Chapter 6
Three weeks later I was driving across rural Oxfordshire towards the Cotswolds, where Sam’s party was due to take place.
I didn’t really know why I’d decided to go. Well, yes, I did know: I’d been drawn by a combination of masochism and a sense that if I showed my face there, I might somehow still be able to prevent the wedding from going ahead. But how would I do that? Did I know any just cause or reason why these two people should not be joined together? I did not. And why did I want to?
The sunshine that Sam had ordered had arrived in abundance. People were saying this was the longest heatwave in living memory, and I was sweltering. Buying a late 1960s MGB sports car earlier in the year had seemed an irresistible indulgence, but the car had no air conditioning, and it lacked the compensation of an opening roof.
The wisdom of the purchase had also proved questionable in other ways. It was a car for two, not three or four, and I’d begun to realise that Ashley had interpreted its arrival as a veiled statement on my part that planning children was completely off the agenda. To top off my unease about it, people in an online car enthusiast forum had grumbled that I should be keeping the car off the road and lavishing love and attention on it, not using it as a general run-about. I had pleased nobody with it – not really even myself.
To add to my sense of dejection, I had a strong feeling that I lacked any moral right to be opposed to this marriage. When Ashley and I had got together a few years before, it had felt like all my Christmases arriving at once. Changing course so soon and pursuing Sam would have felt disloyal and unworthy. Yet knowing this couldn’t change the way I felt today.
The party was being held at a period hotel in a country village not far from Sam’s parental home. As I pulled into the car park I was surprised by the scale of the event. The hotel was upmarket, and the party had more or less taken it over. Guests were already mingling in their finery on the back lawn, which overlooked a wooded green Cotswold valley. A private room had been booked for the event later.
For a while I watched unobserved as Sam and her fiancé Nick chatted to friends. I had to admit to myself that he seemed friendly and personable, and his teasing expression defied you not to like him. None of this came as a surprise; I’d found out what he looked like when I did a web search on him. He was slim in build with light brown hair and a fashionably minimalist beard. I guessed he was in his early thirties – seven or eight years younger than me, and much more the right age for Sam: damn him.
“Are you determined to cast a hex over the entire proceedings?”
I looked round abruptly. Sam’s friend and business colleague Veronica had sidled up to me. She cut a striking figure: beautiful in a strong-jawed kind of way, and normally she dressed in dark clothing, but today she was wearing a lavish purple outfit. She had ample dark hair and a Mediterranean look: dusky complexion, deep brown eyes. Her low voice had a resonance that demanded attention, even when she spoke quietly.
I smiled awkwardly at her. “God, do I look that bad?”
“I’ve seen happier guests at a funeral.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise to me. Help make her day. If you can’t do that, sod off.” She gave me an ironic smile.
“I still haven’t got my head round this.”
“Evidently.”
Ronnie had known about my interest in Sam, and hadn’t approved. Sam had told her about my involvement with Ashley, and she was understandably protective.
We stood in silence. Presently I said, “Nick seems a nice guy.”
“He does.” She seemed about to say more, but didn’t.
“How did they meet?”
“Didn’t she tell you? He was a customer at our stall in Covent Garden. He was looking for a necklace for his girlfriend.”
“How charming.”
Ronnie gave me a perfunctory smile. “She sold Nick one of our top-of-the-range pieces, and apparently she sold herself as well. The rest is history.”
“I wonder what happened to the original girlfriend?”
“Can’t help you with that one.”
* * *
Des Adams, Sam’s father, joined me briefly – a well-built balding figure with an affable manner. “Glad you could make it, Mike.”
“What a wonderful day for a party.”
He nodded. “I have to say I wondered at one point if it would be you standing over there with Sam.”
It was an unexpectedly frank comment, and I felt I’d been given leave to answer in the same vein. I said, “So did I.”
We both stared out over the valley for a moment, then Des said, “Funny how life turns out sometimes.”
“Is he a good guy, Nick Hathaway?”
“He’d better be.” He breathed in deeply. “Sam seems to think so, and her judgement is usually sound.”
I said, “I should have kept in closer touch with you both.”
“Pity you didn’t. If you had, then maybe … ” He tailed off. He wasn’t about to bad-mouth the man his daughter had chosen over me.
He wandered away, and I found myself amongst a group of Nick’s friends. I asked one of them about his background.
“He’s the son of Ernest Hathaway, the estate agent,” she told me. This was something else I’d learned from my googling, but I tried to retain a neutral expression, and she added, “Hathaway & Simms? They have a string of branches all round the South Midlands. They started out in Banbury, and that’s where Nicholas grew up.”
“Is that where you know him from?”
“No, I met him when he was doing a computer course in Kenilworth. That’s where I live.”
“But he didn’t go into computing?”
“Oh no, he only stuck it for one term. The family business was already reeling him in. He’s a partner in the firm now, I think. Quite a big shot.”
I didn’t want Sam marrying a big shot – but then, I didn’t want her marrying anyone at all. But that was only the half of it. I soon learned that Nick was a conspicuous achiever: solo gliding expert, marksman on the shooting range, former member of a well-established local pop band. And he’d been top salesman in his first year at the company. I reflected that I could never have competed with that.
I felt a tap on the shoulder, and looked round to find Sam grinning at me, with Nick in attendance. They were holding hands.
“Mike, I don’t think you’ve been formally introduced to Nick yet. Nick, this is Mike.”
He smiled broadly and held out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mike, and all good.” His look radiated warmth and good will. I wanted to find reasons to dislike him, but so far I was failing.
“I’m flattered.”
Sam reached out and squeezed my arm. “I’ll come and find you again later. There’s something you might be able to help with.”
Chapter 7
I sat down at one of the rustic tables and watched the world go by. Some of the guests were drifting off to prepare for the evening meal and the dancing, while others were taking advantage of the environment – admiring the view, sitting down on the grass and enjoying the sun. A couple of the younger men were trying their luck with younger women, endeavouring to look insouciant as they held forth. Their voices drifted in and out on the breeze.
Sam approached, this time with a man and a woman in tow. “Mike I don’t think you know my best friend Jessica. Jess, meet Mike.”
Jessica was slim and striking, with angular features and dark wavy hair that fanned out over her shoulders. To me the style seemed somewhat doll-like, but I assumed it was fashionable.
I stood up as Jess held out her hand. She said, “So you’re the famous Mike Stanhope. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“I don’t think there’s anything famous about me,” I said.
The figure at her side said, “Don’t knock it, mate. Fame is hard won. If you’ve got it, relish it.”
I turned to look at him properly. He was probably in his early fifties, a big man with a t
endency to fat rather than muscle. He had nondescript greying hair and the beginnings of a double chin, and he was sweating conspicuously.
Sam said, “Mike, this is my second cousin Graham.”
Another handshake, which on Graham’s side was slightly clammy and a little over-enthusiastic. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mike.”
Sam said, “You self-published a book, didn’t you, Mike? Graham put his first thriller on sale on the internet a few months ago. I was thinking you might be able to give him some pointers on how to build up sales.”
I attempted a modest shrug. “I would never claim to be an expert. It’s a hard slog.”
“But you’ve done things in publishing, haven’t you? You must know the ropes by now.”
“I wish.” I turned to back to Graham. “Is your book on Amazon?”
“No, I chose Endpaper. They seem to be offering a pretty good deal these days.”
“Ha. They’re the people I used for my book.”
“I know. Sam told me. That’s what pointed me in their direction.”
I wondered if I should feel some sort of responsibility for this. I said, “I hope it’s paying off for you?”
“Up to a point.” He didn’t seem altogether convinced. “Maybe we could meet for a pint some time and exchange wisdom. You’re based in London, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “I live there part of the time.” I took out my phone. “Let’s swap contact details.”
As I tapped in the information I was faintly aware of some unspoken message passing between Jessica and Graham. He straightened, looking mystified, and she said pointedly to him, “You were going to show me the site of the old mill, weren’t you, Graham?”
I could see enlightenment dawning as he realised she wanted to leave Sam and me alone for a moment. Turning as they walked away, he said, “I look forward to seeing you soon, Mike.”
Sam and I sat down spontaneously, and we watched in silence as the other two disappeared across the lawn. “He means well,” she said, turning to me. “His wife left him a couple of years ago, and he’s been having a hard time ever since.”
“Is his book any good?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.”
We looked gravely at each other for a moment, then both burst into suppressed laughter.
She hadn’t changed in the past year. Her naturally blond hair still just covered her ears. Until I’d met her I’d never thought her gamin look and delicate features fitted my ideal, but I now knew different. And I could still drown in that intense smile.
I said, “So. Mrs Hathaway.”
“Not yet.”
“A bit of a surprise, all the same.”
“Not to me.” She feigned a reproving look, then broke into a smile. “I like the new wheels!”
“You saw the MG?”
“Yeah, I spotted you parking it earlier on. Such style!”
“I always wanted an MGB, but I worry about the cost of keeping it running.”
“You’ll be OK.”
We smiled at each other for a moment. I said, “This is an extremely impressive engagement party. You’ve set the bar high. What are you going to do for your wedding reception? Take over Claridge’s? Book Ed Sheeran?”
“Who’s been leaking our plans?” She gave me a complicit smile. “Nick likes to do things in style. He’s not afraid to let people know he’s successful.”
“So is this a foretaste of your future life?”
She frowned slightly. “I very much doubt it.”
“But you won’t be spending so much time in east London?” When I’d known her before, she’d been living half the time in Ronnie’s flat.
“Well, I’ll still need to go there, but not for whole weeks at a time. I don’t think Nick is expecting to share me. We’re moving into a cottage outside Banbury.”
“What about the market stalls? How will you work them if you’re living out in the sticks?”
“Oh, it’s an easy enough commute to London from Banbury.” She spoke airily, but I wondered how deep her conviction ran. “Anyway, I’ll be able to concentrate more on design work and admin. Josie can stand in for me when I’m not around.” Josie was a part-time helper who seemed to be turning into a full-time member of the team.
“So it’s the end of an era as far as you’re concerned.”
“I prefer to see it as the beginning of a new one.”
“Of course it is.” I smiled awkwardly and hesitated. “I’m still adjusting to the idea of all this.”
She gave me a long look that I couldn’t fathom, then stood up abruptly. “I should mix with the other guests.” She glanced around, then back at me. “Do you know, years ago my dad answered a questionnaire when he was sitting in a train. They wanted to know if he ever used the restaurant car. How often? That kind of thing. He told me about it later. And do you know what he said?”
“Tell me.”
“He answered that he never used it, but it made him comfortable to know it was there.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Then he was surprised when they were withdrawn.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“I thought you were going to call me, but you didn’t. Not once. Not even a text. You made it plain where your allegiance lay.” She shrugged. “You can’t have it both ways.”
Chapter 8
“I mean, take this for example.” Graham Bulwell leaned over his large computer monitor and pointed to the screen, which was displaying the cover of a book by an author I’d never heard of. He read out: “‘This is an increasingly dark novel …’” He looked up at me. “Utter bollocks! A novel is what it is. It can’t be increasingly anything. It’s like saying the wallpaper is increasingly brown, or the food in your fridge is increasingly tasty.”
“I suppose it might be maturing.” I gave him a deadpan look.
He glanced up at me sharply to see if I was mocking him, then nodded and gave a perfunctory smile. “Ha! Very good. My point is that the story itself can become increasingly dark as it progresses, but the novel as an entity can’t.”
I’d called up Graham a week or so after the party, and he’d invited me down to his home in south London. I had little confidence in being able to help him with his book promotion, but it pleased me in an oblique way to be following up on Sam’s request.
For the past ten minutes he’d been standing in front of his computer, showing me examples of online books that he said weren’t as accomplished as his, but which had sold more copies. He’d just been reading out the descriptive blurb for one of them, grumbling that a lot of self-published authors couldn’t even write literate book descriptions. “What does that tell you about the books themselves?”
I shrugged. Although he seemed to be splitting hairs, I couldn’t actually disagree with him, but equally I couldn’t see how bad-mouthing other authors was helping his cause.
Graham lived in the terraced house he’d once shared with his wife. Getting to Clapham from Camden Town had been surprisingly easy, involving a direct Underground train ride on the Northern line. We were in his lounge, a corner of which he had converted into a kind of writer’s den: L-shaped desk, two computer monitors, piles of paperwork, copious scribbled notes.
I’d read his book before coming today, but I couldn’t decide what I thought of it. It was written in correct English, if you made allowances for the idiosyncratic style, the more questionable syntax and the occasional typos, but the story struck me as bizarre in the extreme. Perhaps on its own that was no fault, but worse, I found it profoundly unconvincing, even on its own terms. By the time I’d worked out where it was heading, I’d lost interest in finding out whether or not it would actually get there.
I said, “How would you sum up your book?”
“I thought you’d read it.” He gave me a reproving stare.
“I have, but I’d like to hear your own summary of it. What genre would you call it?”
He sat back to think about this. “I usually describe it as a time-
travel political thriller.”
“Must be difficult to find the right check box for that.” I smiled again to reassure him that I wasn’t mocking him.
“I just tick ‘thriller’ and leave it at that.”
“So describe it in your own words – as if I hadn’t read it.”
He steepled his hands for a moment as he formulated his thoughts, then spent several minutes running through a story that involved Wehrmacht officers from World War 2 getting caught up in a space-time vortex. It seemed just as outlandish to me when described by Graham as it had when I’d read it, but I knew that there was plenty of demand for this kind of story. Science fiction in the broadest sense seemed to be a very big market sector in the self-publishing world. The question was whether or not Graham had pulled off his attempt at it. I had my doubts.
Struggling for something positive to pitch in, I said, “You’ve got a few nice online reviews already.”
“Yeah, but most of them were written by friends of mine. I need genuine reviews from independent people out there in the world – and I need them in America. That’s where the real market is. I don’t have any reviews over there.” He sat down heavily in his office chair and waved me towards a swivelling visitor’s chair. “You’ve got more than twenty US reviews for your book, Mike. How did you do that?”
I shrugged. “Luck and staying power. It’s taken me several years to get to that point – and I haven’t exactly leapt into the best seller list.”
“I don’t have the patience. I want to see some action now.”
“Have you run a free week? That’s one of the quickest ways to nudge up your downloads and reviews.”
I’d learned a lot in my three years of desultory self-publishing. I now knew that in recent years a whole community of readers had sprung up who thrived on free eBooks – watching out for the daily tranche of give-aways and downloading them voraciously. Determined readers could now keep themselves supplied with enough free reading matter to last them several lifetimes – and I had the impression that many of them did.
The Concrete Ceiling Page 3