Crossing the Lines

by Sulari Gentill

  “Why do you want a child so badly?” Edward stood in the periphery of her vision.

  She continued to work the soil. “I don’t know. It’s just an ache, a kind of panic. I just feel like it’s what’s next.”

  “For you?”

  “For Hugh and me.”

  “Hugh doesn’t seem so convinced.”

  Madeleine rocked back onto her heels. Yes. She shrugged. “He’ll come round. It’s different for men.”

  “How so?”

  “You can’t know your child until it’s born. Women know their children long before that.”

  “Because you carry them?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. My mother used to say that children are held in their mother’s hearts until they are ready to slip down to the womb.” She laughed. “Mum had a rather lyrical take on biology. But I guess they do begin in the centre of our bodies. Perhaps that’s why they remain in the centre of our thoughts.”

  Edward glanced at the cement cherub. “Unless they don’t stay.”

  “That’s when it’s most different…when they don’t stay. For men it’s just a change in what they expected, what they were preparing for. For women…” She paused trying to find the right words. “Something’s changed. There was something there, and there’s a space where it once was.” Madeleine looked at him, this man in her mind. “You think I’m being melodramatic?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m just wondering why you don’t write about this.”

  “About lost babies?” Her response was fleering. The idea was absurd, ridiculous.

  Edward smiled too. Madeleine was aware right then that she liked the way he did so. The expression wasn’t dazzling like Ian’s, but quiet, as though he did not even realise he was smiling. There was something intimate about it. “Not necessarily,” he said, “but why don’t you write about the meaning of things, or the lack of meaning? About why you feel, rather than just what you feel.”

  “Little sadnesses are not a plot, Ned. Everyone has them in some form or another. They aren’t a story on their own.”

  “Perhaps not on their own, but don’t you think they are the most interesting part?”

  “God, no!”

  Edward stepped closer, his eyes fixed on her face as if he were reading each fleeting flicker that crossed her features. “Don’t you find people a mystery, Maddie? Isn’t every story about why people do what they do?”

  She laughed at him, at herself. Why was she having this conversation? Did she doubt the value of her work? When had she become self-conscious?

  The breeze caught her hair, blowing a wispy tress across her face. He brushed it back behind her ear with his hand, and again she felt the warmth of his touch. This time she was not startled by the substance of it. Madeleine closed her eyes, not wanting him to dissipate in the bright light of day, or return to the periphery of her vision. She liked him standing close—she could smell his aftershave, sense the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  Edward was startled by how physically drawn he was to Madeleine d’Leon then. He’d had conversations with characters before, but this sudden longing was a little odd. Still, he didn’t question it. Each story had its own process, its own involvement. The clarity of Madeleine d’Leon, her reality, was exciting. Perhaps it would bring something new to his work. Softly, he touched his lips to hers and when she gasped with surprise it was in the midst of a stolen kiss. He breathed her in, glad he’d not plotted this story in any great detail. It seemed to be choosing paths of its own.

  ***

  Edward slammed down the landline.

  “What did they say?” Willow was kneeling by the bookshelf, replacing the books that had been pulled out. The search of Edward McGinnity’s beach house had been thorough, the rectification less so. The police had taken a few items of clothing, Edward’s computers, his mobile phone, and his notebooks. It was the last which Edward was now trying desperately to have returned.

  “They’re going through them, apparently. Lord knows why my notebooks are of any interest to the police.”

  Willow’s glance was sidelong. “Depends how saucy this new book is. What is your crime-writer getting up to?”

  “This isn’t funny, Will. How am I supposed to write?”

  “Get a new notebook.”

  Sullenly, Edward rummaged through the kilned-glass basin of Matchbox cars. He retrieved a Morris and ran it across the coffee table. “There are three missing, you know.”

  “Three what?”

  “Three cars.”

  Willow stared at the basin that must have contained over fifty miniature vehicles. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “They’re my cars. I know. There’s a Mercedes, a Ford, and an Aston Martin missing.”

  “Perhaps you misplaced them.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “The men who beat you up—”

  “No, the cars were here yesterday.”

  “So you think the police took your toy cars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “They probably didn’t think I’d notice.”

  “Are you saying the police stole your Matchbox cars?”

  Edward shrugged. “The cars are gone.”

  “Perhaps they want to test them—dust them for fingerprints or whatever it is they do these days.”

  Again, he shrugged.

  Willow turned back to the disarrayed books, sorting them into vague categories. Edward’s collection of novels had always been eclectic, but it seemed that he had lately been adding a great deal of crime fiction to his shelves.

  “Is this research?” she asked, thumbing through a volume by Robotham.

  Edward nodded. “I thought I should read a bit of the kind of thing she writes but…” He didn’t finish.

  “But what?”

  “I can’t seem to hear her voice in any of these books, I can’t get a handle on her as a writer.”

  “Of course you can’t.” Willow thumbed through the stack of crime novels. “They’re all written by men.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but you might find your Madeleine’s literary voice more easily in a female writer. What kind of books does she write?”

  “Madeleine? Crime.”

  “That’s only slightly more helpful than saying she writes words. What kind of crime? Does she write thrillers, or police procedurals, or private detectives? Are her books contemporary or historical or—?”

  “Historical,” Edward said, uncertain why he was sure of this. He hadn’t really written about Madeleine’s books in such detail. “Early 1900s, I think.”

  “Perhaps you should read a female historical crime-writer and see if you can hear Madeleine. I think I have a couple. More 1930s than 1900s, but they may help—I’ll bring them over.”

  “I didn’t know you read crime fiction.”

  “I don’t read it for the crime.”

  Edward found himself intrigued. “Then why?”

  “For the characters; crime fiction has the sexiest heroes.”

  “What?”

  Willow wrapped her arms around her knees and looked up at him. “The detective is by necessity a delightful combination of intellect, daring, and action.” Her gaze was coy. “It’s very attractive.”

  He laughed. “That’s a bit like reading Playboy for the articles, isn’t it?”

  “Just the opposite, I would think.”

  Edward grimaced.

  Willow was not having it. “Sweetheart, you know I love your novels. They make me think, they astound me with their artistry, dazzle me with their vocabulary, and when I’ve finished reading I’m mentally exhausted and probably cleverer than I once was. But you know, sometimes I read books because I want to fall in love.” She shrugged. “Call me shallow.
”

  “You fall in love with fictional detectives?”

  “Invariably. Something very hot about a man following a lead.”

  “I’ll make a note.”

  “So,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “what do you plan to do about your missing toys?”

  “Must you call them toys? They’re very valuable collectibles.”

  “Oh. How much are they worth?”

  “About ten cents each.” He frowned. “I think I’ll forget that they were here yesterday, notice that they’ve vanished and go see Bourke.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I’ll tell him I think the men who broke in here must have taken them.”

  “Nope…still don’t follow.”

  “Well, they’ll either have to include the theft of the cars in the investigation as some kind of lead, or admit they took them.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am. It’s bad enough that three thugs break in here and beat the hell out of me, without then being robbed by the flaming police.”

  Willow shoved the last of the books into the shelf. “They’re old Matchbox cars, Ned.”

  Madeleine tapped the arm of her writing chair, her face set with contemplation. She wondered what she was doing with the cars. Were they simply some kind of motif, or would they play a crucial part in the plot? Was there something behind Edward’s reaction? His anger that someone would take his toys was endearingly childlike, but she did wonder why.

  “They were Jacob’s. Well, Jacob’s and mine.” Edward looked directly at Madeleine. “We were always fighting about who owned which car.”

  “Your brother?” Willow asked gently. “Ned, look at me—I didn’t know. I’m sorry—of course you must get them back.” She patted the carpet beside her for him to sit and waited till he did so.

  “I have chairs, you know,” he grumbled, as he lowered himself gingerly to the floor.

  Willow bit her lower lip and winced. “Oh bugger, I forgot. How are you feeling?”

  “Still a bit sore, but I’m fine.”

  “Were you close?” Willow asked. “Your brother and you?”

  “Sometimes…sometimes we couldn’t bear each other.” Edward smiled as he remembered. His eyes were focussed distantly. Once again it seemed to Madeleine that he was speaking directly to her. “Jake liked the vintage models best. My mother declared all the cars jointly owned to stop us fighting, but we always knew who owned what.”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy that you still have them.” Willow rubbed his arm.

  “I think he’d be a bit put out that I took them all out of their boxes,” Edward confessed. “Jake was a bit precious about that sort of thing.”

  “He didn’t play with them?”

  “Oh, yes, we’d play with them, but he’d always return them to their boxes. He was naturally tidy. Might have ended up an accountant if…” He stopped. It was hardest to consider what his siblings might have been, what they might have done together. His sister had been just a baby, but he and Jacob had had plans, childish, competitive declarations of what they would become. “Jake was going to be a judge.”

  “A judge? Of what?” Willow asked. It seemed an odd ambition for a little boy.

  “A legal send-you-to-gaol-type judge. I’d wanted to be a policeman back then, you see. Jake was two years younger—he was trying to one-up me, I guess. We thought that judges were in charge of the police back then.” He shook his head. “I was furious. But I’d already declared I was going to be a policeman. There was some kind of nine-year-old code that said I couldn’t change my mind, so I was stuck. Couldn’t think of who’d be in charge of a judge, anyway…”

  “It’s all very law and order.” Willow leaned against him. “I wanted to be a cat burglar.” She cupped her hands on either side of her head. “I somehow thought I’d have the ears.”

  Edward chuckled. He’d never met Willow’s parents. Perhaps she was from a family of career criminals. It’d make sense in some ways. It was an interesting story idea…perhaps when he’d finished with Madeleine.

  Madeleine frowned as she wrote the thought. Of course there would be other stories, but not yet…not even soon.

  Willow took a deep breath. “I think I should sack Andy.”

  “What? Why?”

  “So he can be your lawyer. He’s going to be furious when he hears what happened.”

  Edward’s nose wrinkled. “I have a lawyer.”

  “Yes, but Andy’s more than just a lawyer.”

  Edward shrugged. “You need him more than I do. I’ll speak to Andy.”

  Negotiations

  The Writers’ Bar, which served as a green room at the Final Word Writers’ Festival, was quiet at eight in the morning. It seemed writers were not early risers. Located within a refurbished wharf building, the bar was large and dimly lit. A central kitchen offered every species of coffee to the few early birds seated in the studded leather booths.

  Madeleine d’Leon was having breakfast with Leith Henry before appearing on a panel called “Once Were Lawyers.” As the title suggested her fellow panellists had also come from the legal profession.

  “I’m sorry, Maddie. They don’t like it.” Leith placed her hands flat on the table as she delivered the reaction to the three chapters Madeleine had submitted. “They think you risk alienating your readership.”

  “My readership? Why?”

  “They’ve invested a lot of money building your profile as a certain type of writer. They don’t think this new novel fits.”

  “Why not?”

  “They say the novel doesn’t know what it is: crime fiction, memoir, literary fiction…”

  “Novels have to have a sense of identity now?” Madeleine snapped.

  “Apparently this one is too much of a hybrid. They believe the voice is confused.”

  “It is not!” Madeleine could hear how childish she sounded. Worse, she could feel herself tearing up.

  Leith paused. “Tarquin feels that Edward McGinnity is too introspective for a crime hero, and not active enough.”

  “Active? Do they want him to swing from chandeliers?”

  Leith smiled. “Possibly, especially if he was shooting a gun at the same time. They don’t think the public will like him. They’d like to see another Veronica Killwilly book as soon as possible.” She paused. “They have a serious offer for the television rights for the Killwilly series.”

  “From whom?”

  “Grand Oak Productions. They’d like you to write the first screenplay.”

  Madeleine shook her head. “I can’t right now.”

  “It’s an excellent offer, Maddie.”

  “Does it hinge on me writing the screenplay?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Could you ask? And could you ask again about Ned?”

  Leith sighed. “It’s not personal, Maddie. It’s all about marketing. They’re concerned that promoting you as anything but an easy-to-read crime-writer will dilute sales and impact all your books.”

  “What do you think?” Madeleine braced herself.

  “There are other publishers, but it’s a little risky. Tarquin may decide to stop publishing you altogether, especially if they lose this deal with Grand Oak Productions.”

  For a moment Madeleine said nothing, stunned, hurt. She blinked, scrabbling for dignity. “I meant what do you think about what I’m writing?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course.”

  “I agree that this new novel doesn’t fit neatly anywhere, but that’s life. Very few things fit neatly. I still think it could be your best work. That said, Maddie, it’s not always just about writing a good book.”

  “I can’t stop writing this, Leith.”

  “Good. I want to see how it comes out.”

  “What abou
t—?”

  “Publication? Leave that to me. As long as you’re ready to leave Tarquin Press and lose the television deal? You’ve been with them from the beginning and if things go badly you could be betting the Veronica Killwilly series on this new book.”

  Madeleine hesitated. She had never seriously contemplated being published by anyone other than Tarquin Press. “You really think they’d stop publishing Veronica?”

  “They might, and since they own your backlist, it’d be difficult to take it to a new publisher. Veronica’s sales are respectable and quite lucrative, and you review well, but I’m afraid you’re not big enough yet to call the shots, Maddie.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Leith cut into her poached eggs. “Do you think you can start writing another Killwilly novel now?”

  “But I haven’t finished—”

  “Could you work on both?”

  Madeleine groaned. “Yes, I suppose I could.”

  “Good. Do that. Let’s keep everybody happy. Tarquin just needs to know that they’ll get their Killwilly in time for a Christmas release. And that you might, in time, be willing to write the screenplay.”

  “Are you sure you can’t talk them round to—”

  Leith added salt. “Yes, I’m sure. Maddie, I know you like the people at Tarquin, but they’re not the right fit for your new novel.”

  Madeleine sighed. “I know. I just feel disloyal.”

  Leith sat back, shaking her head as she did so. “They have other writers, Maddie. Publishing is not a monogamous business. It’s time to start believing in what you’re writing and playing the field.”

  Madeleine smiled. “Take it from me, believing in what I’m writing is not the problem.” She stared at the smashed avocado on sourdough before her. She could feel Edward watching her even now. Waiting for her next move.

  Leith was right. The relationship with Tarquin was a business partnership, not a creative one. But Madeleine felt wounded and slightly humiliated all the same. “Okay, do whatever you need to.”