‘Hello? Tom, you still there?’
He could still hear Anna talking on the other end of the line, but she seemed far, far away. He couldn't do it, could he? It was thoroughly reprehensible, morally repugnant, potentially unforgiveable.
He smiled thinly.
Who was he kidding?
He met up with Roddy that evening at the multiplex on Renfrew Street. It wouldn't have been Tom's first choice, but Roddy had insisted. Roddy had a soft spot for the more mainstream Hollywood offering, especially if it hung on some improbable high concept—sharks in space; the president's a time-travelling robot—or it was part of a series whose sequels had reached upper single digits.
‘I can't believe you actually pay to watch this crap.’
Tom clutched two twelve-ounce Cokes, one of which he could feel leaking stickily over his hand. He looked on with undisguised disgust as Roddy chuted an assortment of synthetic looking pick ‘n’ mix sweets from their hatchery tanks into a cavernous bag.
‘One,’ said Roddy, raising a finger. ‘Don't dismiss Werewolf House 6: This Time It's Were-sonal! until you've seen it, you snobby git. And two. You paid.’ He grinned. ‘Compensation for the benefit of my about-to-be-imparted sage advice.’ Roddy gestured to a shovel laden with yellow and white rubbery sweets. ‘D'you like Fried Eggs?’
‘I'm not eating your disgusting Pick ‘n’ Mix.’
‘OK. What about white chocolate-y mouse things?’
‘Put them back.’
‘But they're so sugary and delicious.’
‘Roddy …’
‘OK, OK. Jeez.’ He closed his eyes, weighed the bag in his hand, went back for another scoop of sour fizzy dummies and waited. Tom realised after a minute that he expected him to pay. Grumbling, he put down the drinks and took out his wallet.
‘What's French for Pick ‘n’ Mix?’ asked Roddy.
‘There is no word in French for this nutritional tragedy.’
Roddy took a long pull on his Coke and smacked his lips. ‘So, what was it you wanted to ask me, Grasshopper?’
Tom manoeuvred him away from the growing line of people, vaguely aware of the surprising number of them eagerly queuing for such a terrible movie franchise. In a low voice he said, ‘I have a problem I believe may be suited to your particular talents.’
‘Top Trumps and badminton?’
Tom was in no mood for jokes. Especially not bad jokes. Which didn't bode well for the looming film experience. He took a deep breath and launched into his plan.
‘Let's say a miserable writer, through the supreme efforts of her publisher, becomes successful and happy. Are you listening?’
Roddy was watching a couple of pretty teenage girls swing past in cut-off shorts up to their bum cheeks. The first girl flicked her blonde highlights in his general direction.
‘Hello, sir.’
‘Amber, Roxanne,’ said Roddy, acknowledging them with a look of cold terror.
‘Out on a school night, sir?’ she said teasingly.
‘This your boyfriend, sir?’ added her friend, thumbing at Tom.
The girls sloped off in giggles through the double doors that led to one of the auditoriums and some movie that they were, on the basis of their interaction with Roddy, about three years too young to see.
‘Say nothing and keep very still—you don't want to antagonise them.’
Tom sighed. ‘Can we get back to my dilemma?’
‘OK, OK. Miserable writer becomes successful and happy—I get it. And?’
‘And being happy she is unable to complete her latest miserable novel. So, in order to help her, the selfless publisher embarks on a course of action to return her to the fragile mental state in which she wrote her highly profitable debut.’
He finished his explanation and looked expectantly at Roddy. His friend mulled over the speech in silence, his thought process evidently aided by chewing a handful of jelly beans.
‘Let me get this right. You want to make Jane Lockhart's life a misery so she'll finish writing her book?’
Tom nodded, gratified not only that his friend had cottoned on to the plan with such alacrity, but moreover that he hadn't reacted with deep moral outrage. At least not yet.
‘That is seriously messed up,’ said Roddy. ‘Do they teach you this stuff in France?’
Tom shrugged. ‘We study a broad curriculum.’
‘You are a deeply warped individual, you do know that?’
‘She'll get over it—she got over me fast enough.’ This was going even better than expected. ‘Now, let's talk about the details. Clearly, it is not practical to have Coldplay on wherever she goes, or force her to sit through an endless loop of Lars von Trier films. So, how do you make someone completely, totally miserable?’
The movie was about to begin. Roddy explained that he couldn't possibly devote mental resources to Tom's question during the imminent werewolf hijinks, but promised to think about it when he was less busy, say when he was teaching the following week.
‘Shall we take our seats?’ said Roddy primly. ‘I believe I hear the bell for the commencement of the first act.’
Reluctantly, Tom followed him inside the auditorium. As they passed through the doors Tom experienced a fleeting pang of guilt at the course of action he was now embarked upon. He reminded himself that Jane wanted to finish her novel as much as he wanted her to finish it; in a way he was lending her a helping hand. Thankfully, any further feelings of compunction were lobotomised by two hours and twenty minutes of werewolf-on-cheerleader action.
It was the middle of the week when Tom rocked up to the West End secondary school where Roddy was substituting. His battered car grumbled across the tarmac, wheezing past a square of artificial turf that served as a games pitch, before collapsing outside the main building in a bay marked Deputy Head. He spent the next few minutes attracting the attention of half the school by repeatedly slamming the driver's door in a futile attempt to lock it. Across the glass-fronted building windows swung open and curious heads craned out to see who or what was making such a racket.
‘Hey!’ A familiar voice hailed him from a second-floor window. ‘Up here,’ called Roddy, gesticulating wildly. ‘Wait there. I'll be right down.’
When he arrived a few minutes later, Tom was already in the entrance foyer, having been buzzed inside the building by a helpful pupil, despite the proliferation of notice-boards plastered with dire warnings about stranger danger and online grooming.
‘So, what have you got for me?’ asked Tom.
‘It's nice to see you too,’ huffed Roddy.
‘Roddy, I don't have time …’
‘OK, OK. Walk with me. I've a few minutes before Wordsworth.’
They headed across the brightly lit entrance and up a central staircase. Endless corridors thronged with pupils moving between classes. They parted for the grim-faced Tom like shoals of fish before a predator.
‘I still don't know why you asked me to help you make Jane's life a misery,’ whispered Roddy as he led them through the library. Inquisitive faces peered out from behind homework books. ‘I've dedicated the last ten years to encouraging young minds, planting hope and aspiration—’
Suddenly, he turned and barked at a small boy with a shifty expression and a permanent marker. ‘Benson, put it away! Stand in the corner! Face to the wall!’ Then muttered under his breath, ‘Little shite.’
When he looked back at Tom, it was with a sheepish air. ‘OK, so maybe I have some experience in the field …’
Roddy's classroom was filling up. Students wandered about the fluorescent room, thumbs flying over their phones as they dispatched breathless texts, probably to each other. Some girls sat on desks, swinging their legs and chatting loudly. Several boys occupied windowsills, heads buried in their mobiles, shooting up aliens (which was at least preferable to just shooting up). The only places not being used for seating were the chairs.
Roddy slid behind his desk and rooted through a pile of books. Shooing away a surly
schoolgirl perched on one corner, Tom occupied her vacated spot.
‘So I've given it some thought and I have an idea,’ said Roddy, examining the book spines. ‘There's no point just shouting at her. You've done that. She just shouts back.’
It was true. Jane stood up to him in a way few of his authors ever did. It was a quality in her that he admired, even though it undercut his most potent weapon.
‘Jane is a writer,’ Roddy continued, ‘so the trick is not simply to upset her. You have to get her in the right mood. Ah-ha!’
He tapped the cover and raised an eyebrow. ‘See?’
Tom scowled as he saw what he was holding. ‘Yes, I see. I see Keats. John Keats.’
‘Just listen, will you?’
‘What's the point?’ Tom asked. ‘Your plan involves actual poetry. I think by definition that makes it a shit plan.’
‘You're not getting it,’ said Roddy. ‘It's a special kind of misery you want. Melancholy. That dull sense of dissociation and alienation that's the source of every artist's creativity. It's like drain unblocker for novelists.’
Tom was on the point of launching into another tirade when he paused. Melancholy. Hmm.
‘You know what, that actually makes sense.’ He congratulated himself on his foresight at choosing Roddy to help him with his delicate mission. ‘Yes, very nice. I see where you're coming from.’ A plan was already forming as he made his way to the door and out into the corridor.
Just then the buzzer sounded and Roddy attempted to shepherd his class into their assigned places. ‘Settle down, you lot, settle down.’ He opened another book of poetry. ‘William Wordsworth.’
The class gave a collective groan. Roddy stared them down until they had occupied their seats and some semblance of order had fallen over proceedings.
‘Wordsworth was, of course, the first of the Romantics to use a MacBook Pro …’
By the time Tom reached his car he had settled on a course of action. He knew Jane intimately. Knew what mattered to her. Knew precisely how to get under her skin.
‘One melancholy writer,’ he announced with unconcealed glee, ‘coming up.’
CHAPTER 11
‘Ten Days of Rain’, Rod Stewart, 1986, WEA Records
RAIN FELL ON the headstones, it bounced off the roofs of the grand Victorian mausoleums and puddled on the path that wound through the cemetery. Jane and her dad sheltered on a bench beneath the outstretched stone wing of an angel.
‘Coffee cake?’
She popped the lid on a plastic box containing two fat slices.
‘That was your mum's favourite,’ said Benny with a sad smile.
‘I know,’ Jane said quietly, passing him a slice.
‘Come to think of it, she was a big supporter of cake in general.’ He took a bite. ‘That's lovely, that is. I'm just amazed you have time to do all this baking when you're so busy writing.’
Guiltily, she looked away. ‘Mum always made a cake for my birthday.’
Benny nodded fondly, tilting his head as a memory returned to him. ‘D'you remember when you were six—you, me and your ma went to Edinburgh Zoo for your treat?’
‘I remember.’
‘Monkeys threw rotten fruit out the cage and I slipped on it,’ he added rather less fondly. ‘Fractured my foot in three places. I swear those monkeys were laughing.’
‘Yeah, I remember all of it,’ she said quietly.
Benny shot her a sideways glance. ‘It's in your book, isn't it?’
‘Well, yes, the main character does go to the zoo with her dad, but he's not you, and they're not monkeys, they're penguins.’
Benny lowered his coffee cake and frowned. ‘How do penguins throw fruit?’
‘It's different. It's a story, not real life. They're not the same.’
‘Whatever you say, darlin’,’ he said, unconvinced, then mumbled, ‘Damn monkeys.’
It was the first time they'd visited her mum's grave together. Jane had made the cake intending to leave a slice on her grave. She'd seen Schindler's List and knew that Jewish people left stones instead of flowers; and, really, was a slice of cake so profane? Her mum always appreciated a good bake. But when it came to it and she'd been standing over the headstone she felt foolish and wished she'd brought flowers like her dad.
‘So how's the new book coming along?’
‘It's …’ She struggled for the right word. Seemed she'd spent the last week failing to find the right word. ‘… cooking.’
‘And Tommy?’
Her dad's familiarity with her soon-to-be-former publisher was a hot button. ‘Don't call him that. His name is Thomas Duval. He's from Saint-Tropez. A place they named a fake tan after. You call him Tommy you make him sound like he's from here. Like he's … normal. With his “pah” and his stupid stubbly face. See a lot of Thomas Duvals round here?’
Benny considered the question for a moment. ‘There was a Jean-Claude Darcheville played for Rangers.’
‘Forget about Tom. I'm about to sign with a new publisher. Klinsch & McLeish—y'know? With the red and white covers?’
‘I liked Tommy … Tom,’ he corrected himself swiftly.
‘Da–ad!’
‘Well, I did. No one else wanted your wee book, did they? He showed faith in you.’
‘No, he showed faith in my book. You know he changed my original title?’
‘Was it a good title?’
Oops. How had that happened? She really didn't want to tell him her original title. Tom had inadvertently saved her from that conversation and she had no inclination to open it up now. ‘That's not the point.’
‘So what was it? The original title?’
‘Uh … nothing. It doesn't matter.’
He sidled along the bench. ‘No, go on. I like hearing the stuff no one else knows. Makes me feel, y'know, closer to you.’ He looked at her with imploring eyes.
She swallowed, knowing in that instant that she'd backed herself into a corner. That she would have to tell him now.
‘OK, but … OK. I was going to call it …’ She took a deep breath. It'd be all right; she'd explain and he'd understand and they'd laugh about it. Hahaha. ‘The Endless Anguish of My Father,’ she blurted.
Jane looked down at the ground, then up at the rain running off the end of the stone feathers, anywhere to avoid her dad's face. He was quiet. That was promising. Perhaps it wasn't such a big—
‘For fuck's sake!’ He strode out onto the wet path. The rain beat down on his balding head. ‘Endless Anguish of My Father … I knew it. I knew it was about me.’
‘No, that's not how—He's a character I made up.’
‘The folk at my work looked at me funny when it came out. God, I'm such an idiot.’ He turned his back on her and began to walk away. ‘I have to get back to the depot.’
Jane felt a nudge of guilt that was instantly swept away by indignation. ‘You never read it,’ she said. ‘You're not allowed to be hurt until you've actually read the damn thing! D'you not think I'm hurt my own dad hasn't read my novel?’
He stopped walking. She could see his shoulders heave as he tried to breathe some control back into his body, but he was stung by the criticism, trapped in his rage, and for now it had the better of him.
‘I will read it,’ he snapped. ‘Soon as I'm over my anguish.’ And with that he stalked off along the path, quickly vanishing amongst the statues and the rain.
Willie had gone out for his usual afternoon run, leaving Jane alone in her flat with her thoughts.
And her main character.
Darsie sat on the edge of the kitchen counter, dangling her legs, drinking her way steadily through a large glass of red wine. Jane checked on an apple strudel she'd been making. She peered into the oven. The key was the pastry; according to the recipe it had to be brittle yet yielding. It had been in for thirty minutes and was just starting to turn golden brown.
Darsie glugged down a mouthful of wine.
‘Is it not a bit early for that?’ Jane asked ge
ntly.
‘It's not my fault I'm an alcoholic,’ said Darsie. ‘You wrote me like this.’ She drained the glass and reached for the bottle.
Jane snatched it away. ‘You're not an alcoholic. You're a binge drinker. You only drink when you're unhappy.’
Darsie stared mournfully at the out of reach bottle. ‘I'm unhappy a lot.’
‘Yeah.’ Jane felt bad about that. On the page Darsie Baird was one thing, a character she could put through the grinder without misgiving. But sitting here in her kitchen, drinking her New Zealand Shiraz, large as life, Darsie posed a moral quandary. Every indignity Jane had subjected her to in the novel provoked a pang of conscience.
‘Can we talk about your book?’ asked Darsie.
Jane perked up. This was progress. She felt sure the mental aberration that manifested itself in the form of her main character was inextricably bound to her new novel. Perhaps she could talk her—it—out of existence.
‘Yes. Let's talk about the book.’
‘I was wondering. The way you write about Glasgow, it comes across as kind of a miserable place. When I'm walking through the streets it's always raining, the people are grey and beaten, but I've been out here two weeks now and I've got to tell you, this is a dead nice town. Most of the people I've seen are well fed, if they're not driving convertibles then they're out walking in parks, which, by the way, are beautiful—and I haven't seen a single deep-fried Mars bar. Not one.’
‘I'm depicting the real Glasgow.’
‘I don't know, that other stuff seemed pretty real to me. Have you seen that new Spanish deli on Byres Road? The Serrano ham looked melt-in-the-mouth. Y'know that bit in your novel where I'm running through the derelict housing estate being chased by a pack of feral kids with their dogs?’
‘Yes?’
‘Maybe, instead of that, I could go to the Spanish deli and buy some nice ham.’
‘I don't think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don't write about delis.’
‘No. You don't.’
‘I write about the other side,’ said Jane sharply. ‘The non-Serrano ham eating Glasgow.’
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