The Girl On the Page

by John Purcell

  She opened the door and found Daniel seated on the bottom step. She turned her gaze away from him too quickly to note his apathetic slouch.

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ she said, giving him a wide berth. She sat on the edge of her bed, casting anxious glances over her shoulder in case he moved, and slipped her heels on quickly. ‘Do you have any idea how repulsive you are? How out of line this behaviour is?’ She stood up.

  He just shook his head wordlessly.

  ‘Get out of my way, I’m going up.’

  Daniel stood slowly and walked up the stairs. Amy left him in the kitchen.

  She found Helen and Malcolm in the front room. The television was on and they were watching the BBC news. Malcolm switched it off as Amy entered.

  ‘You look stunning, Amy,’ said Helen. ‘Stunning.’

  ‘And tall,’ added Malcolm as Daniel came into the room behind her. In her heels, she was noticeably taller than their son, who looked tired and frumpy beside her.

  ‘Where are you going for dinner?’ asked Helen.

  ‘The Dorchester, I think. Not sure which. I know Liam likes the Grill but he’s not paying, this time. A scriptwriter from LA is taking us out. I can’t remember his name. So it’s probably Alain Ducasse. Americans always choose it. The Michelin stars blind them.’

  ‘Daniel, would you mind getting Amy a drink?’ said Malcolm.

  Daniel departed promptly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Helen, but I’m still not done,’ said Amy, sitting on the edge of the couch, her knees together.

  ‘What has M&R said?’ asked Helen, her face revealing her anxieties.

  ‘I’ve put them off for another week. They have confidence in me. More than I have in myself, I must admit. And I blame Malcolm for this.’

  ‘Me? What have I done?’

  ‘You gave me good advice.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry for it. I’ll try to offer poor advice in future.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ asked Helen.

  ‘You were there, Helen. He told me to read your other books. Fatal. I’m ruined.’

  ‘Told you so,’ said Malcolm.

  Amy laughed. ‘You did.’

  ‘So, you have a foot in both camps now,’ said Malcolm. It wasn’t a question.

  Daniel returned with a glass of white for Amy and a beer for himself.

  ‘I won’t stay if it’s going to be book talk. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.’

  Amy took the glass and downed half the wine in one sip.

  ‘What would you like to discuss, Daniel?’ asked Helen.

  Daniel smiled and then laughed, weirdly. He looked at the carpet, then said, ‘That’s put me on the spot.’ His face reddened and a sob escaped him.

  Amy, Helen and Malcolm all exchanged glances.

  ‘Geraldine’s leaving me,’ Daniel said, raising his face to them. His eyes were wet. ‘She’s met someone else. It’s been going on for some time. A client. Fucking him while the boys were in the house. But she says she’s been unhappy for a while.’

  ‘Oh, Daniel,’ said Helen.

  Amy drank the rest of her wine. She needed to get out of this family crisis immediately.

  ‘Is that why you’re down here?’ asked Malcolm.

  ‘I’ve been looking for a job in London. I can’t stay up there.’

  ‘What about the boys?’ asked Helen.

  Amy stood up. She didn’t want to know about the boys. She didn’t want to feel any sympathy for the man. She was definitely on Team Geraldine, whoever she was.

  Daniel looked at her. ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I have to. Anyway, I’m in the way here. We’ll talk more tomorrow, Helen. Bye, Malcolm.’

  With that she exited. Moving quickly through the house, making her way downstairs, locking the inner door behind her. If she came back to the flat that night, which she hoped she wouldn’t have to, she didn’t want a grieving loser breaking in and molesting her in the middle of the night.

  She grabbed her coat and her handbag and left, walked down to the high street and took a cab to Park Lane. The night air did nothing to clear her head. There was way too much going on in her life. She had to rid herself of the Helen problem as soon as possible. Move out and get back to living the life she was good at.

  In the cab Amy checked her phone. Liam had sent through the screenplay the American had written. She googled the guy’s name. Goran Kovac. He’d done nothing she recognised. She opened the attachment and read the opening scenes of the pilot. They were better than anything Liam had written himself. But she couldn’t see Hollywood getting excited. Not that she knew anything about that world. It was a hunch.

  Malcolm’s assessment of her predicament returned to her – a foot in both camps. It was true. Here she was going to dine with one of the UK’s bestselling authors and discuss turning his books into a Hollywood blockbuster or TV series, while all that day she had been thinking about version one of Helen’s novel, the one Maxine Snedden had paid a fortune for, deciding, along with Helen’s previous editor, Clarissa Munten, that it wasn’t worthy of the great Helen Owen and should be shelved.

  A foot in both camps.

  But she couldn’t give Helen that advice, because Julia and M&R would move to take back the advance and Helen and Malcolm would be ruined. The advice she’d have to give Helen was – give them what they want.

  The first manuscript is the one the publisher paid for.

  Amy told the driver to let her out at Marble Arch. She was half an hour early. She’d walk down Park Lane. It would kill ten minutes. But as soon as she was out of the cab she knew she had been an idiot. It wasn’t a pleasant evening. The traffic was atrocious, a slow procession of tail-lights. The exhaust fumes were overwhelming. And her shoes were new. She cast her gaze down Park Lane. The road curved to the left. She couldn’t tell how far she had to walk. It had been years since she’d walked here. She could cross over into Hyde Park but she wasn’t sure if she could cross back at the Dorchester. She remembered having fallen for that trick years ago. Besides, the park looked dark and menacing from where she stood. At least Park Lane was well lit.

  Resigned to her fate, she wrapped her Burberry trench coat more tightly around her and started to walk. Her high heels were strappy and her long legs were bare. She felt underdressed and wished her coat were longer. She felt naked under it and probably appeared to be. More naked with every passing sweaty tourist. Men and women each stared boldly at her like she was an exhibit. What had she been thinking getting out of the cab? She could have waited at the bar. Liam and Gail were probably there now.

  This Helen thing was getting to her. Making her do stupid things.

  Why had she taken Malcolm’s advice? Because of him, she’d been with them more than a month – a month! For the first time in her career she’d neglected her work. She’d just kept up with the Jack Cade edits, but hadn’t made any of their Thursday sessions. Liam wasn’t happy. And she’d only been in the M&R office at odd hours. She’d been consumed by Malcolm and Helen’s work. There were emails gathering unread in her inbox. Her cubicle buddy, Valerie, was fielding calls from concerned authors, and she was compiling a stack of sticky notes. Kathy Lette’s agent had left word for her not to worry getting back to her as she’d found another editor. Valerie said her absence was being noticed. Even though she didn’t need the work at M&R, she’d be sad to lose it. She had loved M&R under Maxine’s leadership. And leaving would mean Julia would rule unopposed, and she couldn’t stomach that.

  A whole month had gone by and she’d read all the versions of Helen’s new novel, some of her previous novels and some of Malcolm’s novels, including his latest, A Hundred Ways.

  And what had she achieved? Nothing practical. Not a thing of use to anybody. It was as though she was on holiday with friends. She was wasting everyone’s time. More hindrance than help. And, as Malcolm had originally suggested, she was in over her head. She had entered another tier of publishing and of writing, a higher one,
where her qualifications weren’t required. She was reading these books as thousands of others had, as a reader, as an admirer. Helen’s and Malcolm’s books didn’t invite her professional persona in. They had no need of her skills as an editor. They were complete. They were books she wished she could discuss with Max.

  Version one was different, of course. Malcolm had known that Amy would come to recognise this in time.

  Last week she had re-read version one quickly, and was filled with doubts. She could no longer see it as she had first seen it – rich, compelling, romantic and heartbreaking. Now it was slow, ponderous and obvious.

  Malcolm’s prophecy had indeed come true.

  Julia had wanted Amy to turn Helen Owen into Jojo Moyes. But now Amy saw that the task at hand was the complete reverse. If she was going to do anything to the manuscript, it would be to make it more Helen Owen, not less. She thought she might be able to do that without losing too much of its commercial appeal. And that way, she hoped, she might be able to ease Helen’s concerns and even, if she did a good enough job, get Malcolm’s blessing for the project.

  But working with the printed manuscript wasn’t possible. She’d never worked that way. And this task was outside her comfort zone as it was.

  So she had picked up her laptop and had begun typing out version one of the novel. She wanted to get inside Helen’s head. Typing it out manually was definitely the slow option, when she might have scanned it in, or been more devious and logged in to Helen’s computer when she wasn’t around. The password was probably ‘Daniel’ or ‘Malcolm’. But typing books out had always helped her understand a writer better. She would become immersed in a work, reconstructing it line by line according to the writer’s vision.

  This time she marked up the novel as she worked. So by the end of the long process she had a file called Version Helen and a file called Version Amy. Amy’s version was tighter and more focused. She’d cut at least a third of it as she went. She thought it flowed better because it was less explanatory. And though she was pleased with what she had done, because now she felt she had contributed by strengthening its commercial appeal, she wasn’t satisfied. The ‘something’ that was missing in Version Helen was missing in Version Amy, too.

  But did that matter?

  Back when Amy had first read version one, she now recalled, she had been convinced of its commercial potential. That Amy had come straight from the real world and wasn’t yet influenced by Helen and Malcolm’s world. She should now just trust old Amy’s opinion on this. Helen wouldn’t be the first literary author to offer the world a gripping story to pay the rent. Granted, most had been catastrophic failures, but Helen’s worked as commercial fiction. Helen’s would succeed.

  But now she wasn’t sure. This afternoon, on re-reading the opening chapters of Version Amy, she had become convinced it had no commercial potential. She was more confused than ever.

  The one person she thought might be able to help was Liam. They’d come to share a sense of what worked, what the general reader wanted from a novel. And he was free of the atmosphere of Helen and Malcolm’s literary world.

  Now she had a digital copy, it would be so easy to send.

  *

  Dinner was a disaster.

  Amy arrived early regardless of her efforts. She found herself a place at the bar and ordered a glass of champagne. She never minded waiting in a bar. Bars were her natural environment. With access to endless alcohol and nuts, accompanied by the easy chatter of a handsome, attentive and well-mannered barman, she was content.

  By the time Goran Kovac turned up, three-quarters of an hour late, she had read his screenplay, read everything on the net about him and scrolled through his social media. She decided not to introduce herself. He was clearly drunk. He walked up to the bar like he owned the place, greeting the barman as he would a brother. He sounded Russian, but Google had told her he was Hungarian. He had been living in LA for ten years.

  He was a large man, with a heavy beard, a mad mop for hair, a barrel chest and strong shoulders, though he was not particularly tall. He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt open at the neck. Amy noticed his shoes when he first walked in. They were blood-red, cap-toe Oxfords. Which were matched by a splash of the same red in his suit pocket. He was no shrinking violet.

  A drink in hand, Kovac looked at Amy for a long time while she pretended to be busy with her phone. In fact she was typing Don’t come near me over and over again. There were other lone women in the place. She was really hoping one of them would attract his eye.

  Then he said loudly, to the barman, to the bar, to whoever was in earshot, ‘I’m here to meet with the author Jack Cade. Is he here yet?’

  The barman looked at him as though he were speaking another language. Amy was in an awkward position. If she didn’t speak now, he would soon find out she had consciously avoided introducing herself.

  ‘You don’t know who Jack Cade is?’ he asked. The barman shook his head.

  Kovac downed his scotch.

  ‘You know Jack Cade, don’t you?’ he said to Amy.

  ‘I should, I’m his editor.’

  Kovac had been so loud that everyone in the bar was watching him. Now all eyes were on Amy. It seemed that the only person who didn’t know Jack Cade was the barman.

  Liam was now almost an hour late. He would normally message to let her know. But she had nothing.

  ‘You’re his editor!’ shouted Kovac, and slapped his forehead. Then moved towards her. He motioned for the barman to give him another drink, lifted the bottle of Bollinger from the ice bucket next to Amy and refilled her glass. ‘I have heard about you.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I have a friend in publishing. When she heard what I was doing she said that you were the brains behind Jack Cade. That’s what she said!’

  ‘Don’t let Liam hear you say that.’

  ‘But that’s what she said. And she said everyone knew. But I didn’t know it. She said that you would have the final word on my script.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘I cannot say. But is it true?’

  ‘You won’t have to ask once you’ve met Liam.’

  Kovac scrutinised Amy for a moment.

  ‘Here he is.’ Amy stood up and took a few steps towards Liam and Gail, who had just entered the bar.

  ‘Sorry we’re late,’ said Liam. He looked exhausted.

  Amy gave a frosty Gail a kiss and a hug.

  ‘So this is Jack Cade!’ boomed Kovac from behind Amy. She moved out of the way and dragged Gail with her.

  Kovac introduced himself and gave Liam a bear hug.

  Amy asked Gail what was wrong. But Gail shook off her enquiries.

  Liam looked across at them. There was definitely something wrong, Amy saw. Something had spooked him.

  Gail wanted champagne. Liam wanted a lager. But before the drinks arrived they discovered they had lost their reservation due to their lateness. The maître d’ was being difficult, so Liam suggested eating at another place. Within minutes they were all in Liam’s Aston Martin racing through the London streets, Amy and Kovac in the back. Liam was on the phone speaking to a friend he knew would pull a few strings for him. He wanted somewhere private.

  ‘I did not know Aston Martins came in four-door,’ Kovac revealed. He was like a child, touching all the buttons and running a hand along the finishes.

  ‘Not quite Bond. But Gail insisted. Didn’t you, babe,’ said Liam, putting his hand on her knee.

  No answer came. Gail was staring through the window at the passing streets.

  After fifteen minutes of driving and with no callback from the trusted friend, Liam did an illegal U-turn and sped off south, crossing the Vauxhall Bridge and racing towards Clapham. The mood in the car was tense. Amy could only see the side of Liam’s face, but his jaw was clenched, as it was when she criticised his work.

  Amy had no idea where they were. There had been slow traffic on the A3 so Liam had turned off and was ra
cing through residential streets. The muted roar of the Aston was exhilarating from within the car, deafening without. Liam had been raised in Brixton; these streets were well known to him.

  Sharp turns, left then right. Roaring acceleration, hard braking. His passengers gripping the handles above their doors.

  Amy saw that Liam had made a miscalculation. He approached a one-way bridge blocked to traffic from his direction. Liam swore and caught Amy’s eye in the rear-view mirror. He looked ready to explode. He put his foot down and sped through the no entry signs and onto the narrow bridge, made narrower by the addition of a wide bike path. Gail gasped and Kovac wooted.

  As soon as he was on the bridge and over the rise, it was clear a car was approaching the bridge from the other side. A little Renault, it swerved and braked, honking its horn and flashing its lights as Liam came through. The Aston swerved, and honked in return before roaring past them. Almost as an afterthought, Liam slammed the brakes and took a hard left. He straightened and accelerated rapidly to eighty miles per hour down the narrow side street.

  Kovac laughed loudly and exclaimed, ‘It’s what Mark Harden would do. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re a fucking child, Liam,’ said Gail. ‘Slow down.’

  Liam sped up. The phone rang and Liam answered.

  ‘Too fucking late,’ said Liam, before the friend could answer, and hung up.

  He came to a sudden stop.

  ‘We’re here.’

  Amy looked out of her window and couldn’t work out where here was. Liam got out. A laughing Kovac did, too.

  Amy was about to open her door when Gail turned in her seat and said, ‘I’m leaving him.’

  Before Amy could say anything in reply, Gail got out.

  Amy exhaled, relieved. She’d been apprehensive about the cause of their dispute, but as Gail’s tone was friendly, Amy knew she wasn’t the cause. She opened the door and climbed out.

  The night certainly wasn’t going as she had imagined. She wondered if she might get an Uber back to her studio. She certainly didn’t want to go back to Helen and Malcolm’s, not with miserable Daniel lurking about.