by John Purcell
The bar was in the West End. It looked like a private bar but wasn’t; the advertised prices kept out the tourists, at least those on a budget. Posh but not. Josh was kept busy enough, but it wasn’t hectic. The bar work wasn’t as regular as the labouring and he took what he could. He’d been saving for a trip. He liked the tips. He got generous tips. I said I bet he did.
‘Barman, another,’ I demanded. He made his way down to me. The way he carried himself spoke of the power of his body. He had the grace of a gymnast. Or a dancer. He was a chameleon. He was the epitome of a labourer this morning. And now, in this environment, he looked like a rich kid trying to prove he could look after himself. The tats escaping from the edge of his rolled-up shirtsleeves just added to his appeal.
He poured another glass of champagne and placed it on the bar before me. Looking at the rising bubbles, I was reminded of Alan and his ring.
You can’t live as you do without something giving out, he’d said.
I grabbed Josh’s hand and stuffed £200 into it, saying, ‘Keep the change, cutie.’
He folded the two hundred neatly and pocketed it. He served another couple of customers and then made his way down to me. Finding my glass empty, he refilled it.
‘What time do you get off?’ I asked.
‘One, but I have a break in ten minutes,’ he said with a grin.
The confidence of that grin. He was going to fuck me in the back lane, or toilet stall. I grabbed the edge of the bar. The way he was looking at me. I had to look away.
*
‘You know I haven’t had a regular, everyday thought since I climbed into your bed the other night? I’ve been ignoring work. I haven’t recharged my phone. It’s been dead the whole time. I bet they’ve been trying to contact me. I’ve been putting off doing something I don’t want to do. The work will be piling up. But I don’t care about anything. It’s Friday, right?’
If it was, I had missed my Thursday meeting with Liam. First time I could remember doing that without letting him know.
Tattoo boy was getting changed again. He hadn’t slept properly in days. He worked so much. He had so few hours for sleep and play. And I wouldn’t let him sleep. I was rested. While he worked I slept or read War and Peace. At least I made him skip one night at the bar. Less for him than for me.
‘I’m shattered,’ he said and yawned. ‘Amy, you’ve been wearing the same clothes for days. We’ll go to your place tonight? You can get some clothes.’
‘I don’t need them. I’m staying here. I’m never leaving your bed. I don’t need clothes. Anyway, I have all of yours. I want you to get me a job as a labourer.’
He laughed at that. ‘You can stay here as long as you like. But you have things to do. You need to get back to your life.’
‘I don’t care about my job.’ And I immediately knew this was a lie.
‘But we need to rest, don’t we?’
‘We do. You do.’ I reached out and touched his abs as he put his T-shirt on.
I knew I should have left him alone. He was exhausted. I should get back to my life, such as it was.
I could just come clean and tell him if he stayed with me he need never work again. I could buy him. Look after him like a man might keep a mistress. Keep him on call. On a retainer.
He had pocketed all the money I’d given him without comment. Perhaps he didn’t mind being bought.
But I knew myself too well. This would never last. The world of fuck is not a place of permanent settlement. I’d have to talk seriously with him sooner or later and what would I find? I didn’t want to know his opinions on anything.
I had to be real. I already missed my work. I couldn’t put off meeting with Helen Owen indefinitely. There was no end to this other than me waking up one morning bored to death of him. This wasn’t love. I know love. This wasn’t it. This was a passing need. Lust, at best.
As soon as the spell broke, I’d be gone. Where would he be then?
This thought did it for me. The spell was broken. The fuck-fest was over.
I had one last question. ‘Why do you have a copy of War and Peace?’
‘It was a gift.’
As soon as he left for work, I got dressed, grabbed my things and left. I thought about leaving the rest of my cash with him, but then decided not to. I’m not completely heartless, I did give him something. I left my phone number on the title page of War and Peace.
Not that he would ever find it there.
Chapter 10
Brighton 1979
Helen was still unused to the sounds of the house. She lay in bed and listened. She’d been dreaming. The other life still lingered. The whirring noise that had woken her was not repeated. Street noise. House silence. Was it already past seven? Malcolm was evidently up and about as his side of the bed was empty. She glanced at the alarm clock. Six. She wasn’t sure whether the noise that had roused her was of Malcolm’s making or the neighbours’. It had sounded like some sort of motor and she couldn’t reconcile this with her knowledge of Malcolm’s morning customs. She might have dreamt it.
Now that she was awake there was no trying to get back to sleep. Those days had long gone. She was now lucky just to sleep through the night. She took her time getting out of bed, pausing to place herself in the week. Wednesday. Read through manuscript, again. Visit Waitrose. Hair appointment tomorrow. Then she rose in slow stages. Covers aside. Lifted torso. Deliberate swing of the legs.
Although it was August, the room felt cold. She put her feet into her slippers, stood sighing, shuffled forward, lifted her dressing gown off the hook on the back of the door and made her way to the loo. Out on the landing she paused to listen. The house was still and silent.
When she found herself in the kitchen a few minutes later, she paused again. She couldn’t recall whether she had washed her hands after going to the loo, or what she had been thinking about between the landing and kitchen. As she aged she had to consciously interrupt this tendency to act habitually. She knew habit to be the enemy of creation. But it seemed the more she pushed back against these partial losses of self, the more often she found herself standing as she did now, conscious of a return.
In the time it took for the kettle to boil she had tried and failed to reconstruct the missing minutes and had tossed the tea angrily into the pot, when it occurred to her that the kettle hadn’t been boiled that morning. It was only six in the morning, and though an early riser, Malcolm was never up much before this. He too had his habits. A sudden horror filled her. So sharp and bright that she gasped and gripped the kitchen bench to prevent her from collapse. But she didn’t collapse. And the horror passed as quickly as it had begun. Reason had stepped in to assuage her fears. And to further convince herself that all was well, she continued what she was doing. She buttered a piece of toast, poured two cups of tea, adding a merest drop of milk to Malcolm’s and a generous amount to her own. She even went so far as to stand there at the bench eating her toast and jam as she might on any given morning. This wasn’t the first time she’d had a presentiment of Malcolm’s death. The man was nearing eighty and had never taken care of himself other than to quit smoking in his forties.
What she had the most difficulty in doing was imagining a world without him. This wasn’t just as Helen, the wife. This failure of the imagination was suffered by Helen, the novelist. Which greatly surprised her. Nothing she could construct seemed in the least possible or likely. Never had her creative efforts been thrown into such harsh light. All pains to conceive a possible future without Malcolm were fiction and only fiction. Untruths. A terrible admission for a novelist.
Malcolm’s tea wasn’t getting any warmer.
At the top of the stairs the whirring noise again. She hadn’t dreamt it. She pushed open Malcolm’s office door with her foot, as she had a cup of tea in each hand. He was standing at his desk in his pyjamas with his back to her. No dressing gown. Bare feet. The whirring ceased. She saw him lift some papers from his desk and the whirring began again. He
didn’t hear her approach.
She placed the cups of tea on the still empty bookshelf near the door and noticed the open top drawer of the filing cabinet which contained all of the foolscap pages of her husband’s writing life. Original manuscripts, drafts, notes, sketches, short stories, poetry, journals, everything.
Over the noise of the machine, with voice raised, Helen asked, ‘Malcolm, what are you doing?’
He didn’t respond.
She stepped forward and looked around her husband. On top of the desk was a large black machine and into it Malcolm was feeding a slim manila folder. ‘Brighton’ was the only word she caught before the shredding machine swallowed the folder.
She knew what that folder contained. Brighton 1979 poems. And it broke her heart to think she would never, nobody would ever, see those poems again.
Helen shut the filing cabinet drawer. But Malcolm had another folder in his hand. She looked at his face. His expression was vacant. She touched his arm and he shook her off.
‘Malcom, no!’
This time she didn’t see what the folder contained. And it only occurred to her to unplug the machine after it disappeared for good.
Chapter 11
Seelenlos
Helen was seated by her desk in her office, an empty cup of tea by her elbow. Though it wasn’t cold, she was wearing a black cotton cardigan over her white blouse. Her writing chair was turned so that she could face Amy, who was sitting on the two-seater sofa by the door. Over Helen’s shoulder through the open windows Amy could see the evening sun catching the tops of the trees. Children were playing in a nearby garden. But neither woman was paying much attention to their squeals of delight as they were immersed in conversation.
Helen was shaking her head, saying, ‘He won’t speak to me about any of this. I don’t know why. Well, I do know why. He was utterly opposed to me signing the deal with Morris and Robbins. He thought the advance obscene and questioned their intent. But the money enabled us to get out of that horrid little flat in Brixton. Something else he was unhappy about. I would have thought that after a lifetime of scrimping and saving he might like to enjoy the spoils of success. But I misjudged him on this. He thinks I’ve sold out. He’s been absolutely miserable since we moved here.’
‘But it’s a lovely house.’
‘It is. And as it was. I didn’t want one of those modern renovations. But I don’t know. Perhaps it is too late for all this.’
Helen twisted around and turned the desk lamp on. The room had been growing steadily dimmer.
‘May I ask, has Malcolm read the novel you’ve been working on?’
‘Yes. Well, at least part of version one, around the time I was offered the advance. He put it down then. He hasn’t given me his opinion. I think he’s disgusted by the whole thing. Suspicious, too. Only terrible novels are offered huge advances. I’m suspicious, too. That’s why I’ve rewritten it twice since then.’
‘Have you kept all of the drafts?’
‘I have everything. I print out everything and also save every version in endless sub-folders on my laptop. It’s my way. All three final versions are complete, more or less. No one has read version two or three. Both are very different from each other and version one. Version three almost killed me. I think it’s good. I think. But Malcolm won’t talk to me about any of this. I’d be happy to publish version three.’
‘Version one, version two, version three. Do they have working titles?’
‘No. None of them does. I feel completely dry. Like I’ve written the last book I’ll ever write.’
‘So M&R don’t know about version two or three?’
‘No, and they won’t want them. They’re not commercial. Like version one.’
‘Version one is complete?’
‘After reading version one Clarissa said I was in two minds and that the novel wouldn’t be complete until I’d made my mind up.’
‘Clarissa Munten?’
‘Yes, my editor. We’ve been friends for years. She rejected version one. Told me to start afresh. Angry at this, and out of contract, I sent the manuscript on to my agent, Ted Johnson. He loved it. Thought it was the best thing I’d done in years. He’d been campaigning for me to leave my long-time publisher, Sandersons. He thought they’d become complacent. He was so convinced the book was a winner he started an auction. He played three of them off against each other until the team at Morris and Robbins made him the offer he couldn’t refuse. He was so happy. He considered it his crowning achievement. But he died of a massive heart attack while playing tennis soon after. It was awful. Awful. His partner in life and business, Jeffrey Hutton, was inconsolable. He closed up the agency and moved to Spain. I’ve had no representation since.’
‘And the deal?’
‘It was done. Clarissa was furious. She said the book wasn’t good enough to carry the name Helen Owen. We haven’t spoken since.’
‘There were people at M&R who thought version one was good enough to make a huge offer. Who were they? I believe you met Maxine Snedden? She was the publishing director then.’
‘I think so. I’d have to look at my emails.’
‘But you met with the team who backed the book, presumably.’
‘Yes, but we didn’t get along. Clarissa’s comments had tarnished the whole thing for me. I told them I wanted to take it in a new direction. They weren’t happy with that idea. But they relented and gave me more time. Then M&R bought Sandersons and I thought I’d get Clarissa back but she promptly retired. She was so angry with me. It was awful, too. It didn’t matter because soon after Seelenlos bought out M&R and fired everyone I’d met, and all I’ve had from M&R since is threatening legal letters.’
‘M&R is a different place since Seelenlos bought us.’
‘I just want the whole thing to go away.’
‘So why don’t we just spruce up version one and give them that?’
‘Clarissa was right. It isn’t good.’
‘But it’s what they wanted. It’s what they paid for. If they don’t know the difference, why not just deliver it and move on to the next thing?’
Helen opened her mouth to answer, but reconsidered and looked thoughtful. A moment later, she turned her head towards the door.
‘Here’s Malcolm.’
They were both quiet and listened to the approaching footsteps.
Amy had been sitting with her right leg crossed over her left, with her leather flip-flop dangling loosely from her raised foot. Initially, she had been anxious about her first meeting with Helen. She had worn her black fitted shift dress because it was plain and businesslike, especially with the belt, and she had wanted to look professional. But as the meeting went on her anxiety had dissipated and she relaxed. Probably too much. With Malcolm coming she was suddenly conscious of how short the dress was. She shifted her bottom to the edge of the sofa, making sure her dress came with her. Then she brought her knees together, and her feet, and drew them in. To finish off the pose, she placed her hands demurely in her lap.
Helen watched this unexpected change with interest.
The door to Helen’s office opened.
‘I thought I heard voices. Hello, I’m Malcolm.’
Malcolm said this with a smile he hoped would sufficiently mask the surprise he felt on finding Helen with such a young woman. He almost stuck out his hand to shake hers, but thought better of it. He didn’t know how young people wished to be greeted.
‘Amy. I’m from M&R,’ she replied, noting that Malcolm obviously hadn’t updated his author photo for some years. He was not just older, but less severe. Like he had mellowed. He was certainly rounder than the images she’d found via Google. And his remaining hair was white where it had been sandy in some of the photos.
‘Would you like a drink? It’s almost seven. I came up to see if Helen wanted to join me.’
‘I’d kill for a drink. But before we go down, may I ask what you thought of the first version of Helen’s new novel? The one M&R signed?’
>
Helen shook her head and looked agitated.
Malcolm straightened, and looked Amy in the eye. His whole demeanour had changed in an instant. He’d gone from genial aged husband to titan. He was all intelligence and will.
‘I thought it had been written by someone else.’
‘But was it good?’
‘I don’t know what you mean by that word. We’ve just met. I know what I mean by it.’
‘They offered her two million pounds for the book.’
‘They did. I didn’t. You might want to ask them why they did.’
‘I know why they did. They have a fairly simple equation to work out the value of any work. They expected the book to be a huge success. Huge.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘No.’
‘I think we should go down for our drink then. We can’t really discuss the book if you haven’t read it.’
He walked out of the room. A moment later he popped his head back in. ‘Have you read Helen’s other work?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Brilliant.’ And he was gone.
Amy and Helen didn’t speak but both stood. Whether Helen was standing to lead Amy down to the lounge room and a glass of champagne, or whether she was standing to escort her out of the house was unclear to Amy.
‘You’re a very beautiful woman,’ Helen said, catching Amy by surprise.
Amy wrinkled her nose.
‘I had to say something. I feel I’ve been examining you since you arrived. Extraordinarily beautiful. Exceptional. May I look at your hands?’
Helen took Amy’s hands in her own. ‘How old they make my own look.’ She turned them over and then let them go. She then stepped closer to Amy and looked more intently at her face.
‘Julie Christie. Catherine Deneuve. That kind of beauty. Though you’re a brunette. Lovely skin. Radiant. Beauty fascinates me, never having had it. It’s beyond reason. You’re compelling. You probably get this all the time.’