The Confession

by Jessie Burton

  I sat bolt upright. ‘Three hours?’

  ‘You were under an enchantment,’ said Connie. ‘Or periods do that to you. I can never sleep like that any more. The young are so lucky.’

  ‘Oh, god,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Pizzas don’t take long. Come and meet Deb.’

  *

  I followed Connie into the front room. Deborah was standing by the mantelpiece. She was short, in her sixties, I thought, and her bright hard eyes gave little away. She was wearing a huge grey shawl, and her face was subservient to a pair of large green-framed glasses. Her hair was a tufty crop, sympathetically tinted, and she had a lot of expensive-looking perspex jewellery in assorted abstract shapes which hung round her neck and clicked on her fingers. She looked like an owl and was round like one too.

  ‘Deb, this is Laura. She’s my angel,’ said Connie.

  ‘Hello, Deborah,’ I said, moving towards her. I was still groggy, but realized I would have to think on my feet. ‘I’m Laura.’ I shook her hand.

  ‘The new assistant,’ said Deborah, looking up at me with a not particularly friendly smile. ‘Are you an angel, or a devil?’

  ‘Ignore her, Laura,’ said Connie.

  Deborah shook my hand and assayed my face closely. ‘Would both of you like a glass of champagne?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Connie.

  ‘No wonder Con likes you. Go on then,’ said Deborah. ‘Why not?’

  I left them and went to the kitchen to pour the champagne. I took a few deep breaths, leaning on the kitchen counter, and when I came back Deborah was still by the mantelpiece, unwinding the shawl from her body. ‘It’s such a giant thing!’ she said, billowing it out. ‘Like a bloody picnic blanket. Davy bought it for my birthday. The dog’ll only cover it in hairs.’ She folded it in a neat rectangle on the side of the sofa. Connie excused herself and the door to the understairs loo clicked shut.

  ‘How is she, then?’ Deborah said to me. ‘Hasn’t frightened you off yet?’

  I laughed. ‘Not at all. I love working for Connie. I’m very lucky.’

  ‘Connie thinks she’s the lucky one,’ said Deborah, sitting down with her glass of champagne. ‘The previous one only lasted a week, so you definitely have the magic touch.’

  ‘The previous one?’ I said.

  Deborah gave me a bland smile. I felt embarrassed, that I should be so naive to think I was the first of my kind, that because Laura’s life had begun the moment I crossed her threshold, so had Connie’s. Connie’s life had been lived many times over compared to mine, and Deborah’s words made me uneasy. I pictured a ghostly line of assistants past, lured in, all failing to live up to some undefined, impossible task.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Deborah with a wave of her hand. ‘You’re here and Con likes you. That’s all that matters. How did you find out about the position?’

  My heart began to pound. ‘I was sent here by my recruitment agency,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, yes. My assistant, Rebecca, was dealing with them.’

  ‘They said Connie needed some help around the house and with her work,’ I said quickly, in the hope she wouldn’t ask me what they were called, knowing there was one flimsy Gmail account between me and a police cell. The thought of not just having to explain my lies, but to push the spectre of my mother into the laps of these women, was too much to bear.

  ‘It’s so exciting that Connie’s writing a new novel,’ I said, desperate to change the course of our conversation. ‘After all this time.’

  ‘I know,’ said Deborah, frowning. ‘But her hands aren’t good.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. Deborah looked at me sharply. ‘She says it’s about responsibility.’

  Connie appeared again at the door. ‘What’s about responsibility?’

  ‘The Mercurial, apparently,’ said Deborah. ‘According to your angel.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Connie, sitting back down in her old armchair, as if she wasn’t about to break a thirty-year hiatus from publishing a word. ‘I told Laura that it’s about responsibility,’ she went on. ‘But that’s not all of it. I want to tell you the plot, Deb. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ said Deborah.

  ‘There’s a woman. There’s always a woman,’ said Connie, giving Deborah a wry look. ‘She’s called Margaret Gillespie.’

  ‘Good name,’ said Deborah, taking a judicious swig of champagne.

  ‘It’s London, 1626,’ said Connie. ‘Margaret’s husband is a devout Calvinist Puritan, so she sails with him to Massachusetts on a ship with their daughter, Christina. They join a colony there called Peabody. It’s a real place. But Margaret’s husband dies, and disease affects the entire colony, killing nearly half of it. She survives, as does Christina. Their life is hard. I wanted . . . dirt,’ Connie said, folding her arms, and tucking her hands away, even as she expanded upon her inner world. ‘They shouldn’t be there in the first place, of course. But the man who drove them there is gone and they don’t have the means to return. I wanted to write about what it means to love someone at the cost of yourself. Whether it’s a good thing. Whether it’s the point of everything. I think that propensity sometimes cripples Margaret. Love as difficulty. Now I don’t want to be predictable, and people will say I’m being predictable, but there’s an obnoxious presence.’

  ‘An obnoxious presence?’ I repeated.

  ‘The obstacle,’ said Connie. Her eyes were shining. ‘He’s a brute, under his guise of religious conviction. Davy Roper, Christina’s new husband.’

  ‘Davy?’ said Deborah. ‘That’s my son’s name, Con.’

  ‘I know,’ said Connie equably. ‘I liked it. You don’t mind?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ said Deborah, with a weariness in her voice that suggested she was quite used to this kind of thing.

  ‘Davy is a bomb for Margaret and Christina,’ Connie went on. ‘He’s a junior member of the colony elders, but he’s on the up. Behind closed doors, he beats and rapes Christina. He even tries to beat Margaret to keep her in line, because she doesn’t like the fact that he married her daughter. Margaret’s beginning to bridle at her isolated status as an unprotected widow, and she and Davy often lock horns. She always argues with her daughter about Davy. She wants Christina to leave him, but Christina won’t do it. Because Davy’s their veneer of respectability. Then he starts spreading rumours about Margaret, and people become suspicious.’

  ‘Why do they believe him?’ I said.

  Connie looked at me. ‘Why would they not? He’s one of the authorities. He’s a man. Margaret’s an outsider. And she’s a good cook,’ Connie went on. ‘Which means she’s good with herbs. So, Davy starts with his rhetoric. How did her husband really die? he asks the community. How did all the others in the colony really die? What are all those bits of dried bark and mushroom hanging in Margaret’s cabin? Is she flirting with the name of witch?’ Connie paused, taking a breath. ‘When Christina becomes pregnant,’ she said, ‘Margaret offers to her that she can get rid of the child if she doesn’t want it to have a life like they have under Davy. Christina decides she does not want the child. Margaret tries to help her. And then it all goes wrong.’

  There was a silence in the room. ‘What do you mean?’ Deborah said eventually.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Connie. ‘Everyone is always abandoning Margaret Gillespie. This is both her pleasure and her pain.’

  ‘What does Margaret do, Connie?’ said Deborah.

  ‘She makes an abortifacient for Christina,’ said Connie.

  Deborah swallowed the last of her champagne. ‘Right.’

  ‘Christina takes it, and it kills her,’ said Connie. Slowly, Deborah placed her champagne glass on the coffee table. ‘And so Margaret has to start again.’

  Sitting in this elegant living room in Hampstead, I felt an energy crackling into life: strange and cold and unfamiliar where all had been convivial. The hairs on the backs of my arms rose up, as if, in the corner, Margaret Gillespie
and her daughter were manifesting from almost imperceptible shadows into a solid shape.

  ‘Does . . . Margaret manage it?’ I asked.

  ‘Manage what?’ said Connie.

  ‘To start again?’

  She smiled. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

  ‘Is it fair to say that The Mercurial is a window onto difficult family dynamics?’ said Deborah. ‘Can I tell interested publishers that’s what the novel offers?’

  Connie wrinkled her nose. ‘That sounds diminishing, Deb. What about when a man writes about family? People don’t think he’s really talking about his family. If a man writes about hoovering dust from the carpet they think he’s talking about cleansing one’s soul. But when a woman does the same, she’s talking about the housework. This novel could be about the soul.’

  ‘I know,’ said Deb. ‘But—’

  ‘They think we’re incapable of making stuff up. Seeing the bigger picture – when actually we’ve had to be the best liars in town, the best impersonators.’

  I choked on my champagne and Connie turned to me. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I could hardly bear to look at her.

  ‘All right,’ said Deborah with a touch of exasperation. ‘I won’t be saying it’s a window onto the nature of family. Although I do believe there’s nothing wrong with writing about family.’

  ‘Of course there isn’t,’ said Connie. ‘Except the way it’s received.’

  Deborah lifted her empty glass off the table and we clinked glasses, toasting Connie’s novel. ‘I’d better check on the pizza,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Connie. ‘All homemade, Deb. Do you know, Laura made the base.’ She widened her eyes, as if I’d split the atom.

  Deborah raised her glass in my direction, her face mask-like. ‘Congratulations,’ she said.

  *

  I was dying to go back, to eavesdrop on what they were talking about in my absence, but I focused on putting all the toppings on the pizza, throwing together a salad, and laying the table. This done, I tiptoed quietly along the corridor and waited outside the door. They were talking in low, insistent voices.

  ‘Do you really want to drag all that up again?’ Deborah was saying.

  I felt my jaw go slack. I closed my eyes, willing the floorboards not to give me away.

  ‘It’s just a novel, Deb,’ Connie said. ‘My business is to bridge reality with the presentation of reality. The important thing is what the bridge looks like, how it feels underfoot, where it takes us. Not why I in particular am the builder.’

  ‘Con, I’m not stupid.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Deb.’ Connie seemed to hesitate. ‘You never did.’

  There was a pause. ‘You think I don’t recognize where this has all come from?’ said Deborah.

  ‘It’s fiction,’ said Connie, an edge to her voice. ‘Did everybody think Charlotte Brontë had been locked up in a red room when she was nine years old? That she secretly wanted to marry a sociopath who kept his first wife in an attic?’

  They fell to silence. I could hear the fire crackle in the grate. ‘You never meant any harm, Con,’ Deborah said eventually.

  Connie was still silent, and Deborah made a puffing sound of impatience. ‘You don’t know all of it,’ Connie said.

  ‘I was there. Half of it was in your head, Con. In your head. I know it was a bad time, but he never blamed you. No one did. So why should you blame yourself?’

  My heart began to pound. Was Deborah talking about my dad? The thought that Connie might be putting my mother in her new novel – and I might be the one to type it up, was unbearable yet irresistible. I bunched fists up to stop my hands from shaking.

  ‘He didn’t know the half of it, Deb. But if he had, he’d have blamed me.’

  ‘Well, everyone had a part to play. Including him. Con, you were too hard on yourself. You didn’t write for so long and it was such a waste. What’s changed?’

  Connie sighed. ‘The fact that in a year or two I might not even be able to write my bloody name? Fiction doesn’t put anything right, but at least it tries.’

  ‘And now you’ve got this new girl in, getting her involved—’

  ‘Laura’s wonderful,’ said Connie. On hearing those words, I felt so guilty. I was not wonderful. I had invaded Connie’s house in the search for my mother. I was here for Elise, not Connie. And yet, hearing Connie say those words, I couldn’t help feeling a rush of affection for her. Connie had seen value in me – or a version of me, at least. I wanted to cry.

  ‘What are her qualifications?’ said Deborah.

  ‘She’s got a degree. She’s travelled, taught – she’s been to Costa Rica.’

  ‘But what does she get out of being here?’ Deborah persisted.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Deb. Not everyone has an ulterior motive. She needed a job. She wanted a change. I think she’s had a difficult time. A bright girl like her, working in a coffee shop.’

  ‘Oh, you and your girls with their difficult times. They fall at your feet and look where it leads you. I’m sorry. It’s just – I care about you, Con. I want you to be all right.’

  ‘I’m running out of time, Deb. One more story.’

  Deborah exhaled: a long, drawn-out sigh of someone who has spent her whole life dealing with unorthodox, stubborn people. Shaken, exhilarated, I tiptoed slowly and silently down the corridor. Then I retraced my steps – loudly, this time, so the women could easily hear me. I went in and announced that in ten minutes the pizza would be ready.

  *

  They said nothing more of interest once I was in the room with them. Deborah made small talk and Connie was little more than monosyllabic. The evening felt ruined.

  ‘Would you say The Mercurial is finished?’ said Deborah.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ said Connie.

  ‘Who’s going to type it all up? I presume it’s in longhand.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. I turned to Connie. ‘I’ll type it up.’

  ‘My handwriting’s appalling,’ said Connie.

  ‘I’m the patient type.’

  Connie smiled. ‘I’ll call you the patient typist.’

  ‘OK,’ said Deborah. ‘When Laura’s finished typing up the manuscript, we’ll be good to go. Everyone at Artemis Press who worked on your books has long gone, Connie. Which means we could go anywhere. There’s no contract. Could be a completely new approach. There’s a lot playing in your favour. People think of you as an icon. You are an icon. This is the long-awaited third novel from a literary genius who hid away.’

  ‘Oh god,’ said Connie.

  ‘But also the market’s very different from when we were starting out, Con. Publishers are different. You’ll have to be prepared for that. So will I.’ Deborah pushed her glasses onto her head. ‘After you called me about this, I did mention that you were writing a novel to a select few. You know, to get them excited. Word spread as it always does, and I’ve had interest from a couple of film producers to look at the manuscript. One at Paramount and one at Silvercrest.’

  ‘Silvercrest,’ Connie said. ‘You went to Silvercrest?’

  ‘I didn’t go to them, Con. I just said. They called me.’

  But Connie looked furious. I had no idea why having the interest of one of the most famous movie studios in the world would be so enraging.

  ‘Let’s just get the manuscript typed up, and finished, and see what they say, eh?’ said Deborah placatingly.

  ‘Just not Silvercrest.’

  ‘All right.’ Deborah chewed her lip. ‘Georgina Hyatt might be interested in this book,’ she said.

  ‘Who the hell’s Georgina Hyatt?’ said Connie.

  ‘She’s an editor at Griffin Books. A little older than you, Laura. She’d love this. She’s a huge fan of yours, Con.’

  ‘I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing,’ said Connie.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, this one’s different.’ Connie paused. ‘Do y
ou think people will actually be interested in this?’ she said. ‘Will people actually want it?’

  ‘Of course, Con. I know they will.’

  ‘I just don’t want to be one of those poor bloody women resurrected as a “forgotten masterpiece”. It’s this awful sort of righteous kid-glovery. A book’s qualities are never elevated by the word “forgotten”. It makes it seem like it’s your fault, as if you deserved obsolescence in the first place.’

  ‘Tell that to the forgotten women,’ said Deborah.

  *

  Deborah did not stay for pudding: she claimed she had to get home to take the dog for a walk. I offered to see her out. She and I stood on the doorstep as Connie pottered in the kitchen, gingerly trying to load the dishwasher. It felt as if Deborah and I were both waiting for the sound of a smashing plate.

  ‘Her hands really aren’t good,’ murmured Deborah.

  ‘I know.’

  She pulled the front door almost closed. ‘Over the years, Connie’s had a lot of girls and women drawn to her,’ she said. ‘It’s a Plath thing.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Except Connie made it through alive, of course. Instead of visiting a grave, these women want to get into her life. Are you one of them?’

  Even as I was taken aback by her forthrightness, I was so tempted to ask Deborah whether one of those girls was called Elise Morceau. Had my mother been lured into Connie’s orbit, or had it been the other way round? Who had fallen first? And was I one of those girls too? Not here for romantic reasons, but still desirous nevertheless to peel back the layers of Connie’s life, hoping to find my mother underneath.

  ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I just wanted an interesting job.’

  Deborah sighed. ‘Fine. You know, when she was writing the last time, she wasn’t always easy to deal with. She didn’t like talking to journalists, and I don’t see why that would be any different now.’

  ‘Why didn’t she like it?’ I said, feigning concern in order to seize my chance. ‘Won’t they just be delighted she’s back?’

  Deborah looked uncomfortable. ‘They like to fill gaps with their own stories. Connie’s not a recluse. She just wants to live privately. But the more she hid away the more they wanted to sniff her out.’