The Apprentice

by Carrie Williams

  Lunch is surreal. Over plates of delicious-looking Modern European food that I can barely touch because I’m so overawed, Janine – blonde and chic, with a coolly angular haircut and Prada clothes – tells me that she’s already, on my behalf, sounded out several big publishers about doing a book version of my blog, and she’s confident that she will have a bidding war on her hands if I agree to it. She says she’s talking six-figure sums, that it’s an offer I can’t refuse. The only snag is she thinks it should come out under my own name.

  I argue my corner. I want a serious literary career, I tell her, and this could scupper all chances of that. And then there’s other people to consider – my family, for all their faults, and then my co-protagonists in the drama: Anne, James and Celine. They all have their lives to lead. If it’s been possible to trace me as the author of the anonymous blog, then it will be a piece of cake to trace the real-life characters involved if I use my own identity.

  Janine won’t reveal her own sources, but I strongly suspect Pete. His name or at least an email address must have been buried in the website somewhere, as the designer, and I imagine that Janine must have contacted him via that, more than liberally greasing his palm to get the information she required. Part of me is pissed off at him, but then if it weren’t for that I wouldn’t be sitting here now, talking to a woman who is promising me fame and fortune.

  We go round and round in circles, over main course, desserts, brandy and coffee, until finally Janine sees that I’m going to stand my ground. I’m nothing if not loyal, and I won’t let the others be unmasked. There was genuine kindness and affection involved, as well as lashings of sex, and I might be inexperienced but I know enough about life to be aware that those things are all too rare. We do, however, agree that as soon as she gets back to London, she can approach publishers with a firm proposal.

  ‘In fact, why wait that long?’ she says as we shake hands outside the restaurant, brandishing her mobile, and I imagine her hurtling back on the London train, making calls that might change the course of my life.

  I walk home and I scarcely know what to do with myself until Nate and Anne-Mette get home from work, and then in a burst of generosity inspired by the thought of my imminent wealth – and gratefulness for their hospitality – I take them to a bar and tell them all about my meeting with Janine over two-for-one cocktails. They’re astonished, and excited for me, but also convinced that I have done the right thing in insisting the book, if there is to be one, will be published under a pseudonym.

  We’re just finishing up and talking about going for a pizza when my mobile rings and it’s Janine again, breathless, words spilling out of her almost incoherently. Through the confusion of her words and the quickening of my blood, I manage to make out that she’s had a great offer from the very publisher that we agreed would be the best for the book. I jump up from my seat, bounce up and down where I stand, barely able to believe that it isn’t all just a wind-up. And then I sit down and a bucket with a chilled bottle of champagne appears at our table, Nate having cottoned on to what my news must have been and made a quick trip to the bar to order something special.

  Nate and Anne-Mette are almost as excited as I am, and we sit around getting drunk and silly together – to the extent that, on the way home, I think that it might be fun to have a threesome with them after all. But almost as soon as the thought has presented itself to me, my head screams ‘No!’, and when we get home I insist that I’m tired and pissed and need to go to bed right away.

  In the morning, for a few moments, I lie with my aching head and my parched throat convinced that it was all a dream, induced by an evening on the piss. It takes a while, and a few cups of coffee, for it to sink in that it’s real. When it does, I find myself beaming like a loon.

  I wind up back in London, in a beautiful, spacious flat in one of the terraces overlooking Regent’s Park. Suddenly well off if not obscenely rich, I lead a blessed life, having the leisure to devote myself to what I call a ‘proper novel’ and to bits and bobs of journalism as well as to go out seeing films, browsing in bookshops and lunching with friends whenever the mood takes me. I made plenty of hip media friends while I was doing promo for the blog – which I did in a foxy auburn wig and rather racier clothes than I would wear every day. I did press interviews, radio, readings and even a bit of TV, which did wonders for my self-assurance, and I met some wonderful people: journalists, novelists, scriptwriters, filmmakers. I hardly recognise myself from the repressed, unconfident girl that I was when I lived at Vron’s.

  For a couple of months I feel contented and productive, and then something starts to niggle beneath the surface of my apparent idyll, like a worm beneath the soil, and that something, I eventually realise, is guilt about Anne Tournier. Not guilt about trumping her novel with my blog and then my book – I had, I still contend, as much right to write about the experience as she did, and that I got there first is just her rough luck. But I do feel guilty at the way that I left after she taught me so much, or rather helped me to learn so much about myself. For, I have realised, Anne was the best kind of teacher – the kind who stands back and lets the pupil learn everything for him-or herself. I have much to be grateful for.

  For a while I contemplate emailing her or writing her a letter, but I know Anne, to some degree at least, and I know she won’t respond. If I call her, she’ll put the phone down on me – not that she ever really answers her phone anyway, screening calls through her answerphone. So for a couple of weeks I try to repress the idea to make amends, reminding myself of the ends to which she was using me, probably right from the start.

  But the guilt won’t go away, and so I find myself, one crisp spring morning, in a cab on the way to her house – or rather, to nearby Queensway, where I stop and buy myself some new shades and a hat. Then I walk to St Petersburgh Place and set up camp 100 metres from her house, on a bench with a book in my hand. Doubting that she’ll even answer the front door to me – she’s the kind of woman to check through her spyhole before opening – I need to intercept her either on the way in or the way out of her house. Which means waiting – for how long, I don’t know.

  A couple of hours later I’m getting twitchy, needing a pee and a coffee to revive my energy levels, when I see Anne’s front door open. It’s not Anne who appears, though: it’s James, and he looks morose as he hurries down the street on the opposite side of the road from me. Part of me so wants to call out to him, but at the same time I’m afraid. Afraid that he will be angry with me for what I have done to Anne, for betraying all of them, even though their identities are safe. But afraid, most of all, of this sadness I have always suspected was present in him but only really seen for certain today.

  I stand up, needing to get the blood flowing through my veins again, and walk a little further towards Anne’s house. She must be in, if James was there. Should I risk it, and knock, or must I wait it out? I’m flagging now. Is this really so important to me?

  Suddenly the door opens again, and this time it is Anne. I only recognise her because of where she’s coming from – otherwise, she’s as disguised as I am, with a headscarf and large black sunglasses, all very Jackie O. and elegant. She turns and starts walking in the direction of Notting Hill.

  I follow, remembering the time I stalked her to the art gallery, desperate for an insight into her life and who she was. I never did find out – I just made a fool of myself. Perhaps, even now, she’s aware that I’m pursuing her again. Perhaps she’s leading me another merry dance, this time as her own form of revenge. The possibility only makes me more determined not to lose her.

  She walks all the way through the quiet backstreets of Notting Hill to Holland Park, where she stops at an antiquarian bookseller. For a few minutes she stands contemplatively in front of the window, and I have to take refuge in a bakery across the road, where I pretend to survey the croissants. Then she goes inside, and I steal over and take my turn at the window. There’s a mixed bag of works on display, but among them I noti
ce a few erotic classics, many of them special editions in a locked glass display case – a first edition of The Story of O, a third edition of Lolita, a first-edition Henry Miller.

  It’s hard to see what’s going on inside through the crowded window display and the cabinets, but after a while a hand comes through and removes one of the books – a German book of erotic photographs. I wonder how much Anne is paying to feed this addiction of hers. This is not the kind of shop to broadcast its prices in its window.

  It’s time to face Anne, I decide. After all, this is why I came to her house. I can’t follow her around all day, spying on her. She’s a fascinating creature that I would like to decode and understand, but I have a full life now, better things to do. I need to exonerate myself and move on.

  She comes out of the shop, a brown paper package under her arm, and I step out in front of her and remove my shades. It’s like a violent physical reaction, the way she starts and then steps back away from me, one hand held up in front of her. I can’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I imagine them to be full of spite as she rasps, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  I breathe in deeply. I don’t want this to turn into a confrontation, a fishwifely to-do in the quiet streets of Holland Park. ‘Look, I can appreciate that you don’t like me much any more. Probably never did. But can’t we go and talk about this over a drink, on me? There’s a great place –’

  ‘I know Julie’s,’ she says, seeing me gesture. ‘I’ve lived in West London most of my life.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t mean …’

  I stop. Already she’s making me feel like a little girl. But isn’t that because I, in turn, threaten her? I am the new generation, the potential usurper, hence her keenness to remind me that she was here long before me – both in West London and in the literary firmament.

  We walk down the street in silence, and I’m beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea after all. We sit at a table on the terrace of Julie’s, despite the chill, and as I bask in the weak sunshine like a cat, wondering what to drink, I wish I was alone, free to watch the beau monde go by and let ideas for my novel weave themselves through my head.

  Although it’s only just approaching lunchtime, Anne orders a gin and tonic, and I think, To hell with it, and follow suit. For a moment, as we wait for our drinks, the silence between us continues, and suddenly I feel constricted, as if a balloon is slowly being inflated, taking up all the space between us, robbing us of air. Our g and ts arrive, and I take a huge gulp of mine. Anne continues to look aloof, lighting a cigarette and gazing off into the distance as if I wasn’t here at all.

  ‘Look,’ I say finally, a little emboldened by the alcohol. ‘I know what you’re thinking and –’

  ‘Don’t presume to know anything about me,’ interjects Anne.

  ‘OK, I’m sorry.’ I look at her, so outwardly calm. What turmoil lies beneath, like molten lava threatening to break through?

  ‘OK,’ I go on. ‘I really am sorry. But you have to realise how I felt, when I found out what you were writing.’

  ‘You spied on me.’

  ‘I did spy on you, but by accident. Your door was open and your computer –’

  ‘Spare me,’ she says, taking a drag on her cigarette. ‘It really doesn’t matter any more. It’s not as if you can undo what you did, give me back all the time I put into the novel.’

  ‘I can’t do that, no.’ I sit back, flummoxed. I’ve apologised and there’s nothing more I can do. Nothing but thank Anne. And so that’s what I do. ‘I suppose I just wanted you to know that I’ll be forever in your debt – not just because of my blog, my book, and everything that goes with that. You gave me so much more, things that can’t be defined in worldly terms – self-confidence, both sexually and more generally. The conviction to try things out, even when I’m not sure about them. That means so much to me. I’m a different person because of you.’

  I still can’t see Anne’s eyes behind her glasses, but there’s a tremor in the bottom half of her face that alarms me – the first sign of any real emotion in all the time I’ve known her. Part of me wants to finish up my drink and get out, afraid that I’ve set something terrible in motion, opened a floodgate. But the other part – the writerly part – is hugely curious. What have I said that has touched a nerve?

  Anne raises a hand, gestures to the waitress to bring us more drinks. I’d rather she hadn’t: these drinks are strong, and I’ve eaten little this morning. I want to be, now more than ever, clear-headed. I keep my eyes trained on my mentor, not wishing to miss anything that goes on, to miss any sign that she is finally cracking. If she is, I want to move quickly, get my fingers into the cracks and prise her apart so I can at last see the creature that lives within that hard carapace.

  For a while we say nothing, and I’m unable to gauge what’s going on in Anne’s head, behind the shield of her glasses. But then, halfway through her second g and t, she begins to speak, slowly and more softly than I’ve heard her talk before, her waspishness dissolved.

  ‘It’s me who should apologise,’ she says. ‘I tried to use you in the most terrible way. I was like a vampire, feeding off you, your growing confidence. But I was … desperate. It’s the only word for it.’

  ‘Why desperate?’

  ‘Have you not seen my reviews over the last ten years or so?’

  ‘I have, but it hasn’t stopped me buying – and liking – your books.’

  ‘Then you’re the exception, it would seem.’

  I still can’t see her eyes behind the fug of cigarette smoke, behind her dark glasses, but her voice, brittle as splintered glass, bespeaks her pain and bitterness. As if tapping into my thoughts, she takes the glasses off, places them on the table between us, and then she looks at me.

  ‘Ah, Genevieve,’ she says. ‘I’m so weary. Nothing I do seems to please them any more. I’ve thought of giving up, so many times. But I can’t. Writing is in me, a curse sometimes as much as a blessing. Maybe you’ll realise that one day, when all the furore has died down. We all have our moments of glory, and then the next big thing comes along and we’re left to rot in the corner.’

  ‘Is that what I am?’ I say anxiously. ‘The next big thing? A flash in the pan?’

  ‘You have to realise that the media will hype anybody for a story, but then just as quickly you’ll be yesterday’s news.’

  ‘But since I’m doing it all under a pseudonym …’

  ‘And you’re what – writing a serious novel?’

  I nod.

  ‘Then good for you. But it’s not dissimilar. You might make a splash, but it can’t last for ever. The papers need a constant supply of fresh blood. That’s how it works.’

  I sigh. ‘Well, there’s nothing I can do about all that. I’ll cross that bridge when – if – I come to it.’

  ‘Of course. You’re right. I don’t know why I’m bothering even talking to you about all this. Except, I suppose, in the hope that you’ll understand my desperation and forgive me.’

  ‘Forgive you? But I came here wanting you to forgive me.’

  She laughs, a low, crackly, worldly laugh that reminds me of who she is – my literary heroine, sitting here asking for my forgiveness.

  There’s so much I want to ask her – about James, about Celine, about herself and her erotic past – but I can’t bring myself to. She looks tired, and I think we’ve reached the end of the road. It’s not always possible to untangle and explain our own motives, never mind understand those of others – and that’s doubly so where the world of sex is concerned. So I content myself with giving Anne a hug, and I leave her then, sitting alone in the pale spring sunlight, finishing her g and t.

  It’s two months later, and I’m in bed with James, in the bachelor pad that has become our secret love nest. I say ‘secret’ because Anne doesn’t – mustn’t – know about us. Not that we’re at all serious: James doesn’t want to be seen around London with a girl young enough to be his daughter, and I don’t want
to be tied down again, to deny myself the possibilities that I once did – which are a hundredfold since my erotic succès de scandale. We’re fuck buddies, I suppose you’d say. We understand and accept each other, know each other’s body, like to help each other push our limits.

  Not that Anne has been muscled out altogether – she and I have actually become good friends since our little chat and we meet regularly to discuss her new novel. I’m thrilled to be able to help out. Mine – which deals largely with my relationship with my mother and my boarding-school days, with a sort of Colette-ish lesbian subtext – has sold for a modest sum, and I’m eagerly awaiting the proof copies from the publisher.

  We’ve also talked, Anne and I, about setting up a publishing company of our own, producing literary erotic fiction and photography books. It’s still early days, but we’re both very excited about it.

  I never have got up the guts to ask Anne about her sex life, or lack of it, but James filled me in a little on that, when I badgered him about how he knew her and got involved in her weird games. It seems that he loved her once, when they met as students in Paris in the 1970s. He pursued her for years, with a relentless passion that grew only stronger the more she turned him down. This has been his only way of being near her, and also a way of satisfying her at one remove.

  I ask him why she is so frigid, and he tells me it wasn’t always so. In Paris she was a sex goddess, well known in St Germain for her love of both men and women, and sometimes both at the same time. There was nothing, it was rumoured, that she wouldn’t try. Then she fell in love with a famous artist, a married man and a womaniser who devalued her, made her feel she wasn’t good enough. But she couldn’t break away. For years she jumped through hoops, trying to find ever new and more exciting things to do, ways of binding him to her. She wasted a decade, perhaps even a bit more, attempting to please him. When he rejected her for good, she developed an aversion to sex, at least to doing it herself. James doesn’t know for sure, but he feels that watching is her only way of getting pleasure. Or perhaps a way of punishing herself, in perpetuity.