by John Purcell
I opened my eyes and lifted myself onto one elbow. There was a group of boys, not older than twenty, seated close to me. They hadn’t been there before. All of them were looking at me. I smiled and lay back again. Let them look. They won’t find the courage to say anything. Even though I’m alone. Even though I smiled. They’ll find courage too late.
When I next opened my eyes they were gone.
As lovely as it was lying there in the garden with my feet in the water, I had to get back to Helen, who was waiting very patiently. I had nothing to fear in returning. Daniel wasn’t a threat anymore. My self-loathing had disarmed him. I knew what I was going to say to Helen, too. Liam had helped there. I knew now my initial impressions were the correct ones.
I went straight to the cloakroom for my books. Max was there. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
He was handing the attendant his chip when I spoke, and replied, as he turned around, ‘I was back in the office before I realised I’d left my laptop here.’
I could see his brain adjust to my change in clothes. He was looking at me in the way I had prevented him doing by wearing my jeans and hoodie.
‘You look amazing, Amy.’
I took the compliment, as it seemed completely involuntary on his part. He was probably wishing the words back in his mouth as soon as they were spoken. But they were said. I’d heard them.
‘You look the same,’ I said.
I handed my chip over and the man returned with my Waterstones bags. He handed them across. They were still heavy. Which I should have guessed they’d be.
‘Are you going back to the office?’ I asked as we exited the building.
‘Yeah, what are you going to do? Have you had lunch?’
‘No, but I’m running late. I’m going to deliver Helen Owen news she won’t want to hear.’
We were on the front steps. He had started to edge away in the direction of his office.
‘You’re working with Helen Owen? That’s a change for you.’
‘That’s why I can’t introduce you to Liam: you have to be an arse about everything.’
‘What did I say?’ He took a few steps back towards me.
‘That’s a change for you,’ I said.
‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘But I heard it that way and so will Liam. There’s an assumption in your tone that everyone agrees with your assessment of the writing world, in your classification system.’
‘Most do.’
‘Most don’t and I have the bank balance to prove it.’
‘Most serious-minded people do. Helen Owen would. You once did.’
I almost smacked him in the face. It was a very strong impulse, too. I stared at him, smarting from his words.
‘You’re wrong about Helen. She’s coming around.’
‘Under your influence, I suppose. Wait, is she still married to Malcolm Taylor?’
‘Yes,’ I said and put the bags down. They were cutting off the circulation to my fingers. One of the bags fell over and the top two books fell out. Paul Beatty’s The Sellout and Hot Milk by Deborah Levy. Max bent down quickly to pick them up and set the bag against the step so it couldn’t fall again.
‘You’ve got the entire Booker longlist here. It’s a bit late in the day to be reading this sort of stuff, isn’t it?’
‘Max, you can go fuck yourself.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘Oh, fuck off. You’re a shit. Why should I do anything for you?’
‘Because you owe me.’
‘Bullshit. I don’t owe you anything. Really. If I’m the person you think I am, I should tell you to go to hell.’
‘You’re going to get angry at me? You don’t have the right. You broke my trust and my heart. You fucking destroyed me. I’m not the man I might have been. I’m damaged. And you damaged me.’
Just at this moment we were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Alan, whom I hadn’t seen since he proposed in the Sound Bar.
‘Calm down, kids!’ he said, pushing his smiling face between us both.
Max and I took a moment to adjust to this change in direction.
Alan shook Max’s hand and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
‘Have you been up to the exhibition? What did you think?’
‘What exhibition?’ I asked.
‘The one my firm is sponsoring,’ he replied, and pointed to a banner hanging not five feet from both of us. ‘Legally Binding’, it said, ‘The Accoutrements of Law Down the Centuries’.
‘No, we just stopped by for a coffee and a chat,’ said Max.
Alan’s face fell. ‘Well, come up now and I’ll show you around. It’s very exciting.’
Max shook his head. ‘I have to get back to the office.’
‘I have to go, too, Alan. Sorry.’
Max turned and walked away.
Alan watched him go and then turned to me and said, ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you two together. But I gather it wasn’t a pleasant chat.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘You look lovely. Much fuller in the face than when I last saw you. Less gaunt. Did you take my advice after all?’
‘No, I’ve been living a half-life with two septuagenarians.’
‘It suits you.’
I didn’t say anything. I was looking at his face. He had so many opinions about me and how I looked. But his face was just a face. He wasn’t a handsome man, yet he wasn’t what I’d call ugly. He was just Alan.
‘Hey, I re-read your novel the other day.’
‘That’s creepy.’
‘I missed you. It’s still brilliant.’
‘It’s angsty crap. I have to go.’
I started to move away but stopped short, caught in a fog of thoughts about Max.
‘Have I always been a fucking bitch?’ I asked, and then added, before Alan had time to formulate his response, ‘No, don’t answer.’
Alan breathed in deeply and scratched the tip of his nose.
‘I mean I must have been to fuck Liam, right?’
‘Max wasn’t right for you. You weren’t as happy together as you now make out.’
‘What the fuck would you know?’
Alan looked off in the direction Max went. He was clearly hurt by what I’d just said. But he’d voiced something that rang too true after talking to Max.
‘Was I different then? With Max? Was I a different person?’
Alan sighed and brushed back his hair. ‘You were younger, that’s all. You made some mistakes. We all did. You need to forgive yourself.’
‘Stop. You sound like Dr Phil.’
‘You didn’t give yourself time to find out who you were. You went straight from school into a serious relationship with Max. And then you moved in together. It was a big commitment.’
‘It was the most natural thing in the world.’
‘You need to stop romanticising your time with Max. You wouldn’t put up with his shit now. You’re a strong woman. Max was always . . .’
I waited for him to continue, but he just looked at me blankly.
‘Max was what?’
‘I can’t find the right word. “Controlling” isn’t right. Neither is “manipulative”. But he was always trying to improve you.’
I thought about this for a moment. He was always trying to get me to read the books he liked. But then I pictured him reading Twilight because I’d asked him to. Remembering the pained expression he had worn then made me smile now.
‘I was always trying to change him, too,’ I said. ‘We didn’t agree on a damned thing.’
‘You’re complete opposites,’ agreed Alan.
‘And it was perfect.’
‘Then why did you fuck Liam?’
I stood processing what he had said. I didn’t have an answer. After a time, I said, ‘You’re a bastard.’
I moved off towards the road. ‘Don’t forget your books,’ he said, lifting the bags and handing them to me. Then he said, ‘Have you though
t any more about what I said?’
I had no idea what he was talking about.
He pulled the little box from his pocket and held it up.
‘Really? You’re bringing that up again now?’
‘You never return my calls. You never answer any of my messages.’
‘It feels like a lifetime ago. It really does. So much has happened.’
‘Well?’
I’d been keeping an eye on the road. A cab was coming. ‘Be real, Alan. Stop with this fantasy. I’m bad news. Forget me.’
I hailed the cab and, clutching my bags, got in, leaving a visibly bemused Alan on the steps waving goodbye.
Chapter 25
So You Think I Should Publish It?
When Amy entered, Daniel was photographing Malcolm’s papers with a digital camera and tripod. Helen was watching him.
‘Oh, sorry, I thought you were alone.’
‘Daniel has just made my job much easier. I’d been scanning each document in and it was taking forever. This is much better.’
‘Hello, Amy,’ said Daniel, turning and trying very hard to look casual. He even perched on the edge of the desk, but found that uncomfortable and stood straight.
Amy thought he looked more like Bernard from Four Weddings and a Funeral than ever.
‘Hello, Daniel,’ she replied, looking at him, trying to convince herself that what had happened had happened, so implausible did it seem at that moment.
Helen looked from one to the other and had her suspicions confirmed. Daniel’s whole manner had shifted immediately on Amy entering the room and Amy was unusually self-conscious. Something had happened between them.
There was a moment of silence. Not quite silence: snoring could be heard through the open door. Malcolm taking a nap, presumably.
Daniel felt he had to say something, so asked, ‘Nice day?’ but couldn’t muster the warmth needed to make it seem natural. He’d convinced himself during the hours of her absence that nothing further would ever happen between them. The joy he’d experienced then only heightened his self-loathing. She’d offered herself to him out of pity and that was that. She was right to: he was pitiable.
He had since renounced all claims to her.
But the sight of her in her summer dress had shaken his resolve.
‘Yes, thank you, Daniel.’
Her feet were bare, he noticed, revealing her to be a true member of the household. She was perfection.
‘Doesn’t she look lovely, Helen?’ he said, weakly. He had never desired anyone more in his life. She was life. Unless he was suffering under cruel delusion, he had kissed her body. He had tasted her. He had fucked her. It was an extraordinary thing to have done. He wanted to reach out and touch her now. The slightest touch would serve as proof that it had happened.
‘Yes, she always looks lovely. It’s her burden,’ said Helen, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Are you ready to talk about my book, Amy?’
‘Yes, I am. I’m so sorry it has taken this long. Should we discuss it here or down in the flat?’
‘I’d like to stay here. Daniel, can we have a few minutes?’
Daniel looked from Amy back to his mother. And caught an unmistakable expression of disgust on Helen’s face, which she hid by quickly turning away.
‘I’ll bring up some drinks,’ said Daniel, persisting where it was hopeless.
‘No, we’ll come down when we’re finished,’ said Helen.
It was extinguished.
Daniel glanced at Amy and then left. He had hoped to brush past her, but she was quick to move well away from his trajectory.
Helen followed her son and closed the door behind him.
‘Well?’ asked Helen, turning.
‘What are your priorities?’ asked Amy, sitting on Helen’s desk. She pushed the dress between her thighs and placed her bare feet on the seat of the chair.
Helen watched her. Was about to ask her not to sit on Malcolm’s papers, but reconsidered. She was old, Amy was young, and it was too exhausting to teach youth how to behave. Amy’s youth and beauty and her casual disrespect angered her.
‘Don’t talk to me about priorities,’ she said, crossly. ‘What are your thoughts about the three manuscripts? You’ve read all three and more of my work.’
‘All three manuscripts would find a publisher, Helen. If it were up to me, I’d publish all three. There’s great value in them being read together. Variations on the same theme. So different in their way, but circling the same big ideas.’
‘But you don’t have your way, do you?’
‘No. There are considerations here that have nothing to do with art.’
Helen sat down on the couch by the door. She’d known this was coming. The weeks that had passed, the agonising wait, had been futile. She had only postponed the inevitable.
‘Version one is very commercial,’ said Amy, thinking of Liam’s assessment. ‘It will appeal to the largest audience. Version two is literary, and unless it wins an award, its audience is limited.’
‘And version three?’
‘Version three is sublime.’
‘And that isn’t good in your world, is it?’
Amy thought about this for a moment. It sounded like something Max would say to her. But Helen wasn’t being intentionally rude. She was asking in good faith, asking Amy about the commercial viability of her novel as she would ask a foreigner about the customs of their country.
‘I don’t think Julia will recognise its potential, so no. But I may be wrong.’
‘To make all of this go away I should give them version one.’
Amy nodded. ‘That’s the one sure path out of this mess.’
Both women sighed. Amy on having to repeat what she had said on day one. Helen on hearing her sentence.
‘I’m sorry, Helen.’
‘I’ll lose this house if I don’t publish it. I’ll lose my reputation if I do.’
Amy almost mentioned her leaner and meaner rewrite of version one, but held her tongue. She only had a digital copy. What if Helen wanted to see it then and there? Her duplicity would be exposed. She avoided Helen’s eyes by scanning the bookshelves while concluding that her version was irrelevant to the current discussion. Her edits had only increased its commercial appeal, the very thing Helen was struggling to deal with.
Instead Amy said, ‘I wonder if they’d publish it under a pseudonym?’
‘I have considered that.’
‘And?’
‘Robert Galbraith.’
Amy smiled.
‘They always find out.’
‘Why not own it then, like John Banville? He won the Booker but writes crime under the name Benjamin Black.’
‘And he hasn’t been a contender for the Booker since.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Not in itself. His recent work mightn’t be any good. But I tend to doubt that. Writers of his stamp generally get better with age.’
‘Like you and Malcolm.’
Helen didn’t say anything to this, and said instead, ‘But by writing both literary fiction and genre he has confused matters. It’s just easier for any critic to assume the worst.’
‘Surely it doesn’t work like that?’
‘Are you aware of all of your prejudices? Do you know how they were formed? I don’t know how all mine were formed. I’m sure I have them. They make up my taste in literature to some extent. I don’t know whether, were I to read John Banville now, knowing he also writes crime fiction, my judgement would be sound.’
Helen stopped and looked up at the bookcases near her head.
‘But don’t listen to me. I’ve had theory after theory about the Booker and their judgements. When your best work isn’t recognised, year after year, you start to let the whole thing get to you. You end up a little cracked.’
‘Does it play on your mind so much?’
‘How are any of us to tell if we’re writing well? I’ve been fortunate. I’ve had Malcolm Taylor’s opinion through
out my writing career. One of the country’s best literary critics shares my life. So I shouldn’t grumble. Because of him, I generally know when I’m doing good work. I’m in a better position than most. But he’s also my husband. And is the man who says I look beautiful when I can see my own face in the mirror. So I seek the opinion of my peers. But my peers aren’t reading everything I publish, just as I’m not reading everything they write. They’re probably doing what I’m doing, re-reading the books they read when they were younger – Proust, Richardson, Eliot, et cetera.’
‘So the next best thing is the Booker?’
‘Yes, the judges sift through the recent writing and give a lucky few writers a nod. Which is the best we can hope for.’
‘Are writers generally supportive? Have you ever sent fan mail to a writer?’
‘Yes, and I’ve received my fair share, too. I wrote to William Trevor, Iris Murdoch, Doris Lessing and others. Patrick White, too. Magnificent writer. All but forgotten now. Many of them I stayed in contact with. Oh, and then there was the letter I wrote to John Fowles! It was right after I read The French Lieutenant’s Woman, back in the early seventies. I completely understand why he ignored my letter. It was a declaration of my love for him as well as the novel. I basically offered myself to him.’ Helen laughed.
‘The French Lieutenant’s Woman is one of my ex’s favourite books. Max. But he could never decide if it was literature or not. It tormented him.’
‘Of course it is!’ said Helen passionately.
‘Max is suspicious of success.’
‘So am I, but The French Lieutenant’s Woman broke all the rules. It was caught in that no man’s land between commercial fiction and literature. Indefinable, really. But if pressed, I’d have to say it is literature.’
‘I think that’s where your new novel sits, on the literary edge of commercial fiction. It has bestseller written all over it, but it will also make people think. And because of that it will sell extremely well. I’m sure of it. Most people won’t know whether it’s literature or not. And if it’s a success it will draw thousands more people to the rest of your work.’