by Jon Rance
‘You left your job? I thought you were a lifer.’
‘It’s a long story, but I left, was pushed. Either way I’m done with it.’
‘And that’s why you’re here?’
‘Partly.’
‘Sounds like you could use a pint.’
‘I’d absolutely love one.’
‘We have to pop back to the house first and see Nat. I told her you were staying. She made up the spare room and is making something for dinner. Lasagne, I think.’
‘Thanks mate, really.’
‘It’s nothing.’
Pete and Natalie lived in a three-bedroom semi-detached in a quiet little village just outside of Nottingham. It was beautiful. There was even a little village green and a quaint, picturesque old country church next to it. Their house was huge in comparison to our place in Wandsworth, and probably only a quarter of the price. The inside was open-plan with a living room opening into a larger dining area and modern kitchen. There were lots of photos on the walls of family and friends and the year Pete and Natalie went travelling. It had a real family feel to it and felt lived in. It was the picture of happiness.
I hadn’t seen Natalie since their wedding three years before, but she hadn’t changed and greeted me with a huge hug. She always reminded me of a farmer’s wife: big, busty and full of life. She was lovely and suited Pete perfectly.
‘It’s so nice to see you. We really don’t see enough of you and Kate.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s so hard with work and life and . . .’
‘Save the excuses,’ she said, cutting in. ‘And get your laughing gear around this.’ She passed me a pint of beer with a warm smile. She was from Yorkshire and had a wonderfully broad accent.
Looking around, Pete had exactly what he’d always wanted and it started me thinking about my own life. I’d tried to overcompensate for my childhood. I thought I needed so much because I came from so little, but I was wrong. Pete and Natalie didn’t have as much financially, but they spent time together, enjoyed life and seemed content. I wanted that with Kate. I thought I needed the magazine house, the coffee table life and the picture-perfect wife, but the reality was that it didn’t really exist. Pete and Natalie’s house was messy, uncoordinated and they had fishing trophies over the fireplace. In contrast, Kate and I had created a beautiful space full of whimsical, trendy and modern design, but it had no humanity because we were never in it. It wasn’t really us, but more a reflection of who we thought we should be. Maybe it was a part of the reason why Kate left, because I hadn’t given her a good enough reason to stay.
We had an amazing meal of lasagne, garlic bread and salad, while I explained about Kate going away and like everyone else in the world they couldn’t understand why I hadn’t gone too.
‘Oh my God, Ed, it’s the best thing ever, why didn’t you go?’ said Natalie.
‘Because I was afraid. Afraid of losing my job, which I’ve lost anyway, but you’re right, I should’ve gone.’
‘It’s not too late,’ said Natalie.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Go meet her, surprise her.’
‘I can’t,’ I said, more in hope than with any real conviction. ‘I thought about it, but decided to stay here and get things sorted out for when she gets back. I need to figure me out.’
‘If it were me, I’d be on that plane faster than a cat up a drainpipe.’
‘And what about me?’ said Pete with a wry grin. ‘You’d leave me to fend for myself?’
‘I’d never leave you,’ said Natalie, leaning across and kissing him.
They were still so in love and in some ways reminded me of what my parents had. It was solid, real and sort of old-fashioned, but it worked. Maybe it was the only way it ever really worked.
‘Behave,’ said Natalie with a smile.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll have him back by midnight,’ I said, zipping up my jacket to keep out the cold. The early promise of sunshine had been replaced with a bitter cold.
‘You’ll be lucky. The Swann’s usually closed by eleven, sometimes ten-thirty,’ said Pete.
‘You’re joking.’
‘You’re not in London now, mate. It’s a Tuesday night; we’ll probably be the only ones in there.’
Pete wasn’t wrong. The Swann was dead. It was a traditional, old-fashioned country pub – my dad would have loved it, the old red carpet, walls full of photos of the countryside and farmer knick-knacks. The barmaid, a buxom lady in her late fifties, was reading a magazine and there was one other customer, a wizened old man and his dog, who was asleep on the floor next to him. Pete got in a couple of pints and we sat down at an old wooden table next to a roaring fire.
‘What’s going on?’ said Pete straight away, not even waiting for me to open the packet of prawn cocktail crisps that sat between us.
‘I’m lost mate and I was sort of hoping you could help me.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Pete and I told him everything.
‘I want to know how you knew what you wanted. From the day I met you, you always had everything sorted out. You always knew what you wanted and it amazed me, still does.’
Pete looked at me for a moment. I don’t think he knew what to say.
‘The answer is, I don’t know. It wasn’t like I woke up one day at fourteen and said, I’m going to be an environmental scientist.’
‘But you did though, didn’t you? Admit it.’
‘Maybe I wasn’t fourteen exactly,’ he said with a smile. ‘Perhaps fifteen, but the point is I don’t know why I knew, I just did. All I will say is that you always seemed to be rushing towards something. You could never really relax. It was always about work, about getting ahead. I don’t know, mate. It’s hard to put my finger on. I always knew I wanted a certain lifestyle. A bit more relaxed, chilled out and I wanted a job that involved the environment and that inspired me.’
‘But I don’t know what kind of life I want. Being here right now, I want what you have, but when I get back to London, I’ll probably want that too.’
‘You just need to figure out what’s important to you. Do you want money? Do you want more time to spend with Kate? Do you want to live in London or somewhere else? The important thing, the thing you really need to think about, is what makes you happy, because that’s all that really matters.’
Pete and I had a few more beers and we talked about everything. The good old days, the future and his and Natalie’s current attempts to have a baby, which had so far been fruitless. However, all I could think about was his last question. What made me happy? It was a question I’d been asking myself my whole life and I’d never found a satisfactory answer. I thought I was happy in banking, but looking back, was I? I hated the hours and the continual pressure. I loved the money and I loved that I was good at it, but did it make me happy? Ultimately it didn’t and so I was left with a gaping chasm that I needed to fill with something.
As I lay in their spare room that night, thinking over my life, I did decide something. I decided I was going to be happy. It sounded trivial and feckless because I still didn’t know what it was I wanted, but I think it would come with time. What was important was I finally realised my happiness wasn’t tied to my career so much as the other way around. My career should come from my happiness. I closed my eyes and thought of Kate, the one thing I knew made me happy, before I fell into a deep and happy sleep.
Jack
I couldn’t help but feel guilty as I sat on the tube and headed towards Holborn for my meeting with Morris Gladstone. I’d left Emma at home by herself and I knew she needed me. I felt bad because I should have been thinking about her and the baby, but I wasn’t. I was thinking about becoming a writer with an agent. I felt like an awful human being, but I’d waited so long for this opportunity and it could change our lives.
I felt a surge of optimism as I stood in front of the Morris Gladstone Literary Agency. It was a lovely old whitewashed building with an immense wooden door that looked very grandiose. I was alr
eady feeling a bit nervous about the whole experience and the large door didn’t really help. I was terrified Morris Gladstone was going to quiz me about what I read and current authors I wouldn’t have heard of and I was going to be tossed out as a pretender, an unknowledgeable, talentless fraud.
I pushed on the door and it actually opened with considerable ease. I walked into a stunningly bright and modern reception area that was completely unexpected after the traditional exterior. It was incredibly white with lots of natural light and wood and there were vases of beautiful flowers that added splashes of colour. There was a woman on reception who gave me a smile as I walked in.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I have a four o’clock with Morris Gladstone,’ I said uncertainly.
I was convinced there had been some kind of mix up, the assistant was probably new at her job and had me confused with someone else.
‘Jack Chapman, pleased to meet you. I’m Sylvia. Let me take that manuscript from you. Can I get you a coffee or tea?’
‘Coffee please,’ I said, handing her the full manuscript they’d requested I bring along, the three hundred pages of loosely tied-together ramblings that held my future.
‘Please take a seat,’ she said and then sauntered off to get my coffee.
I sat down on a remarkably soft chocolate-brown leather sofa and looked around. The walls were adorned with framed book covers, which did very little to ease my already frayed nerves. I just wanted to write novels. I didn’t belong among the covers I saw staring back at me; books that had been written by proper published authors. A part of me wanted to get up and run away as fast as I could, but I knew I couldn’t. I needed to remain calm and composed and try to think positively. The trouble was that because I’d worked at a shitty coffee shop for years and had faced rejection after rejection, I’d started to doubt my ability. The old me who knew exactly what he wanted and where he belonged had long since left the building.
‘Here you go,’ said Sylvia, handing me a cup of coffee and then a small tray of milk and sugar. ‘He shouldn’t be much longer.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and added milk and a couple of sugars to my coffee. There was also a small biscuit on the tray, which I took and ate quickly. My stomach was an acid bath of sickness.
‘I loved it,’ said Sylvia from her desk.
‘Sorry?’
‘The chapters you wrote, I loved them. We get a lot of manuscripts through here and I get to read a few. I read yours over the weekend and it blew me away. So funny and simply gorgeous.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ I said, trying to filter through my variety of facial expressions until I found one that looked vaguely like confident. I wanted to believe that what I’d written was as wonderful as she’d said, but it was difficult.
I sat and waited, drinking my coffee and trying not to think about Emma being at home by herself. When I left she was sitting in bed watching television with a blank expression on her face. She was heartbroken and this whole thing had affected her far more than even I had expected. I was afraid to talk about it in case I opened the floodgates, but I didn’t want to ignore it either. I honestly didn’t know what to do. I was hurting too, but I knew it was different. Men don’t really become parents until the baby is born, while women are mothers as soon as they become pregnant.
‘Jack Chapman?’ a booming voice said.
I looked up and a man was standing in front of me. He was short with a bird’s nest of unruly grey hair that sat upon a squat face. He was wearing a tweed suit and holding out a podgy hand with a smile.
‘Oh, hello, hi,’ I said, getting up quickly and shaking his hand.
For a short scruffy man he had a particularly fearsome handshake.
‘Morris Gladstone, very excited to meet you,’ he said in the same sonorous voice. ‘Come through, come through.’ He gestured for me to follow him. We walked down a short corridor decorated with more framed book covers and photos of writers before we turned into a small office. Morris asked me to take a seat while he sat opposite, across a desk piled high with manuscripts. ‘Sorry about the mess; one of the perils of the job I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, no problem,’ I said, having a quick look around the room.
It was small but packed to the rafters with books and manuscripts. It had the feel and smell of an educational institution and reminded me of my old English lecturer’s office. I felt instantly at home. Morris obviously wasn’t the most orderly person in the world, but I rather liked that about him.
‘Jack, tell me a bit about yourself.’
I’d done my best to be ready for this meeting, but I suddenly felt very ill prepared. I had no idea what to say about myself. I felt like the most boring, nondescript person in the world.
‘I’m twenty-nine, almost thirty. Getting married this year to my lovely fiancée Emma. I’m originally from Australia; I moved here with my mother when I was fifteen. I live in a tiny flat in Notting Hill and I currently work at To Bean or Not to Bean on the Southbank . . .’
‘Oh, God, not that awful Shakespearean-themed place around the corner from The Globe?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘My condolences.’
‘I have to do something to pay the rent.’
‘’Tis true, Jack, ’tis true. And how about the book. Where did it come from? Where was the inspiration?’
It was difficult, at first, talking about the book and especially to a stranger. I hadn’t ever been one to really talk in-depth about my writing. It was something personal and I always found it hard to verbalise. However, with Morris looking at me intently, I started talking and before I knew it, floods of words were pouring out of me. I was telling him things I didn’t even realise myself. The book was essentially a love story, but it had darker moments, profound moments and I didn’t really realise until then just how much the death of my father had contributed to it.
‘You do realise I never do this. I always read the entire manuscript of any novel before I meet with an author, but your opening chapters were incredible, Jack, utterly absorbing. I read so much drivel, absolute tosh and some of it I even take on, so when I read something like this that truly excites me, I’m not one to mess about. I had to meet you in person and I’m glad I did. I’ll need to read the rest of the book, but I want you, Jack. I want to sign you now, today, before somebody else does. Are you with me?’
I was literally, utterly and comprehensively bewildered. He wanted me to sign there and then. I was going to have an agent. A proper literary agent. For a moment a small game of competitiveness broke out in my brain and I thought foolishly that maybe I should wait, see what other options appeared, but the game was soon abandoned. I didn’t care what else was offered and who else was offering it. Morris had rung me and he loved my work and I really, truly liked him. It was the opportunity I’d been waiting for since I was fourteen.
‘Too bloody right I am,’ I said, a smile breaking over my face.
‘You aren’t going to regret this,’ said Morris and we shook hands.
The air outside felt much lighter when I left the office. I realised quickly it wasn’t the air that was lighter, but that the pressure on my shoulders seemed to be gone. I wasn’t being naïve. I knew that just because I had a literary agent, it didn’t mean I would suddenly become a rich and successful writer, but it gave me hope. Before, I had nothing but a dream, but now I had someone else who believed in it. I wanted to call Emma and tell her but I was afraid. I didn’t want to seem like I was belittling her feelings about the baby or that I didn’t care. I didn’t know how to tell her without seeming like a callous idiot. Unsure what to do, but still on a high after the meeting, I saw a pub across the street and went for a quick drink alone to celebrate and to bask in the glow of my success.
I got a pint and sat by the window. I watched people walk past: office workers, shop assistants. The whole of London moved like a giant ant farm, everyone set on their specific role and going about their business with a blinkered deter
mination. I’d always known I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to spend my days in air-conditioned office blocks doing something I didn’t love just to pay for a life I couldn’t afford. I’d always wanted to do something different and that something had always been writing. It was my passion and if I made it, if I actually got published and did well enough, then I’d never have to work another day in a meaningless job again. That thought made me smile and I was so happy a few tears leaked out and slid down my face.
Emma
I met Paul when I was sixteen. I was in my last year of school and Paul was nineteen and studying at St Martin’s college in London. I thought he was literally the coolest bloke in the world. He was studying photography and was one of those incredibly urbane, intelligent, sophisticated boys with the looks to match. He was tall, dark and handsome and had the most wonderful deep, sultry eyes. I was head over heels in love.
My parents, of course, weren’t enamoured of the idea of me having a nineteen-year-old boyfriend who lived in London. I used to have to sneak out to see him when he was home for the weekend and I’d occasionally get into London via some tenuous excuse. Mum would always grill me before I left and made me promise I wasn’t going to see Paul. I lied, of course. I was sixteen and in love and what did my mother know about the delicate feelings of young love? I wrote him mawkish poems and it was, for six months, the greatest love story the world had ever known. I felt like Juliet and Paul was my Romeo.
I was a virgin when I met Paul and it took a few months but eventually we had sex and it seemed to make everything more intense and passionate between us. I tried to get away more often and he would come home more frequently at weekends. His parents lived just around the corner from mine, so it was easy to sneak out after bedtime or for Paul to sneak in. My parents were getting increasingly suspicious though and so we had to be careful, but the element of risk just seemed to heighten our desire for each other.