As if knowing I was her father—knowing I was that particular pathetic, uncommunicative shit—would make her feel she ought to like me.
Christ, do nothing, do something: either way, I’m fucked. Like life.
“Nathan.”
Well, look, Mary, I’ve been meaning to tell you, although this is not a good time . . . He blinked at her, stunned by the sudden clarity of the sentences in his head. Beneath the fog of too much Scotch, circumstances were rapidly swirling together to suggest how simple all of this might be. He was far too, far too drunk. “Well, look, Mary, I’ve—”
“Nathan, Lynda’s here. Did you know?”
He blinked again, all the sensible parts of his brain apparently now engaged in a spin cycle of some sort: then a hot-water rinse, another spin—perhaps the first signs of incipient beef poisoning. “Lynda?” And, knowing this would sound imbecilic, he parroted on all the same, “Lynda? Lynda Dowding? That Lynda?”
Yes, that Lynda, of course, that Lynda—blowjob Lynda. Not that she actually blew. Or, for that matter, sucked. And here I am, attempting to even begin to pretend that there might be another one. I have all the moral fibre of a rusty paper clip.
“She didn’t tell you she was coming back?”
He couldn’t work out how Mary was feeling about this development: angry, wounded, jealous, sad? Then again, he wasn’t sure how he felt: shabby, humiliated, embarrassed, ashamed? He was blushing, he realised, while she was only serious, almost blank.
“Nathan? You haven’t seen her tonight?”
“No.” He sounded grotesquely defensive. “I haven’t at all. I didn’t expect to.” Protesting, way too much. “We were never really . . .” Nathan could feel Mary staring him down, but now that his mouth had started, it wouldn’t stop. “Despite the, uh . . . appearances, we weren’t close. That, um, evening was out of character for us both and came”—he tried not to falter at the choice of verb—“to nothing. I don’t . . .” This was the important bit, though, the point where he’d redeem himself, say the right and useful thing. “I would never have that kind of relationship with anyone out on the island. There are people there I care about . . . immensely. But not in that way.”
Good man, yourself, Nathan Staples. Good man.
He winced up in time to see Mary look away, approaching a smile. “I’d hate to see what you do to the people you do care about in that way.”
“Now, you—” He scrubbed at his forehead with one hand. “I can’t tell you how hideously . . . I was so . . .” She bumped him with her shoulder. “Ashamed.” He turned again and, this time, faced her.
She nudged him again to shut him up, apparently, or as a consolation. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Now she looked away, the almost smile fading. “Everybody gets lonely.”
“But I wasn’t—”
“And I know how they feel. There’s nothing like a party to make you feel bereft, hm?” She studied the middle distance, the finally thinning crowd, “I still miss—” gave Nathan a beat to brace before he had to hear her say a name and then, “I still miss Jonathan, really. That’s who I miss.”
Which, thank you, puts me in my place.
Not that it shouldn’t. Not that I would have this any other way.
He tried a small nudge of his own. “I am sorry. It doesn’t seem to be widely understood that being solitary, without other people, can be a very pleasant thing. Being without only one person, the one person you need is . . . well, anyway.”
They fought to reposition themselves and hug.
Please don’t resemble me so much. Get into the way of being happy. Please.
Somebody stepped on his heel in passing.
She feels . . . not thinner, because she isn’t thinner, but harder. That’s the way you get when you worry, when you are sad.
He wanted to kiss her but didn’t. A stumbling weight knocked them in passing and they parted, both smiling in the way they might have if they’d been woken from a pleasant nap.
“Oh, and I’m—” She brushed something from his shoulder, made him flinch. “I’m . . .”
“You’re?”
“All right, well, now I’ve started to say it—I’m writing a novel. I know it’s a stupid idea, but I am and you can’t stop me so don’t try.”
Now he did kiss her, just caught her ear. “Congratulations. I wouldn’t dream of stopping you. About time, in fact.”
“About time? You mean you don’t mind?”
“Why would I be anything other than delighted?”
“You complete bastard.”
She prodded his arm in mock outrage, while he shook his head, breathless with joy.
“Yes, you are, you are a complete bastard. I had to get this drunk to tell you and you don’t even bloody mind.”
“If,” he clasped his hands against her arms, the moment quavering about him, “if I were your father, I would be more proud of you than I could say. Speaking for myself—as long as you’re not going to cough up some dreadful saga, or a whodunnit, or anything remotely approaching the bilious nonsense I write—I am pleased that my tutoring has brought you to this point.”
“Oh, so it was nothing to do with me.”
“You’re too young and inexperienced to understand the very subtle and elegant support I’ve offered you.”
“Deluded old bastard.” She shook him off, but then clasped his hand.
And he wished she hadn’t. The fucking heat and all the rigours of the night must have left his touch indistinguishable from that of a cow’s tongue. Sure enough, she let him go quite quickly. “Well, I’d better have another trot round—just to show them. This weird man came up and said he’d read my stories. You believe it?”
“These things happen. Did he try to chat you up?”
“I don’t know what he was trying. He gave me his card.”
“Come and get me if he gives you any bother.” He stroked her shoulder before she began to glare. “Any bother you don’t wish to deal with yourself.” She nodded, independence satisfied, and nodded once more—see you later—but he caught her gently back. “And, as far as the novel goes, I will tell you the only thing you need to know.”
“When we’ll both forget it in the morning. Good move.” She grinned, but then leaned in to hear him, hungry.
I cannot help but notice that she does always want to know what I have to say. My girl.
“No, no. We’ll remember this. Listen to it.”
“Listen to it? To what?”
“No. Listen to it. Any piece of writing, but especially something as large as a novel can be, will have the power to tell you what it wants to be. Each word will have a say in each word that comes after. Nine times out of ten, your work knows how to go forward far better than you. So listen, have respect, don’t fight. Rule Five.”
“How many Rules are there?”
“Don’t be so cheeky. Listen to it. Rule Five.”
“Pompous, deluded old bastard.”
“Less of the old. Now, then, where was I . . . Yes. Looking for that fucker Jack.”
Nathan burrowed his way serenely up the next flight of stairs, every inch the quality father and proud, proud man.
“Jack.” He was much plumper than Mary remembered.
Even the bags under his eyes are looking fatter. Funny—he’s got wonderful posture and really not bad legs, but everything else is buggered.
“Jack. You remember me. Mary?”
He narrowed his eyes and eased into a vulpine smirk. “Couldn’t forget you, dear girl. If you keep kissing Nathan in public places, by the way, certain parties will get the impression that you’re in lust. That particular titbit reached me before you did.” His expression cleared, sobered for a few unnerving seconds, and he seemed to search her face. “Not that you are in lust, or in love with him. That wouldn’t be quite the thing, would it?”
“No. Of course not.”
J.D. winked sympathetically and sank back into his favourite persona— jovially ma
lign and erudite lush. In either guise, he seemed slightly forbidding, as usual.
I never think he’ll be good to talk to, but—in the end—he always is. At least, he’s funny, anyway. J. D. Grace—the consistently pleasant surprise. He wouldn’t want that to get around.
“Did anyone happen to tell you I’m writing a novel?”
His attention surfaced gratifyingly for a moment. Then he decided he’d rather be uninterested. “My dear, everyone’s doing that. I’m even contemplating it myself. I’ve done it before, after all—about halfway through the Precambrian period.”
But I’m really going to do it. Not just talk about doing it.
Jack drawled on. “That passed-over journalist there: writing a novel; that man who was raped in his teenage years and just has to tell us all about it: writing a novel; that heavily pregnant doxy: writing a novel; and an alleged Estonian pimp and child molester who will appear in an alleged translation, as arranged by that smack-head agent over there: writing a novel; writing a novel, one and all.” He squinted at her, testing her patience, then relaxed. “Of course, none of their novels will be any good. Whereas, with yours one never knows . . .”
Mary thought it best to change the subject. “Nathan’s looking for you.”
“Good for him. If he finds me, come and let me know.” He reached out urgently for the piano, found its side and held on. “Unsteady spasm, there—not to fret. Talking of Nathan—did you know that, on paper, he never lies?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Absolute fact—if you ask him to write something down he will be unable to tell you anything but the truth. It makes his letters very interesting. And rare.”
“And short, I would think.”
“That, too. But very precious also.” J.D. beckoned her closer and then covered his mouth with his hand before murmuring, “Don’t mention I told you. He might not like it. But do bear it in mind. Nathan means what he writes. He’s like . . .” J.D. shuffled back a pace and coughed to his side, paused, apparently wary of ill effects, coughed again and frowned. “I’m terribly sorry to say that I shall have to cut along.” His voice sounded thick and preoccupied. “I do apologise.”
He marched past her, sweat soaked through the back of his linen jacket and bright on his neck.
“Jack Grace.” Nathan was still getting nowhere with his interrupted search. “Jack Grace?” Half the people he asked didn’t even answer him. “Has he left?” Ignorant fucks.
Oh, bugger it, I don’t even care any more, why should they ? I’m tired, I want a shower, and I want to be the fuck out of here. And Jack can take care of himself—none of my business. Right now, he is most likely off having no trace of conscience about things I can’t even consider considering—lucky shit.
Jack Grace, you amoral bastard, I, Nathan Staples, loose you and let you go. You have my full permission to be somewhere else, enjoying I will not contemplate exactly what.
Meanwhile, I will go home and be very happy about my daughter. I’ll just ask Mary if she’s ready to go. Not that she has to leave with me. We needn’t be inseparable. Not all the time.
As he’d half-expected, once Nathan started searching for Mary, her whereabouts became suddenly obscure. And, it was true, not many of the guests were really sure of who she was.
We’ll change all that, though. She will, anyway. In the end, she’ll have every one of them gagging to meet her.
The thought of literary London, gagging en masse, proved slightly less beguiling than he’d have liked and he decided he’d adjourn to the gentleman’s room to freshen himself up—lighten the load. It had been a long night.
The charcoal marble around the sinks showed signs of having served as a surface for assembling neat, small lines of fine powder. Nathan doused his face and was about to move over and stand himself in a stall when he heard what he’d been looking for.
“Aoh, shit.” This was followed by a retching cough, “Hoagain,” and then a more earnest splash of matter, more coughing, the cistern beginning to flush.
“Is that you? Jack? You all right?”
“Bastard.” It was definitely Jack, only he could lend those two syllables their absolute, perfect weight. A sigh ensued and a scramble of feet.
“It’s Nathan. Are you all right?”
J. D. Grace emerged from the cubicle blinking, his chin stringy with dark saliva, his face wet. He had completely undone his bow tie. “Oh, God, it is you. I thought you were some kind of auditory hallucination.” Waving Nathan away, he made quite coherently for the sinks. “Keep back. I’m unpleasant at the moment.” He dashed the basin full of cold water, braced his arms to either side and then pressed his face down into it, surfacing finally with a walrus sneeze of breath. “Christ, I think I’m getting gastric flu, or something. It’s this bloody heat. Good to see you, by the way. Excuse me for not shaking hands.”
Nathan shrugged his head in dispensation and watched as Jack let the sink drain and then gingerly sluiced his mouth at the tap. The first ejected mouthful of water was grainy brown, thickened with purplish matter. By the end of the process, the liquid was pinkly clear with the odd translucent streak of red.
“Jack,” Nathan eased forward, rested one hand at Jack’s clammy shoulder, “are you bleeding?”
“Mm.” J.D. smiled narrowly and shivered off Nathan’s touch. “It’s nothing unusual—someone took a couple of my teeth out. They haven’t quite healed. It’s a bit of a trial, throwing up across open sockets.” He started a grin, covering his mouth with his hand before it could break. “Sorry. Even a man of your tastes probably didn’t want to know that, hm?”
“I could quite probably have done without it, yes. But what do you mean by someone—a dentist, I hope?”
“As it happens, not exactly a dentist, no—but a good man, all the same. Mary tells me she’s starting a novel . . .”
“Don’t change the subject. What’s going on?”
“Nothing alarming, I promise. And I will explain, old Sport, but not tonight. I’m not entirely feeling at my best and it will make for a long and rather nasty story. Some other time.”
“Will I take you home?”
“No, you will not. Go and be paternal to your daughter, if you want to indulge your caretaking instincts. And then how about you writing a novel—I mean a real one? The one you keep promising. I can’t wait for ever.”
Nathan slid his hands to either side of Jack’s face—the skin of J.D.’s cheeks was remarkably soft, almost feminine, but very chill. “Look me in the eye, will you, Jacky.”
“Ooh dear, he’s calling me Jacky—pet names, not a good sign.”
“Look me in the eye.”
Jack conceded, completed the look, his pupils hungrily wide. “And . . . ?”
“You’re not going to die on me, are you?”
He swallowed. “Of course not.”
“You’re quite sure about that.”
“Yes.” Jack shook his head gently against Nathan’s grip. “Come on now, Nathan. We should hail our respective cabs and get home.”
“Because it would be much less pleasant to work without you.”
“Hm, well.” His lips stayed closed across a short, wincing smile. They met each other’s gaze again. “I’m quite sure I won’t be shuffling off for a good while yet. No need for worry, there. I promise.”
“Never trust an editorial promise.”
“That wasn’t editorial, that was me.” He clasped Nathan’s wrists. “You can let go now.”
“Don’t you dare waste yourself, Jack.”
“I fucking won’t. OK? So don’t you waste yourself, either. Write me a book.”
“All right. All right.”
Nothing further to say, they stood, still holding each other, for perhaps half a minute more until a slim young man in a repellent velvet suit walked in on them. They separated quickly, with a kind of tender shame.
Under Mary’s hands, the dough was turning, as she’d been told it should, towards the consistency
and temperature of human skin. Behind her, the open doorway was breathless, curtained with warping air.
It’s finally happened, the island has been so hot for so long that the whole place is just going to melt down and vitrify into something weird. As if today isn’t weird enough. All change, that’s what today is, all change.
Off in the distance, grass hollows flickered, heat-silvered. Reality seemed to be growing a kind of somnolent, fluxing intelligence, while she jolted the bread into properly textured life. Sitting outside, against the wall, Ruth and Lynda were talking, sipping root vegetable wine: their respective personalities, apparently liquefied and waxing into each other, transfusing. Ruth talked about sex, while Lynda did not. Lynda talked about sharks, while Ruth did not.
“He was one huge flex after another, so unremitting and precise. I remember his fin dragging up beneath the surface for a moment, barely moving it: only raising one, big, silk ripple . . . And his eye—” Mary couldn’t quite hear, but guessed that Lynda probably sighed. “His eye was just like a writer’s. The way a proper writer is inside. You know? When you meet the real thing? A real, fucking bastard writer who’ll look at anything, sleeping or waking, curiosity with no brakes, no moral judgements, just appetite.” She paused again. “It’s odd—for all that Richard has missing, all his fucking hollowness—he’s still got that eye.”
Mary set the bread aside to prove, aware that it was already, almost visibly, rising, spurred on by the feverish day. She wanted to go to the sand cave now, where the cool was guaranteed and she could think. As of this morning, she had a great deal to think about. Her news hung, trembling above her, like a water drop waiting to break.
The two women continued to murmur beyond the door, seemingly more and more sleepy, less and less cautious of being overheard. Ruth yawned and, “When he swam at you, when you thought you were going to die and then he didn’t kill you, did it feel . . . was it . . . ?”
“Intensely. The most intensely sensual, sexual . . . every other time I’ve almost died, it hasn’t been like that. Before it’s been pretty businesslike, in a way—cold, a kind of official appointment with a very large disinterest. Whereas this was, quite literally, a meeting with something large and disinterested—but when he was there, he was so alive . . . For days, once I’d come ashore, he made everything seem a part of everything else. What he was extended into everything and made it want to touch. I’d never known the world be so . . . urgent.”
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