by John Purcell
Amy wandered into the front room where the TV was on and sat on the couch.
‘You can’t sleep here.’ He took her hand and lifted her onto her feet. He picked up her bag, shoes and the bottle. She held her phone.
‘Sleep.’
He used her key to unlock the door and led her downstairs. There she got her bearings. The main lights were on and everything was very bright. She looked back at Daniel. He was dressed differently. He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
‘You’re in pyjamas,’ she said and laughed.
‘I was getting ready for bed. It’s late.’
‘Did you wait up for me?’
‘No.’
She examined his face. It was blotchy. Like he’d been crying.
‘You’re funny-looking,’ she said, as she made her way into the bathroom. She didn’t close the door.
‘Thank you,’ he replied.
She pulled down her knickers and sat on the loo. He turned abruptly away as he heard the stream of pee hit the toilet water and began to climb the stairs.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, from the loo.
‘I was watching a film.’
‘Jack Reacher?’
‘No, Ben-Hur. It’s been going for hours.’
‘I liked Jack Reacher,’ continued Amy, from the loo. ‘I’ve told people I didn’t like it, but I did.’ Amy came out of the bathroom, lifting her dress over her head. She strode past him in her bra and knickers, saying, ‘I’m so fucking tired.’
‘Get into bed then,’ he said, staring at her as she pulled back the covers. He switched off the main lights. The bathroom light was still on. He turned on the light at the top of the stairs so he could find his way out, then crossed to turn the bathroom light off. When he turned back, he expected to find her under the covers but Amy was standing by the bed naked.
‘I thought I was repulsive.’
‘You are. You’re fat, old, bald and lecherous. You look like Bernard from Four Weddings and a Funeral minus the moustache. But you’re a man with a cock and that’s what I want right now.’
He took a step forward.
‘Turn off the light.’
‘I want to keep it on,’ he said.
‘Your view is better than mine, turn it off.’
*
Amy woke at 5 am. She switched on the bedside lamp. She was alone. She remembered what she had done and did not repent. She deserved degradation. She was an awful person. She discovered the bottle of vodka on the bedside table and took a swig. It burned. She took another. She kicked the bedsheets from her and looked down at her naked body.
He was all over her skin. Saliva, sweat and cum. He had worshipped her. Praised her with extravagant words. Thanked her as he touched her. Kissed her everywhere. It was like being the centrepiece of a religious ceremony. His breath was in her breath. She had given herself to him. To his lusts. He had taken her again and again, insatiably. She was disgusted by it all. His touch revolted her. His cock revolted her. His tongue revolted her. And yet she acquiesced to it all. She welcomed him again and again. Encouraged him, even. She had sucked his cock back to life so he could go again. Her body felt broken, beaten, diseased.
She rolled out of bed and pulled on her dirty underwear and then her jeans and a T-shirt from yesterday. She wouldn’t wash yet. She would keep him with her. Disgusting man. Disgusting woman. Grotesque man. Grotesque woman. There was no escape from the plain facts. She was an awful person. She had done awful things.
She started to cry, but made nothing of it. She wouldn’t give herself sympathy she didn’t deserve. The tears fell and she ignored them. She took another swig of vodka. The bottle was now empty.
After a pee, she opened her laptop. Helen’s manuscript. She had promised to give Helen her advice today. Stupid tears fell again. Everything she did was hateful. She didn’t want to be herself any longer. She didn’t have any advice. She only had what Julia wanted.
She wrote a short email to Liam. All business, no mention of personal matters.
Subject line: Urgent.
Read this and tell me if you think it has legs. It’s by a friend. I’m too close to it to tell. Don’t show anyone else. Delete when done. Get back to me today please. Urgent.
Amy attached the Word document of Version Helen then paused. Helen had expressly told her not to share the manuscript. She had been staying with Helen and Malcolm because of that rule. No digital copies were to leave the building.
Wiping away her tears, Amy pressed ‘Send’. There was no other way. She could never be trusted. She was an awful person.
She lay back on the bed. Her life had taken a wrong turn when she agreed to meet Helen. Everything was fine until then. Or at least she thought it had been fine. No, she corrected, it had been fine. Now it was shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Everywhere she turned there was judgement. Everything she did was judged. Helen and Malcolm judged. They looked down on Amy from on high and judged.
And they were harsh judges. They made her see.
She didn’t want to see.
She pictured Daniel and Gail and Alan and Josh and Julia and Liam and Max.
Painful tears fell. Her chest hurt. Her breath was short.
She tried to fight back. She tore the sheets off her bed and threw them into the corner of the room. But she couldn’t stop crying, so she took herself off to the shower and washed. Daniel was everywhere. Nothing would come off. No soap could clean her. Her tears fell, mingling with the hot water. She got out and dried herself. The tears would not dry.
She found her phone. Max had messaged back in the night.
There was no escape. The past was never gone.
She sent a reply: Yes.
Chapter 21
Did You Say a Million?
‘Jesus, Trevor, what time is it?’
‘Six. Why?’
‘It’s very early for a call.’
‘So, you’re awake aren’t you?’
‘I mightn’t have been.’
‘You mightn’t but you are. You’ve probably already had your first cup of tea.’
‘Trevor, you’ve probably woken Helen and Daniel.’
‘Daniel’s there?’
‘Yes, long story.’
‘I have time.’
‘I don’t. It’s bloody early, it must be important, why did you call?’
‘Look, stop complaining. I’ve been up since 4 am. Sleep at my age frightens me. The less I have the better. Listen to me. A friend from the US who is in touch with a friend in the UK who is friendly with one of the judges on the Booker let it slip that you’re most likely going to be on the shortlist.’
‘Idiots.’
‘But you know what this means for you?’
‘Trouble.’
‘Sales. I’ve been here before. Shortlisters sell. Front window of every good bookshop. Book clubs. It’s very fashionable to have read all of the shortlisters.’
‘When will it be announced?’
‘Soon. A few weeks. In September, I think. Sorry, Malcolm, I don’t seem to have the date with me here.’
‘I won’t do interviews.’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve gone viral. Do you know what that means?’
‘Do you?’
‘Not until Zoe explained it to me. Going viral is good, Malcolm. We’re seeing an increase in sales already. You’re a meme apparently.’
‘Is that good, too?’
‘Yes. And you know what? The podcast of the radio interview has a million downloads on iTunes. I’m quoting Zoe again. She left some notes with me. She’s a good girl. Her mother is still trouble, but by giving me such a clever granddaughter she redeemed herself.’
‘Did you say a million?’
‘A million. You’ve hit a nerve, Malcolm. That awful book is just what the young want.’
‘God.’
‘They’re reprinting, too. I had a note from Graham. Ten thousand. I’m so happy we went for the high-spec hardcover. That extra cost will pay bi
g dividends if this takes off. You might actually make some money out of this horrid little book. Wouldn’t that be a surprise.’
‘What sort of money?’
‘Proper money, Malcolm. You’ve uncovered the zeitgeist of our age. The kids love this stuff. You’re today’s Hermann Hesse. This is your Steppenwolf or Demian. You’re cool, Malcolm.’
‘Could it win?’
‘Don’t be daft. But that won’t matter. The kids like you, Malcolm. The kids! I’ll send you some examples of the memes. They’re very good. Funny. Your profile has never been this high. I personally thought your interview disgraceful. Shows how out of touch I am.’
‘I’m serious about interviews. I won’t do them. I’m busy.’
‘I don’t want you to do interviews, either. Let that first one stand. Let them get excited about it. Leave them wanting more. To them you’re an iconoclast. To them you’re a rebel, Malcolm.’
‘A rebel in a dressing gown and disposable pull-up incontinence pants.’
‘Rebels come in all shapes and sizes. Goodbye for now, Malcolm.’
Chapter 22
I’d Forgotten His Ways
I left the flat early. Just past seven in the morning.
I knew I’d be out all day and was dressed for all weather – trainers, jeans, T-shirt and my new favourite hoodie. Something I usually wore around the flat. It was too big for me and was really baggy but it had fleece on the inside and was comforting.
Before I left I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and popped my cap on. I checked myself in the mirror. My face looked puffy, and there were dark patches around the eyes. Fuck it. After the night I’d had, the point was to look sexless. Completely and utterly sexless. With my sunglasses on, I was anonymous, too. Perfect attire for meeting Max.
As an afterthought, I grabbed my gym bag, emptied it and threw in my laptop, purse, phone, some changes of underwear, my makeup bag, sandals and a fresh tee. Then I added a dress. Anything could happen. I might never return.
Helen and Malcolm were already awake; I could hear faint noises in the kitchen upstairs. Helen would be waiting for me to come up and talk to her. It wasn’t going to happen. I had to buy some time. Liam would get back to me, eventually. Even if he only read a few sample chapters while taking his morning shit. He was usually quick with his assessments. They weren’t always right but they generally pointed in the right direction, which was helpful.
And then I was on the street moving quickly. I felt hounded. No one was following me, but I could feel the weight of Helen’s reproaches. I could feel Daniel’s idiotic hopes. I could feel Malcolm’s censure. I could also feel the truth bearing down on me. The one I would not allow or admit.
I slowed my pace once I was out of view of Helen and Malcolm’s place and was nearing the tube station. I was meeting Max at the V&A at eleven. It was his favourite meeting place, being a short walk from his office. But I had hours to kill before then. My default time killer was the National Gallery, but it was too early.
The tube took me to Sloane Square where I had breakfast at Côte Brasserie. It wasn’t busy so I opened my laptop and did some work for Liam. I ordered another coffee to make it last, but the waitress eventually grew tired of my presence. I felt uncomfortable under her gaze and moved on.
I had never strolled down the King’s Road so early. None of the shops were open. It was depressing. I crossed the street to look at the books in Waterstones’ windows. There were our books: a neat little pile of the older titles in paperback beside a larger display of the latest hardcover, No Going Back Now. They were stickered with ‘No. 1 Bestseller’.
And in the next window were all of the Man Booker longlisters. Malcolm’s book was there. Each book was accompanied by a photo of the author and a quote. The standard author photo of Malcolm – taken about twenty years ago – was accompanied by a quote from the radio interview: ‘A Hundred Ways isn’t about anything. That’s why no one wanted to publish it. It’s just a tiny blood clot. That’s all it is. And it’s travelling along an artery towards our collective brain – culture. Now I just want to live long enough to see the surprise in the eye of mankind as the aneurysm strikes.’
I was about to keep walking when Waterstones opened. I went in.
I stupidly decided to buy the other longlisters. Thirteen books. And then made another poor decision, which was to walk. By the time I reached the V&A my arms were about to break. It wasn’t far, but I took a couple of wrong turns and the bags were heavy.
I arrived at the V&A early. I left the books in the cloakroom and walked through to the inner courtyard. This was my favourite spot in the V&A. Years ago, when Max would drag me here to exhibitions, if it was sunny, I would let him go around without me and I’d wait for him, lying in the sun with my feet in the paddling pool. Now, there were people already doing what I had once done. I stood looking for a spot when I heard my name.
Max was seated behind me, near the south wall at a small white table half in and half out of the sun. He was in the shade and the Penguin Modern Classic he’d been reading was resting open face down on his knee. I don’t know how he knew it was me. I had passed my reflection in a shop window and had stared at it. I thought I looked completely anonymous.
I’d forgotten his ways. He was always early. It caused him great anxiety to be late; to counter that he habitually arrived at least half an hour early for things. It used to drive me nuts and was the cause of many arguments. We’d often end up arriving separately.
There are moments in your life when you know you’ve taken the wrong path. Meeting Helen had been a wrong step. Seeing Max seated at a table with a coffee and a bottle of mineral water in the V&A garden was confirmation of my error. I felt convinced that we were meeting because of that choice. The life I was living now with Helen and Malcolm was a shadow of the life I had lived with Max. The same centre of gravity. The same ambitions. I had re-entered his world by stepping through Helen’s front door.
But I thought I’d left all that behind. I’d put years, millions of words and many men between me and the Amy who hung on every word that left his lips.
I didn’t go to him now. I stood firm and stared.
I’d forgotten how petite he was. He’d grown in my memory. He wasn’t exactly short – he was taller than me – but he was small: slight hands, thin wrists, narrow shoulders, no hips. Not an ounce of fat on him. He was wearing dark suit trousers, brown leather belt, matching brogues and a pink shirt. His suit jacket was hanging on the back of his seat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his top button was undone, which was his concession to the sunny day.
There was a moment when I thought I would just walk off. He was suddenly alien. I looked at his face. His lips. His eyes. The slight stubble. He wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the Max I’d known. The Max I knew didn’t need to shave. The Max I knew had a light in his eyes, an eternal optimism. A hint of laughter on his lips.
He must have sensed I was edging towards flight. ‘Amy,’ he said again, and stood.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It was a mistake. I saw him naked. I saw that slight figure standing at the end of the bed. The pale skin. The patches of dark hair on his chest and the thick pubic hair. I remembered his cock and the weight of his body on mine. I remembered his hand on my hip as he slept, the nights in his arms while we read. I remembered how he held my hand on the street. I remembered how I had wanted him.
I opened my eyes. There were tears in them, but I brushed them aside. He wasn’t the Max I had known. He was older. He was more reserved. He was a stranger.
I placed my sunglasses on the table, read the title of the book, Extinction by Thomas Bernhard, then I sat opposite him in the sun.
‘There is no us, so don’t even mention the past,’ he said straight off. He might have slapped me. That was the effect. My cheeks reddened. I stared at him in disbelief.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ he added. I shook my head. Still smarting.
The hoodie was too warm now. B
ut I couldn’t take it off. I really didn’t want to be me in front of him.
‘You’re different,’ I said.
‘Of course I’m fucking different,’ he said. He looked at me very directly. ‘And you know why.’
There was no denying anything he said.
‘You owe me,’ he added.
I knew what it was for him to say this. He didn’t want anything from me back then or since. Something had changed.
I nodded.
‘The magazine is in trouble. I need something big. Something that will sell physical copies and something that will get people to beyond the paywall online. An article that might get syndicated in the US.’
‘Surely one article won’t save you if you’re in financial trouble.’
‘The backers are getting anxious. A small uptick in sales would settle them down and give me another six months. It’ll also raise my profile and give me a platform to leap from if it came to that.’
‘So you want access to Liam?’
‘I can get access to Liam, for Christ’s sake. Anyone could. He’s on tour most of the year. He’s overexposed. No, I don’t want access to Liam.’
‘What do you want then?’
‘I want the black man.’
At first I didn’t catch his meaning. Then I remembered Val McDermid’s book launch.
‘Liam doesn’t see things like that.’
‘Bullshit.’
It was bullshit. ‘Why would he talk to you about it?’
‘Why not? Especially if you introduced the idea to him. You know, while sucking his cock.’
‘Hard to talk with cock in your mouth.’
‘You know what I mean.’
I turned around to look over at the children playing in the fountain. This wasn’t going the way I imagined. He was being brutal, something he didn’t know how to be when I had known him.
My face still turned away, I said, ‘Liam despises guys like you. He says you’re the cock-blockers of literature.’
‘Is that what he says?’
‘No, I was paraphrasing.’
‘What does it mean – cock-blockers of literature?’