom? What did you do to fill those long, lonely hours?
Did you start the day with a run? I know how much you love running, the hours you spend pounding the pavements down by the river where you live. How nice for you, that you can afford a riverside apartment when most writers are struggling to survive. What does the average author earn these days? Ten thousand a year? There aren’t many who command the big advances you’re used to. Do you wake up each morning and count your blessings? Or are you up and out of the door without a moment’s thought?
I often picture you in your running gear – face flushed, hair wet with sweat as you push yourself to go that extra mile. I imagine your heart racing as you follow the Thames Path past the bridges – Vauxhall, Chelsea, Albert, Battersea – all the way to Wandsworth, Putney, Hammersmith and back again. What is that – a two-hour run? That’s a long time to be away from your desk. How do you justify that to yourself, I wonder?
You once told me that you get some of your best ideas when you’re out running. Or maybe I read that in an interview somewhere. In any case, I don’t believe for one second that the reason you run is to feed your muse. Things are never that simple, certainly not with a man like you. It’s largely vanity, of course. You’re not getting any younger, and I’m sure you’d sooner die of a heart attack than give in to middle-age spread. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? You’re like the runner in that old song by The Three Degrees – you run but you don’t show love. What is it you’re running from, Tom? Is it me, or is it yourself?
It’s a shame you weren’t there to hear me give evidence today. But then you’ve never been much of a listener, have you? You love the sound of your own voice. But you rarely listen to what others have to say. I wouldn’t describe you as rude – you’ll smile and nod when someone else is talking. You might even ask the odd question now and then. But really you’re just waiting for them to finish so you can steer the conversation back to your favourite subject – the life and works of Tom Hunter.
I’ve often thought that such a lack of curiosity must be quite a handicap in a novelist. But it’s one you make up for somehow, like a deaf person who learns to lip-read or a blind person whose hearing becomes more acute. Do you ever listen to music when you run? Something to drown out the traffic noise or the burble of the river? Or do you prefer to be alone with your thoughts? Are the only other sounds you hear your own footsteps, heavy breaths and the beat of blood in your brain?
I’m not expecting an answer, but it may interest you to know that while you were out running I was being sworn in at court and preparing to give my side of the story. I wish you could have seen me, Tom. I wore that blue dress – the one you commented on the night we first met. My hair was tied back and I even went to the trouble of applying a little makeup. None of that heavy contouring girls are going in for these days – just a bit of lipstick, a little mascara, a touch of eye shadow. My dad said I looked most ladylike and very professional, and we all know how important appearances are at times like these.
You might be wondering why I’m going to the trouble of telling you all this. Why, when you couldn’t be bothered to show up today, should I show you such courtesy? It’s really quite simple. I’m keeping a detailed account of everything that happens in court because when I’m exonerated – which we both know I will be – I want there to be a record of what you’ve put me through. Every false accusation, every twisted lie, every time you or one of your supporters came unstuck in the witness box – it will all be there in black and white, preserved for all to see. Who knows? Maybe when this is all over I’ll sell my story to one of the newspapers.
Speaking of which, I’m assuming you saw that scurrilous piece in last night’s Evening Standard? It says a lot about the state of modern journalism that an article no longer than a few hundred words could contain so many inaccuracies. Don’t reporters bother to check their facts anymore? I am not and have never claimed to be a ‘book blogger’. Yes, I occasionally review books on my blog. But I also write about other things that interest me – music, current affairs, sexual politics. I am not an ‘aspiring journalist’. Who in their right mind would aspire to a career in an industry in such steep decline it’s practically dying before our eyes? It’s just a pity some of its practitioners don’t hurry up and die a little sooner.
I wonder if the hack responsible was back in court today, or if they only came to hear your side of the story? You media types tend to stick together, don’t you? I see this every day on Twitter. Some journalist shares a link to their latest opinion piece and a load of their media mates retweet the link and compliment them on how brave and well argued it is. Dare to voice a dissenting opinion and they turn on you like a pack of wolves, tearing you apart, calling you a troll. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been blocked on Twitter, usually by so-called commentators who say they believe in free speech but only have time for those who pander to their egos and agree with everything they say.
It’s a funny word, troll. In ‘The Three Billy Goats Gruff’ by Hans Christian Anderson, a troll is a hideous creature who lives under a bridge and threatens to gobble up anyone who attempts to cross. The first two billy goats trick
the troll by appealing to its greed, each insisting that if they are allowed to pass, the next goat along will provide an even bigger meal. The story ends with the biggest billy goat pushing the troll off the bridge and into the water below, where it’s carried away by the current and presumably drowns. I’m sure you’re familiar with the story, Tom – but it’s worth thinking about before you toss such words around so lightly.
As I explained to the court this afternoon, these days people use the term ‘troll’ to silence anyone who happens to disagree with them. It’s a nasty little word, as dehumanising in its way as those insults you claim to find so distressing. Why should some insults be classed as ‘hate speech’ and others not? Surely it’s for those on the receiving end to determine how offensive or upsetting a word can be. And as I asked the court, why should your feelings be such a cause for concern and mine be disregarded so blatantly? It’s not as if you even denied using your enormous social-media platform to hurl insults at me.
‘Perhaps not,’ your prosecutor replied. ‘But let me remind you that Mr Hunter isn’t the one on trial here. You are.’
As if I needed reminding of that! I suppose she thought she was being clever, when really all she did was highlight the injustice of the situation. It’s you who should have been in the dock today; you who should have been asked to justify his actions; you whose account of our relationship should have been ripped apart like the tissue of lies it is.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Your prosecutor friend didn’t get her claws into me until after lunch. The morning session was a far more civilised affair – just me telling my story in my own words, without constant interruptions or hostile questions. My lawyer helped by taking me back to the night we first met and talking me through our subsequent correspondence. He paid particular attention to the emails you sent – proof, he told the court, that you weren’t being harassed at all, but had actively encouraged me to maintain contact. Several times he asked me to read sections of your emails aloud.
I won’t pretend that I didn’t find this part of the proceedings upsetting. How could I not, remembering the pleasure those emails brought me at the time, and the pain that followed when you suddenly decided that our relationship was over? But unlike you, I didn’t resort to histrionics. My voice didn’t falter. There was no catch in my throat. I spoke plainly and from the heart.
There was so much I wanted to say, Tom. So many things I wanted the court to know. But I followed my lawyer’s strict instructions and kept my answers short and to the point. Yes, we had been in regular contact for a period of several months. No, I was never given any reason to believe that my emails and tweets to you were likely to cause distress. Yes, you had replied to me on a number of occasions. No, I was not seeking to harass you. Quite honestly, I’d have thought that much was obvious. But apparently these things need spelling out in court, so spell them out we did.
A strange thing happens when you’re standing in the dock, reliving the events that brought you here. You lose all track of time. It’s as if the world suddenly starts listening and the words just pour out of you. I’m not used to being the centre of attention, not like you, but I can see how easily one might become addicted. I don’t know where the hours went, but before I knew it my lawyer was thanking me and telling the court he had ‘no more questions’, and the judge was calling time for lunch.
Despite feeling a little overdressed for Camberwell Green, I made my way with Dad back to the same sandwich bar as yesterday and I ordered the exact same thing– tuna salad on granary and a Diet Coke. My dad said I was doing well, and reminded me that things would be a lot tougher this afternoon, when it wouldn’t be my lawyer asking the questions but yours. I must remember to stay calm, he said, and think carefully before I open my mouth. I told him he needn’t worry. I knew exactly what to say and how to handle myself. People have been underestimating me all my life. It would take more than some jumped-up crown prosecutor to get the better of me.
I looked for you again after the lunch break. Surely by now the temptation to see me squirm would be too powerful to resist? But still there was no sign of you. And here’s the thing – I didn’t squirm. I’m not saying your prosecutor didn’t give it her best shot. She tried, Tom. She tried really hard. But what chance did she have, when the case against me is a pack of lies?
Let’s start with the biggest lie of all. Yesterday you told the court that we didn’t really know one another, that the only time we ever met was that evening at Waterstones when you signed my book. Of course you couldn’t deny that this meeting took place – the signed book is proof. But that wasn’t the only time I had the pleasure of your company, was it? Remember that day at the farmers’ market? Or how about that night at that gastropub in Kennington?
‘You’re aware, of course, that Mr Hunter denies ever arranging to meet you on those occasions,’ the prosecutor said. ‘And that by placing yourself in the same locations as him at the times you say, you’re only incriminating yourself further.’
I know why you lied, of course. You can’t admit to yourself that what we had was special. You’re afraid of intimacy. I get that. But I can wait. You’d be surprised at how long I can wait. I’ve had a lot of practice. I have the patience of a saint.
‘But he wanted to see me,’ I insisted. ‘He called me.’
‘Unfortunately, we only have your word for that,’ she replied. ‘And as the case against you has repeatedly shown, your word is hardly reliable.’
Of course it was far harder for her to dismiss the evidence provided by your emails. As my defence had already made clear, those emails demonstrate beyond any reasonable doubt that you were every bit as invested in this relationship as I was. I offered to send you examples of my writing and you readily accepted. You even agreed to read my book. How could anyone in their right mind conclude otherwise?
I can only assume, therefore, that your learned prosecutor friend is not a reasonable woman and is not of sound mind.
‘It’s not unheard of for authors to respond to unsolicited fan mail,’ she said haughtily. ‘The fact that Mr Hunter took the time to reply to your emails is simply a sign of his good character and in no way indicates that the two of you were involved in any kind of relationship.’
‘Then why did he take my business card?’
‘Again, we only have your word for that. The word of a woman who continued to bombard Mr Hunter with emails long after he stopped responding. A woman who used multiple accounts to ensure that her emails reached their target, despite his best efforts to block her. A woman who breached her bail conditions by turning up outside his home, making threats and leaving him with no choice but to call the police.’
‘I didn’t threaten him!’ I said.
‘Mr Hunter has already told the court that you did. And this is entirely consistent with the tone of your emails and the aggressive, harassing nature of your interactions on Twitter.’
Ah yes, Twitter – where the seeds of our relationship were first sown and where it ended in insults and bitter recriminations. Having called in a social-media expert to help the poor judge make sense of this brave new world of ours, I suppose it was inevitable that much of the crown’s case against me would depend on their interpretation of ‘evidence’ gleaned from Twitter. My lawyer had told me as much, and had given me an opportunity to explain myself earlier in the day. I did pretty well, I thought. But, boy, did your prosecutor make a song and dance about it!
I won’t bore you with the details – who said what and when. What’s the point? We’re both familiar with the facts. We both said things we regret. We both have the screenshots of those tweets in our case files. But if you’d only seen the way she carried on. To hear her talk, you’d think I’d sent you death threats. Me, who has gone out of my way to support and defend you whenever necessary. Me, who wouldn’t hurt a fly unless the fly really hurt me first.
I know you’re a sensitive soul, Tom. I know you don’t take criticism well. But am I seriously expected to beli
eve that those tweets I sent had such a devastating effect on you that you were forced to seek medical attention? This is just another of your stunts, surely? I know you have a statement from your GP, describing your fragile emotional state and confirming that he felt it necessary to put you on a course of antidepressants. But doctors can be bought like anyone else, especially when you’re paying for their services. How many times has your Harley Street doctor been persuaded to prescribe you sleeping pills, I wonder? How many courses of antibiotics have you been on in the past few years? A damn sight more than those of us who rely on the NHS, I’ll bet.
What really irritates me, and what I tried to explain to the court today, is that social media isn’t like real life. Nobody walks up to you in the street and shows you a photo of their dinner or their cat, the way they do on Facebook. Conversations aren’t conducted in person the way views are exchanged on Twitter. There’s no room for pleasantries when your thoughts are squeezed into a few hundred characters. We’re both adults, Tom. We both know how easily things said on Twitter can be misconstrued and blown out of all proportion. For a short time, there we were, at the centre of our own little Twitter storm. But it wasn’t a storm entirely of my making, whatever the prosecution claimed today.
As I told the court, I’m perfectly willing to hold up my hand and say that, yes, I did some things I regret. I shouldn’t have sent some of those tweets. It is a truth universally acknowledged that things tweeted in the haze of a drunken hour are often regretted in the cold light of day. But who among us can honestly say that they’ve never said something they shouldn’t have? I’m sure your prosecutor friend has lost her temper on occasion. I know for a fact that you have. And as I tried to explain to the judge, tweets taken out of context can be made to appear threatening when really, they were just playful banter between friends.
All things considered, I think I gave a pretty good account of myself. And I told them everything, Tom. I told them how you charmed me and used me and lied to me – as well as the police and the whole damn lot of them. I could have gone on for hours. But the judge in her infinite wisdom decided that I was tired and had probably had enough for today. Her concern for my welfare might have been touching had it not seemed so insincere. If you ask me, she just wanted to slope off early and be home in time for Real Housewives.