Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  ‘He’s getting to the point of desperation. He’s even going on a weekend conference on how to get published in Lancaster this September – that’s how much it means to him.’

  ‘A conference away from home?’ leered Dylan. ‘Sounds like a good excuse for a dirty weekend to me.’

  Julia’s expression warned him that he was on the verge of undermining his act of contrition, however insincere it was. He held his hands up to acknowledge he was stopping his attempts at humour now.

  ‘You need to apologise to Eric,’ said Julia, enunciating each syllable for emphasis.

  Good God – would he have to? Whatever. ‘I will. I will. I see where you’re coming from – I hit a raw nerve and that wasn’t my intention,’ he lied. ‘You seem well up on the life of a struggling writer, anyway. How come?’

  Satisfied that she had wrung this undertaking of repentance out of Dylan, Julia relaxed. ‘I know how hard it is, that’s all. I wrote a book the summer after I graduated.

  Let’s just say you get very attached; you want everybody to tell you how beautiful your baby is.’

  ‘And not to say “would you like a banana for your monkey?”’ said Dylan, helpfully trying to summarise her point.

  ‘I guess something like that,’ said a bemused Julia.

  ‘Did you try to get your book published, like Eric?’

  ‘No. I thought about it, but I’m sitting on it for a while. Maybe I’ll go back to it when I finish this internship. They say it’s good to leave time between finishing a book and submitting it.’

  Dylan was intrigued. ‘You dark horse. What’s it about?’

  Julia reddened slightly. ‘It’s about a time–travelling detective. She goes back and forth to crack crimes.’

  ‘Dr Who meets Shirley Holmes? Sounds like a winner to me.’ That Dylan felt competent to predict Julia’s future literary success was all the more remarkable as he’d read only one book since the age of 16, and that was one on football hooligans.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Julia, now laughing.

  ‘So you’re in competition with Eric to get an agent?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the intern, looking serious again. ‘I’ve not told Eric about my writing – I thought it would make his efforts seem, I don’t know, less unique.’

  Dylan was learning a lot this evening. ‘You’re very considerate, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘He is my boss – intern’s intuition.’

  Dylan felt an urge he’d not experienced in quite a while. ‘Can I read your book? What’s it called anyway?’

  Julia looked hesitant. ‘Well, it’s called The Pendulum Swings but I’m not sure I’m ready to let people see my baby yet – just in case they do offer it a banana.’

  Dylan wasn’t to be denied. ‘Only, I’ve got a mate who’s an actor and if it was any good, he could pass it on to his agent.’

  ‘It’s a book agent I need, not a theatrical one.’

  ‘Yes – but they’re all connected, aren’t they? Won’t do any harm if I read it, will it? I’ve got a good eye, me.’

  Julia wasn’t sure. Dylan didn’t strike her as an authority on literary criticism. Was she being too precious? Maybe a totally objective viewpoint would actually be a good thing? And Dylan did appear to be well-connected. Maybe it was the Chenin Blanc, Dylan’s persistence or his screwball charm, but she buckled. ‘I’ll send it to you on the condition that you don’t give it to anyone without my permission, OK? Read it first and let me know what you think.’

  ‘Deal,’ said Dylan. ‘Now, can I interest you in a Dead Red Zombie?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Two hundred miles south another red-eyed, undead soul mired in perpetual unrest was getting under his wife’s feet. Reardon was recounting to Belinda exactly how he’d laid his terms out. ‘I told him they could forget an entire weekend – I’d travel up on Saturday and leave first thing Sunday. It was that or nothing.’

  Belinda, preparing their evening meal, was glad Reardon had not jeopardised his new university position by refusing to go to the conference. Following his initial outburst at the news she had known better than to push him. She let him blow off steam, allowing time for the idea to settle and for the anti-depressants the doctor had prescribed to start working. Then, in an invisible pincer movement along with Hugo, the author was reminded of his duties to his wallet, if not academia. Reardon, though, still had to call the shots. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That sounds like a sensible trade-off.’

  ‘I made them change the programme a bit,’ he said with sombre satisfaction. ‘They wanted me to do a Sunday morning keynote address, and a seminar group on the Saturday, but I wouldn’t agree to that. “Keynote address”, I ask you. It’s not the United Nations, is it?’

  ‘So what exactly are you doing?’

  ‘I’m now giving the after-dinner speech on the Saturday – their so-called gala dinner. Gala is such an odd word isn’t it? French origin, “to make merry”. I don’t think I’ll be doing that.’

  Such an observation was wasted on Belinda who was struggling to recall the last time Reardon had been of a gallant disposition. ‘If it’s only for one night, would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘I’m quite capable of looking after myself, Bel, but thanks for the offer.’

  Belinda, while relieved at the prospect of a night off from Reardon’s repining, also knew that this would be the first night they’d spend apart for some months. The image of Reardon sleepwalking wasn’t that distant a memory, and it certainly wasn’t dim. Fortunately, he’d not repeated his somnambulistic wanderings since Paris and after starting his Citalopram prescription had actually been sleeping very well. Better than Belinda in any event. ‘If you’re sure?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t see why we should both suffer the heady delights of Virgin Rail, student beds and a campus full of clamorous culture-climbers. I will fly solo.’

  The issue settled, Belinda took the baked salmon from the oven and asked Reardon to set the table. ‘Are you imbibing?’ he enquired as he reached for the wine glasses.

  Belinda shook her head. ‘Not for me. Are you sure you should be?’

  Reardon merely shrugged his shoulders as he poured himself a small compensatory Chablis. ‘At least I will die happy,’ he said. Again, Belinda doubted that.

  ‘Well, overall it doesn’t sound too bad, Reardon. I think that you might quite enjoy yourself if the truth be told,’ ventured Belinda.

  Reardon stopped sniffing the bouquet and assayed the same deadpan humour with which he no doubt hoped to win over conference. ‘I admire your good cheer, Belinda, but I rather lean towards Voltaire’s view that “optimism is the obstinacy of maintaining that everything is best when it is worst”.’

  ‘If you expect the worst, you’ll never be disappointed.’ Hugo was waxing philosophical as he sat in the Mound Stand at Lord’s. Middlesex’s prospects of overhauling Yorkshire in their run chase were looking increasingly forlorn. As the shadows lengthened over the outfield Hugo was keeping his followers on Twitter updated regarding the progress of the match – few would care. Notwithstanding impending defeat for the side he’d supported from boyhood he was enjoying a wonderful day out in the August sunshine. Hugo rarely missed this annual pilgrimage to the home of cricket with a group of old school friends – not least because he feared to what degree his ears would be burning if he didn’t turn out. Once the date was set he’d move anything to be there. The group of eight had been drinking all day – beneath their feet lay empty magnums of Moet, plastic jugs of Pimms, cracked disposable glasses and various discarded wrappers from the Waitrose picnic range – the sort of detritus that could inform future archaeologists that Middlesex, not Yorkshire, held home advantage. Hugo had added an artistic flourish to their conspicuous consumption by thoughtfully bringing along a punnet of fresh strawberri
es to immerse in their polycarbonate flutes of champagne. The high-spirited coterie now faced a dilemma – they had run out of alcohol and ten overs remained on the board. A further reason for Hugo’s invitation now became apparent as the cry of ‘Locker’s shout’ went up. Knowing his place, Hugo didn’t resist their petition and good naturedly set off to the bar to acquire the next round. As he gripped the stair rail on his way down the back of the stand, his mobile buzzed. Go away was his first thought, but curiosity compelled him to at least check who was calling. Emily Chatterton. Swaying slightly, he took a deep breath and answered.

  ‘Emily. How the devil are you?’ At the same moment a huge cheer went up from the crowd inside the ground as a tail-ender sent the ball clear of the boundary.

  ‘Have I caught you at an awkward moment?’

  ‘Not at all, Em, just a day out with the boys. Taking Lord’s by storm.’

  Emily could tell by his voice – Lord Charles on crack – that Hugo wasn’t dressed for the weather. ‘You sound like you’re having fun. Anyway, I called because I just found out we’re spending the weekend together next month.’

  This was news to Hugo. ‘Really, where’s that?’

  ‘Stop being coy, Hugo. As if you’d forget?’ she teased.

  Hugo was drawing a blank. ‘Give me a clue?’

  ‘Lancaster. The Write Stuff conference. I’ve just got the joining instructions and couldn’t believe your name was on it. I thought you’d be the last person I’d see up there.’

  Lancaster. Of course. Hugo knew she’d have to find out sooner rather than later. He’d even considered a pre-emptive bid to tell her the news before she discovered it from another source. Well, she knew now. ‘Oh, that. Well, I didn’t want you having all of the fun, Emily. Seriously, I thought it was about time I took a look.’

  Emily, relishing the mental picture of Hugo squirming as he made light of his change of heart, said sweetly, ‘It’s just that you were so insistent that writing conferences were full of inadequates and stalkers, that’s all.’

  Hugo gripped the stair rail tighter to remain in an upright position. ‘I was only joking. No, we were talking about it at the agency and decided it wouldn’t do us any harm dipping our toe in the water. You know, get out there in the frontline for fresh talent.’

  Emily was tickled to learn that her plan to set Hugo up had worked so efficiently, but not half as amused as hearing Hugo protest it was his idea and part of Motif’s new strategy. ‘I see Reardon’s going, too. I thought you were trying to avoid him these days, Hugo?’

  ‘Not at all. In fact I organised his attendance.’ Hugo’s amusement at Reardon having to attend the conference had disintegrated at about the same time he realised he would be joining him. ‘I’m looking forward to it immensely. Should be fun.’

  The editor didn’t break step. ‘That’s exactly how I see it, Hugo. We can prospect for gold together.’

  Hugo finished the call and ran down to the bar – at least there was no queue at this late stage of the match. He cursed, once again, at being forced to attend this scholarly symposium in the sticks but his boss had given him no choice – ‘We can’t always rely on our good looks, Hugo, to pull the prettiest girls at the ball. Sometimes we have to ask for a dance first.’

  As he staggered back up to his friends clutching two bottles of house champagne a large groan went up from the crowd. Middlesex had lost their last wicket. An even louder lament emanated from his friends. ‘Christ, Lockers, did you go to Rheims to get those?’

  Suzie Quixall took a bite of her hoisin duck wrap and tossed it back on the plate in disgust. Friday night, home alone, with a cheap bottle of Chardonnay for company. The late evening sun streamed through the window of her neat two-bedroom flat, bestowing a glorious golden hue to the grey wreck of her evening. Suzie opened her laptop and clicked on Jagged Little Pill in iTunes – a musical accompaniment for the detailed job ahead of her. The power behind the throne at The Write Stuff was no stranger to taking work home – she would often slog away evenings and weekends to finish off urgent tasks for Chapman. This Friday, however, an assignment of the most personal kind lay before her – she was working on a tribute movie clip to celebrate ten years of The Write Stuff, or rather, she was crafting a paean in honour of her boss. This was not an unwelcome chore in Suzie’s eyes; in fact no one, particularly Chapman, knew she was doing it and in any event she would not have delegated such a duty to anybody else. Suzie had been with Chapman since day one of The Write Stuff and only she fully understood the workings of the business and the genius of the man. Since having the idea to do a celebratory movie clip Suzie had excitedly collated on to her laptop images and video files from across the company’s history. She’d assiduously organised the images into ten files – one for each year – and tonight she was going to develop a storyboard and clipboard before briefing a professional editor to create a slick mini-movie. She could already picture the look of surprise on her boss’s face and feel the warmth of his approbation when the film was revealed at the conference gala dinner on the Saturday night.

  She mused over what sort of narrative frame to build the film around – this would dictate which pictures to cherry-pick. Would using the chapters of a book be an appropriate theme, or too hackneyed? If so, was it a fairytale, a fantasy or a thriller? ‘Once upon a time’, or ‘A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away?’ She turned Alanis up and recharged her glass. Folder one. The launch story picture. Gosh, didn’t Chapman look young? He was certainly carrying a bit less timber back then. There was the first anniversary party – just look at her dress. At least she could still fit in it. There was only a team of three at the start – it was much more intimate back then. Year two – the cutting from The Bookseller with the headline ‘Write Stuff’s record growth’ over a picture of Chapman with a cropped haircut. Thank goodness that style hadn’t lasted long – it never suited him. Fast forward to year three – the Christmas party. She laughed as she remembered how Chapman had thrown her over his shoulder and charged across Millennium Bridge, nearly dropping her into the Thames. She was so drunk at the time she dreaded to think what would have happened if the dark waters had swallowed her up. These captured moments of yesteryear flashing before her wasn’t dissimilar to drowning. The same year – and that picture of author Chapman Hall surrounded by copies of A Poisoned Heart and a Twisted Memory at the book launch. How crucial the book had been in establishing The Write Stuff’s credentials. As Chapman had quoted at the time, ‘Give a man a reputation as an early riser and he can sleep ‘til noon.’ They both knew that without A Poisoned Heart The Write Stuff would never have had the credibility to prosper. The right boost at the right time. She dragged the images she’d highlighted so far across to the master file and carried on. Now, shortly after the book launch, the first conference. She looked at the group shot of the delegates, 70 in total, with Chapman and Suzie the triumphant couple in centre front. Back then they’d held it in Roehampton. A number of these self-same delegates still came to conference. How she wished for those days again, before Chapman began to appreciate her less. Year five – the move to their new offices. New? They’d been there five years. She emptied the remains of the wine bottle into her glass just as Alanis stopped emoting. She went to the compilation folder on iTunes and scrolled down until she saw it – the track that meant so much to her, the one Chapman always insisted on playing at staff parties. Suzie Q. He liked the way she talked. He liked the way she walked. She’d remain true so he wouldn’t be blue. As Creedence Clearwater Revival crawled out of the swamp with their pulsating R ‘n’ B take on Dale Hawkins’ classic, the images already wheeling across her temporal lobe took on more vivid hues, bursting into life as if she was re-living those very moments. The voodoo was strong. The magic compelling. Then she had a blinding flash of inspiration as to what theme she could use for the film. Yes – that would work like a charm. She set to finishing off the rest of the photo
files with reinvigorated zeal.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dylan was in work early on the Monday morning, hoping to see Julia before Eric arrived. Much to his surprise he had read the whole of The Pendulum Swings over the weekend. After Julia had left the bar on Friday night he’d gone on a bender with his friends, arriving home at 3am. He’d surfaced, feeling like death, at 11am when he found the PDF file of the book in his email. Julia had sent it to him as soon as she’d got home the previous evening. At first he ignored it and wondered how he could pass comment without actually reading the book. Then, fortified by a solid fry-up, he determined to at least spend an hour on it before getting ready for another night out larging it in Manchester. Stretched out on his settee, with the windows of his city centre flat wide open to the traffic buzzing below, he opened the file in iBooks and began. Dylan knew he wasn’t equipped to constructively critique the novel – any novel – but mindful of Julia’s father as much as consideration for the author he calculated that to be seen to be making an effort would suffice. In any event, he could pass it on to his actor ‘friend’ (who he’d only actually met twice) so he would actually be helping. However, within five minutes, a strange phenomenon occurred – Dylan found himself fascinated by the unlikely heroine and gripped by the intriguing era-hopping plot. He read steadily all afternoon until he had to meet his friends at 6pm. Even when out that evening he couldn’t quite escape the characters he’d encountered earlier in the day and was hungry to find out what happened to them next. He didn’t share this beguilement with his mates in case they laughed at him but he did make sure that he didn’t get uber-smashed that night. He wanted to get back to The Pendulum Swings. Awaking at 9am the next morning he was soon reclining on the settee where he stayed reading all day. At 6pm he finally found himself on the last page. His emotions at reaching the end were a mixture of exhilaration and sadness. Excitement at how the story had built to a climax, and sorrow that he had nowhere else to go now he’d finished it. He was in awe that someone like Julia, an intern, could hatch such sorcery. He’d underestimated her.