The Girl On the Page

by John Purcell

  ‘It’s brutal. Visceral. I’m fucking loving it.’

  ‘It’s on the longlist with Malcolm.’

  ‘I know. I’ve read Malcolm’s book, too.’

  I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Fucking hated it,’ he said, smiling broadly.

  I laughed, and said, ‘Each to their own.’ Then, taking a sip of the champagne, ‘Tell me about your new house.’

  ‘Gail’s new house.’

  ‘Okay then, tell me about Gail’s new house.’

  ‘I’d rather bend you over that table and fuck you till you pass out.’

  The way he does that. It’s like a lightning bolt through me: the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes. There is nothing like it. I shouldn’t be so susceptible to it but I am. I suppose the force of it is compounded by the hundreds of times he has fucked me into oblivion.

  There was time to breathe. He put down his glass. That gave me a second to gather myself. He stepped towards me and took hold of my wrist. I took a step back. His movement brought with it his scent. It was overpowering, gorgeous and I had missed it.

  ‘Let me say something.’

  ‘After.’

  I looked down. I could see his cock thicken in his shorts, which weren’t big enough for him. His cock pressed against the fabric.

  ‘Fuck, Liam. Stop. I promised Gail I wouldn’t.’ I reached out and pushed against his chest with all my might. He didn’t move. My hand looked small and frail against the broad mass of flesh.

  ‘Wouldn’t what?’ he asked, grabbing my hip and spinning me around. He pulled my body against him, his cock pressing against my back, one hand on my hip, the other grabbing my breast.

  ‘She knows. She’s always known.’

  ‘Knows what?’ He lifted my dress. And I felt myself being pushed forward. I steadied myself by grabbing the edge of his writing desk.

  ‘She knows about us. She promised not to leave you, if I promised not to fuck you.’

  ‘She doesn’t know anything. She played you and won.’ He began to pull down my G-string. He did it slowly, crouching as he reached my calves. I could feel his hot breath against my butt.

  ‘She knows. And if she asks me, I won’t be able to lie. Not anymore.’ I lifted my left leg and he pulled my G-string over my stiletto.

  ‘Don’t lie, I don’t care. She’s threatened to leave a million times. But she hasn’t. She fucking loves that place in Holland Park.’ He parted my legs and pressed his face between them.

  ‘Oh fuck, Liam. You’re a bastard. A fucking bastard.’ His tongue entered me from behind. I lowered my head and rested it in my arms. ‘I’m a fucking awful person.’

  Liam stood, ran the tip of his cock against my wet lips, then grabbed my hips.

  He said, ‘Yes, you are,’ as his cock slid into me deliberately slowly.

  *

  I lay on the bed as he showered. After a while, I reached to the floor and picked up my dress.

  My life isn’t perfect, I thought. I’m not perfect. I’ve done things I regret. But Gail can go fuck herself, really. Why should she dictate my pleasures? She married a man who turned out to be a bastard. Her doing, not mine. I fuck him and get out. Bastards are lovers, not husbands. Rule number one. Everyone knows. She knows it, too. She wants her cake and all.

  And why would I give this up? Why wouldn’t I want him to destroy me whenever he wanted to. He just came twice. I’m covered with the stuff. It’s on my face, in my hair, on my fingers. I rubbed it all over my breasts. He’s a sex god. He knows how to make me come with cock alone. I shudder at his touch. His cock was designed for me. I can’t resist, and shouldn’t be expected to.

  And we have a brilliant working relationship. We’re successful and this is how we got there.

  What is a wife in all of this? Nothing. Nothing.

  Fucking Liam is outside normal life. It doesn’t count. It’s part of the creative process. Necessary to it, even. Gail said as much herself.

  Max hadn’t thought so, though, when he found out.

  I climbed off the bed, threw on my dress and began looking for my things.

  ‘I’d leave her and marry you,’ he said, emerging from the bathroom door as I was stepping into my G-string. ‘You know that, right. You’re the woman I should be with. You’re the one I can’t stop thinking about. You’re the one who inspires me. I do all this for you. You challenge me to do it. To be better and better.’

  I went into the bathroom to avoid having to say anything in reply. I checked myself in the mirror.

  I always look my best, I think, just fucked. My dress creased, hair messed, face smudged, cum on my skin. There’s something about my eyes, too. A cock-crazed glint. And my lips are fuller, as well. Sucking cock beats collagen. My movements are different. They’re jittery, quick, dangerous. In stilettos the effect is devastating.

  I looked at what I was wearing. I’d never intended to keep my pledge to Gail, had I?

  I left the bathroom, grabbed my bag and checked my phone. I was consciously ignoring him. I needed to go. I downed the last of the champagne and turned. He was stretched out naked on the bed. His cock was beat, but lay semi-erect against his thigh.

  ‘You’re a gorgeous specimen, Liam.’ I took a photo with my phone.

  ‘Delete it.’

  ‘No. It’s mine’

  ‘Delete it!’ he said, almost shouting.

  ‘I’ll crop it. No face. Just that gorgeous body and that hardworking cock.’ I turned the phone to him to show what was left. He seemed mollified. ‘It’s a gorgeous cock, Liam,’ I added. Then I saw it move. ‘Did that thing just stir?’

  ‘You’re leaving too soon. I have fight in me yet.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, watching his cock thicken. ‘I do.’

  ‘Only you can do this to me. No one else. How many times have I come?’

  ‘I’ve really got to go.’

  ‘You can’t leave this,’ he said, gripping his cock. ‘I know you. You’re thorough.’

  He rolled off the bed and approached me. I didn’t move. His cock was hard now. He took my phone out of my hand, held it up and started filming me.

  ‘Suck my cock, Amy.’

  ‘You’re going to film me, Liam?’

  ‘Yes. Suck it good for posterity.’

  He’d never done this before. This was new. I’d been filmed hundreds of times, but never my face and never by him. Here he was saying my name and filming my face. Madness.

  But it was hot.

  *

  He was leaning against the doorframe watching me tidy myself up in the bathroom again. He was naked. There wasn’t much for me to do; he hadn’t even bothered to undress me. After I sucked his cock he had filmed himself fucking me from behind. He’d just lifted my dress, pulled my G-string aside and fucked me hard and fast. I’m certain the neighbours heard that one. The windows were open, it took him a long time to come and he was brutal. By the time he came, I was screaming with every heavy thrust.

  ‘Marry me,’ he said.

  ‘Not a chance.’ My hand was shaking as I tried to reapply my lipstick.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘So you’re saying no.’

  ‘I’m saying no,’ I said, looking at him in the mirror.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re a bastard to women.’

  ‘I’ll change.’

  ‘You already have. From nice guy to bastard.’

  He smiled.

  ‘And we don’t love each other,’ I continued. ‘Love is important.’

  ‘I love you, Amy.’

  ‘Said your cock.’

  ‘Seriously, I love you. Not being with you for so long has made me realise it.’

  ‘Being fucked for three hours made you realise it. You’re under the spell of my cunt. When I’m gone, spray some air freshener, take a cold shower, watch some football and all will be well.’

  ‘Don’t play with me, Amy. I’m trying to tell you I love you.’<
br />
  ‘I know what your love looks like. You love Gail. That’s love and that’s the best you have to give. You may love me as a friend, as a fuck buddy, but you love Gail with all your heart.’

  I left the bathroom and picked up my phone. I’d arranged to see an estate agent about selling my studio. I quickly texted him that I’d be late. Then took a quick peek at the video Liam had just made. Fuck.

  I suddenly felt myself again. This is the world I belong in, I thought. This is my natural habitat.

  Liam was all sincerity.

  ‘I love you as you are,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Well, that’s a problem because I don’t love you. I love to work with you. I love to fuck you. I love to be your slut. Your porn star,’ I said, showing him the footage he’d taken of me taking his big cock all the way into my mouth. ‘But I don’t love you.’

  He looked glum for a moment, then said, ‘Love’s not everything. We understand one another. That’s so important. We share goals. We’re both ambitious and creative. We could have an open relationship. You could fuck hot waiters and homeless guys and I wouldn’t say a thing. We could move to France or Italy. Get out of all of this and live large.’

  ‘You’re not that guy, Liam. You think you are. But you’re not. You want a family. You want a home to come back to, with a loving, chaste wife and adoring kids. You’re that guy, really. This is my fault. If I hadn’t come into your life you wouldn’t have a mistress – it wouldn’t even have occurred to you that you could have one. It certainly wouldn’t have occurred to you to fuck your fans, publicists and fellow writers. I brought this to you. I corrupted you.’

  ‘We corrupted each other.’

  ‘No. I kissed you first. Remember how innocent it all was in the beginning? Even if you had wanted to kiss me, you would never have tried. I kissed you. And you kissed me back, but then our feelings of guilt kept us from doing anything more for weeks.’

  ‘I wanted to.’

  ‘But you didn’t. And you wouldn’t have done anything more. You married your childhood sweetheart. You were a good boy. You were a soldier. You had principles. I fucked you and Gail over. You don’t love me. You shouldn’t even like me.’

  ‘But I do.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate. Try to forget it and I’ll try to forget it, too. Because I don’t want to know that you think you love me. It will make things awkward. You need to be the bastard I’ve taught you to be. You lose that, you lose me.’

  And with that I left. I felt mean. I felt ungrateful. He’d fucked me so well. But I also felt right. And although I had betrayed Gail again, I had fought for her, too. He didn’t love me, he loved Gail. He needed to hear it. He needed a slap. We had something unique and we were fucking lucky to have it. But it wasn’t unbreakable.

  Chapter 30

  Too Good for Them

  The pages of Malcolm’s notebook were fluttering in the breeze. The beautiful afternoon was turning bad and people were packing up their picnics and collecting children. The park hadn’t been very busy, but there had been enough activity for Malcolm to forget his purpose and give himself over to people watching. But now the temperature had been dropping steadily and the breeze had turned to gusts. When the sun went behind one of the fast-moving clouds, Malcolm felt distinctly uncomfortable. But he did not rise from his bench.

  Recently, he’d been writing more and more. He was being compelled to write. He took no enjoyment from the work. In fact, he was feeling deeply unhappy. The book was about loss, and it was affecting him terribly. It was difficult, but the words flowed.

  He placed his hands on the fluttering pages of the notebook Daniel had given him. The pencilled words he saw there depressed him. Pages and pages of them. They were all about a writer called Malcolm Taylor who had been married to the writer Helen Owen. Malcolm was having great difficulty coming to terms with Helen’s death, but was having more difficulty because he had decided he needed to write about it. Memoir seemed too close, so he had decided to write a novel. But he couldn’t decide upon a name for his fictional Helen, so he had begun calling her Helen. Having done that, he had begun calling his character Malcolm, because it was easier. Yet it was a novel, and not a memoir. That was decided and unchangeable. But by doing this the lines between fact and fiction were blurred. And the Malcolm in the book was succumbing to depression.

  Malcolm closed the notebook. He needed to get out of the wind. His phone rang.

  ‘Malcolm Taylor.’

  ‘I haven’t caught you at a bad time, have I?’

  ‘No, Trevor, I’m at the park.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a while and wondered if anything was wrong.’

  ‘No, no. I’ve been writing.’

  ‘The same thing?’

  ‘Yes. It’s very dark and complicated. You’ll probably hate it.’

  ‘You don’t sound too good there, Malcolm. Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m just so sad,’ he said, and tears sprang unexpectedly from his eyes. ‘The man in my book has lost his wife and has no one left in the world,’ he said, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his eyes. He felt awful, like his heart was broken. He started to sob and hung up the phone. A woman passing by stopped to ask if he was okay.

  ‘Sorry, I’m fine. I lost my wife recently. I’m fine. Thank you.’

  She touched his shoulder, smiled and walked on.

  Malcolm’s phone rang again.

  ‘Malcolm, we got cut off.’

  ‘My fault, sorry. Someone was asking directions.’

  ‘Now, Malcolm, are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘No, I’m not all right. I don’t know what I’m doing with this book. It’s drilling a hole right through my heart. It’s killing me.’

  ‘Then stop writing it!’ demanded Trevor down the line.

  ‘I can’t. It’s good. Very good.’

  ‘But if it’s causing you distress . . .’

  ‘I can tough it out. I have to. I have no choice. It comes to me with such force. It’s so real. So painful.’

  ‘Can you send me some pages?’

  ‘No, no. No one is seeing this one. It’s private. I don’t even know if I’ll get it published.’

  ‘But you said it was good.’

  ‘Too good for them.’

  ‘I see.’

  The clouds had completely obliterated the sunshine and the park was looking bleak.

  ‘Malcolm, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll call you when I hear whether it’s true you’ve been shortlisted. I’ll hear later today or tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Trevor. Look after yourself.’

  The park was empty and Malcolm sat shivering as the first drops of rain fell. The tears had returned and his shoulders rose and fell with his sobs. Minutes passed before he suddenly shouted, ‘Stop it, man!’, gathered himself and stood up. He tucked the notebook under his arm and, as the rain fell more heavily, hurried out of the park.

  Chapter 31

  You Know Me Better Than Anyone

  Max and Amy talk on the phone:

  ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Max?’

  ‘I’ve been told Malcolm Taylor is on the shortlist.’

  ‘We all heard that rumour days ago.’

  ‘We all . . .’

  ‘Malcolm, Helen and I.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to let me know?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘I told you why. He’s not doing interviews.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I need something big to keep the magazine going.’

  ‘Which is what to me?’

  ‘From what I’ve heard he’s the last widely recognisable author on the list. Coetzee and Strout are out. You just get me into the house. I’ll do the rest.’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m going about this all wrong. I’m under a lot of stress. I need your help.’
/>   ‘I spoke to Liam. He’s willing to talk to you.’

  ‘Liam? Oh, thanks, but right now, Malcolm is the main game. It would make my reputation if I could secure the interview he won’t give.’

  ‘But I spoke to Liam. He’s expecting —’

  ‘That story is on the back burner. Why are you being like this?’

  ‘You tell me, you read my diary, you know me better than anyone.’

  Silence.

  ‘Please, Amy, the things I said at the V&A were unfair. I was angry. Hurt.’

  Silence.

  ‘The diary captures you at your worst, it’s true, but it also reveals you for who you really are.’

  Silence.

  ‘I told you I re-read the diary because I wanted to hate you. That isn’t true. Not really.’

  Silence.

  ‘Amy? Amy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m trying to say I’m sorry.’

  Silence.

  ‘Amy?’

  ‘Be here tomorrow at six. I’ll message the address.’

  Chapter 32

  He Couldn’t Tell

  Daniel had been woken early by the sound of raised voices. When he went out to investigate he realised it was much earlier than he’d supposed. The house was still dark. He switched on the landing light and went upstairs. He found his parents’ door closed and heard the distinctive sound of Malcolm’s snoring. When he returned to Malcolm’s office, where he’d been sleeping on the sofa bed, he saw that it was exactly 4 am. He sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the night.

  He could hear voices. And then laughter.

  The noise wasn’t coming from the house, but from the street. Malcolm’s office overlooked the street. Daniel turned off his phone, which was giving off a low glow, and went to the window. Malcolm’s desk was in the way and he had to squeeze in beside it.

  There was an Aston Martin blocking the street, headlights on, idling with a low rumble. A black man was standing by the open driver’s door resting his elbows on the roof of the car, talking to someone who was too close to the front of the house for Daniel to see.

  He pressed his head against the glass, but saw no one. He guessed it was Amy.