The Girl On the Page

by John Purcell

  None of these companies make it easy to escape. They kept asking me if I was sure. Yes, I’m sure. Are you sure, you’re sure? Yes. This is irreversible. I know.

  But it felt good killing them off one by one.

  My phone was just a phone. And it was on silent.

  I was free to do whatever I liked. I had the money to do what I pleased. But most days I lay on the bed in the flat watching Netflix on my laptop. I was binge-watching episodes of Orange is the New Black. And when I was finished, I planned to move on to House of Cards. Bingeing on TV was something I had never done before. But I quickly developed an insatiable appetite for it.

  I didn’t have to be idle. There was work for me to do. But since I’d given my phone a lobotomy, whenever I opened my email on my laptop I clicked highlight all and, after a cursory glance at the sender and subject lines, pressed delete.

  I saw emails from publishing friends asking for favours. People I’d never let down before. But I didn’t care. What had they ever done for me? Nothing. What did they know of my life? Nothing. There were emails from Liam and even a couple from Julia. Another from Josh. But they were deleted with the rest. I even saw an email from Max. Delete. He had my number.

  Helen had been just as inactive, but she had more class, and had been binge-reading Jane Austen and E.M. Forster. Malcolm wasn’t idle exactly; he was finally sorting through his books. But it was taking a very long time. Every volume was drenched in memories.

  We were all in some kind of holding pattern until the Booker winner was announced.

  In my Netflix-induced stupor, I’d been wearing yoga leggings and hoodies. A few days before the Booker dinner I realised I had nothing to wear on the night. I’d forgotten that most of my clothes were packed in boxes in a storage unit. I ran through the truncated wardrobe I’d accumulated while staying in the flat and found it entirely unsuitable for the event.

  I didn’t want to leave the flat, but I had to. There was no avoiding it. I didn’t want to go alone. I went upstairs and begged Helen to help me choose a dress for the night. She lay down her copy of Howards End and looked at me long and hard. Then nodded.

  We took a cab to New Bond Street and Helen followed me from shop to shop, offering me little help. She looked tired and out of place. Thankfully, I was known in most of the shops we visited, so we were treated well and Helen was made comfortable while they fussed around me. The money I had spent in Mayfair over the last few years was obscene. And today I was determined to be excessive.

  Helen actually gasped when the assistant at Hermes mentioned the price of the coat I was buying. Then, a little later, she needed smelling salts when I bought a few pairs of shoes. I just couldn’t decide on an evening gown, though. Nothing seemed right. I wanted to make a statement. The literary world was so dull. When they dressed up for black-tie events like this, they were even worse. The women were forced out of their comfort zones and chose outlandish gowns more suited to school formals. I didn’t want something full length, though all of the shop assistants in Vuitton and Givenchy tried to talk me into full-length gowns. Some of them were divine but I didn’t want class, I wanted eye-catching. And leg was going to do that. I needed something short. A cocktail dress. But nothing I tried on was suitable, though Helen eyed each with the same mild approval as the last.

  We barely said two words to each other while this was going on. So I was surprised when we stopped for a bit of lunch and she said, ‘If he wins, then my sacrifice will be for nothing.’

  I was trying to arrange my shopping bags under the table while weighing up whether I would risk the cold and go bare legged, so didn’t quite get her meaning at first. Shopping makes an idiot out of me.

  ‘Sacrifice?’

  As soon as I said it I comprehended. But it was too late then. And I could see it in Helen’s face. I had messed up.

  ‘He won’t win,’ I said, too late.

  ‘Trevor said A Hundred Ways is already selling very well. Better than anything Malcolm or I have ever written before. He’s already starting to make good money from it. Trevor’s granddaughter is talking to US publishers. The German rights have been sold. Polish, Slovakian, Russian and Greek rights are in negotiations. A Booker win will make Malcolm an international phenomenon. Such sales would mean we could keep the house without publishing my book. The whole thing would have been for nothing.’

  ‘He won’t win, Helen. Trevor said he’d know by now. You know, if his author had won. He has spies everywhere.’

  ‘But if he did.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘He hasn’t spoken to me. He won’t look at me. When I enter a room, he leaves. I disgust him just as I disgust myself, and for the same reason. I wanted what people like you had and I gave them what they wanted to get it.’

  ‘People like me?’

  ‘Yes, the successful. Look at how much you can spend on a coat. Thousands of pounds on a coat! I wanted to do that. I wanted all of it. It was so stupid. So stupid. And at my age.’

  ‘What you did wasn’t easy, Helen.’

  ‘Yes it was. It was a letting go. I’ve always known I could write that stuff. It isn’t rocket science even though you lot pretend it is. And then you have someone like Lee Child saying he could write a Booker winner if he wanted. Let’s see him try. Like your friend, what’s his name? Good luck to them both.’

  ‘Liam?’

  ‘Yes. Him. Didn’t you say he wanted to write serious literature?’

  ‘He’s desperate for the kind of respect you and Malcolm enjoy.’

  ‘We don’t enjoy any respect. We endure respect. We endured fifty lean years of respect. It almost killed me, all that respect. And now I’ll die because it’s been taken away.’

  ‘No one’s taking it away.’

  ‘Malcolm’s lost his respect for me. And so have I.’

  ‘I’ll make him read version three. I’ll stand over him until he does and then he’ll be begging your forgiveness.’

  ‘It’s been on his desk for three months. Untouched. I check as soon as he leaves the house. He hasn’t lifted the cover page.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘A trick he taught me. We used to do it when we were starting out. Publishers used to send our manuscripts back to us in those days. It wasn’t easy to make copies. So we’d booby-trap them. If they hadn’t read them, it was easy enough to tell.’

  ‘Sneaky.’

  The waitress came over to clear away the plates. I ordered a coffee and Helen a tea.

  I wondered if Helen knew what Max had told me. She seemed to allude to it, but I didn’t dare ask her, ‘Do you know Malcolm thinks you’re dead?’ Instead I took the easy way out and said, ‘I think I like the black evening gown from the first shop best. Shall we just go back there and end our little adventure?’

  ‘I don’t want to go back home just yet.’

  ‘You’re not tired?’

  ‘I am tired. Very tired. But it’s a tiredness that rest and sleep won’t cure.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do, Helen? I want to help.’

  ‘No. You’ve already been very kind to Malcolm and me. We’re morbid company.’

  ‘It pains me that you’re not getting along when you both need each other the most.’

  ‘I bet you didn’t expect to be in the middle of all of this when you agreed to look at my book,’ Helen said, with a pained smile.

  ‘I bet you wish I’d never knocked on your door.’

  Helen’s face lost the remnants of the smile and she looked me in the eye. ‘Everything that’s happened was well underway before you entered our lives, Amy.’

  ‘Really? You and Malcolm were still talking. Daniel was alive.’

  ‘In my grief I’ve said terrible things to you. I don’t believe you had anything to do with Daniel’s death. It was wrong of me to say so. I’ll never forgive myself for saying so.’

  And I don’t know whether it was what she said or the way she said it, but I couldn’t speak and realised with
unmixed mortification that I was about to cry. Helen’s eyes held mine and I saw, in the depths of her pain, my reflection. Here I was trying to be strong for Helen when my own life was falling apart. Tears flowed and it was completely uncontrollable. When Helen took my hand in hers, the tears were accompanied by sobs. Heads in the quiet little cafe turned. Helen stood up and came around to the chair beside me. She hugged me to her as I had done to her at the airport.

  ‘It’s all so shit, Helen. You and Malcolm deserve to be happy. And everything is just shit.’

  ‘You deserve to be happy, too, Amy. Do you know that?’

  I couldn’t answer her. The idea was strange to me. Why should I be happy? What had I ever done to deserve happiness? It seemed a strange thing to say of someone like me.

  Helen held me for a very long time. And after a while she began to ask me questions under her breath. And I answered them quietly. She wanted to know about Max. She wanted to know about Liam. I told her everything. She wanted to know about my parents. The tears returned as I told her. I couldn’t help them. A dam had burst and the tears flowed.

  I just wish we’d been at home instead of in that cafe. I’m not one for public displays of emotion. The waitress came over at one point to see if there was anything she could do. It was mortifying.

  I went to the bathroom, took one look at my red eyes and blotchy face and sighed. Things had to get better from here. They had to. I couldn’t cope with this life. It was all too much. I wanted to get back to the flat and back into bed. I blew my nose, touched up my makeup and returned to Helen.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘You haven’t got a dress yet.’

  Helen and I returned to the first shop and bought another dress altogether. A slip of a cocktail dress. My spirits lifted a little after they all said I looked gorgeous in it. Helen thought it was a bit showy, which was what I was going for after all. To be on the safe side, I bought the other one as well.

  Chapter 58

  Have You Written Your Speech?

  ‘Hello, Trevor?’

  ‘Malcolm?’

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Loud and clear.’

  ‘So the reception is good on the other side, is it? The flames don’t cause any interference?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘So let me be clear about this, you’re not dead?’

  ‘I’m not dead. This is true.’

  ‘Good to hear. I’m on speakerphone. Amy’s here.’

  ‘Hello, Trevor.’

  ‘Hello, Amy. Zoe’s here. Shall I put her on, too? How do you put this thing on speakerphone, Zo?’

  ‘Trevor?’

  ‘Hello? It’s Zoe, Grandpa’s phone is ancient. I think I have it on speaker. Can you hear us?’

  ‘Yes we can. Hello, Zoe, nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too, Amy. You’re going to be my date on Tuesday night, I hear.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll be the belles of the ball.’

  ‘Malcolm, have you written your speech?’

  ‘I have it, Trevor. Sealed in an envelope with strict instructions not to read it until the night.’

  ‘And I’ve told her to bring it straight back to me unopened, if I don’t win.’

  ‘If you get a chance, Amy, steam it open and send me a copy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare. But I am frightened about what it contains. I’ll have to read it out if he wins.’

  ‘Malcolm won’t win. I’ve been sniffing around and there isn’t a hint of an upset. They’re certain to give it to an American this year. As a sign of good faith. There are two in the running. If not them, then I hope Deborah Levy wins. I loved Swimming Home, and Hot Milk is impressive.’

  ‘Don’t listen to Grandpa, Malcolm. You’re going to win. I can feel it.’

  ‘I think I’m going to win, too.’

  ‘You’d think this would make him happy, Zoe, but he’s been very grumpy these last few days. Grumpier than usual, that is.’

  ‘Amy, Grandpa has set us up with Hayley Granger, Malcolm’s publisher. We’re to meet her in the Old Library where the drinks are held. Have you met her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, she’s nice and all but old, like Malcolm and Grandad. And a chatterbox. And more than a bit eccentric. Is there any chance we can meet up beforehand and go in together? We could even meet for pre-drinks. A bit of Dutch courage?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. We’ve called from my phone, so you have my number. Text me.’

  ‘Malcolm, Zoe’s let everyone know you won’t be attending. Because of Daniel.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘I put out a press release. You’re the people’s choice, Malcolm. Social media has already crowned you. Win or lose, you win.’

  ‘What are you going to wear, Zoe?’

  ‘I don’t know. What are you wearing?’

  ‘Message me and I’ll send you a pic.’

  ‘Trevor, if you’re not dead by Tuesday shall I come and watch the announcement with you?’

  ‘Yes, if I’m not dead, I’d be honoured.’

  ‘He’s doing really well, Malcolm. The doctors now think he’ll be around for a while. At least until Wednesday.’

  ‘You joke, but it’s my existence at stake.’

  ‘Dying’s the easy bit. Living without you, now that’s hard.’

  ‘Malcolm’s right, Grandad. We only joke because . . . Wow, Amy! That dress is gorgeous! That’s so unfair. How can I compete with that?’

  ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’

  ‘It’d be too much for me. But Grandad says you’re one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen, and he once took Sophia Loren to dinner, so I reckon you’ll pull it off.’

  ‘I didn’t say that!’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘So, are we finished? Amy’s going in my place. She has my speech. She’ll meet you, Zoe, beforehand and you’ll go in together. Trevor, you and I will watch together in your room. Right? Good. We’re settled. Let’s hope I don’t win. Goodbye, Trevor. Goodbye, Zoe.’

  Chapter 59

  Booker Night

  I was standing in the cold in the square outside the Guildhall wrapped in my new coat, wishing it were longer and that I’d worn stockings. My slender black ankle-strap heels had looked so good with my Tom Ford dress, but with the coat on I looked like a tarty Kate Middleton. Or Pippa Middleton. And I was freezing. My bare toes were turning blue.

  Where was Zoe? We had canned our pre-drinks drinks as both of us were running late, but now she was late for the drinks. Watching the other invitees arrive, I was glad I’d chosen to wear my first choice, the more classic little black dress. My second choice was a low-cut, obscenely short red number. More footballer’s wife than editor. Black was the right choice. The most daring colour I’d seen pass me was purple. And mine were the only bare legs to be seen.

  Zoe finally arrived, a diminutive dark beauty with an enormous smile. She too was wrapped up in a woollen coat, but she was wearing closed-toe pumps and stockings. Very sensible. The first thing she did was take a selfie of us both and post it on Instagram. She spoke at a million miles an hour and I didn’t get a word in as we joined the crowd entering the building. We handed in our coats at the cloakroom and had our photo taken on the way. Zoe then took more selfies. At least ten. She was bubbling over with excitement and compliments, which I returned and she beamed with pleasure. When we reached the reception, Zoe left me by myself for a moment while she went off in search of Malcolm’s publisher, Hayley Granger. I opened my clutch and made sure Malcolm’s envelope was in there.

  I’d expected the Booker to buck the trend of literary events. It was the Booker after all. But it didn’t. It was worse. The room was rapidly filling with a collection of dull, middle-aged frumps. Faces I didn’t recognise. Fashion I didn’t understand.

  My sleeveless little black dress seemed to grow shorter with every second. There was more skin showing on my body than was to be seen on all of the other women combined.
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  But it was a room where a woman dressed as I was, looking as naked and as fabulous as I was, could stand all by herself until the end of time without being approached. There weren’t even any lecherous middle-aged men. The room was filled with decent middle-aged men who wouldn’t dream of boring a young beauty like me.

  And the younger men were all too earnest, all too serious to let their minds wander from their intellectual discussions to the base temptations of the flesh.

  When Zoe finally returned with Hayley Granger I was on my second glass of champagne, still all alone, and wishing I was dead.

  Then I saw Julia.

  Of course she would be there. I was an idiot for not even considering this. It was the Booker. She was publishing director of M&R. I was glad to see she looked horrendous in a pale-blue lace and satin gown. Like a runaway bridesmaid.

  Hayley Granger spoke to me. ‘How’s Malcolm?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine. I think.’

  Julia was laughing. Who was that with her? He looked familiar.

  ‘I’m astonished that A Hundred Ways is a serious contender. You know I tried to talk him out of publishing it. What did you think?’

  ‘It rattled me.’

  Julia had put on weight, too. She was standing very close to the familiar older man with her. He was tall and lean and his face looked ravaged by loss.

  ‘Is he writing at the moment? He won’t return my calls,’ Hayley persisted.

  ‘It’s been a difficult time.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  Hayley seemed like a nice enough woman, but nothing she could now do would get my full attention.

  When Max joined our little group, I was so surprised I actually let out a little scream. He laughed and kissed my cheek. He introduced himself to Zoe and Hayley and started talking about the chances of an American winning. He was wearing a tux, and with his hair longer and a little unruly, looked a bit like Kit Harington. He certainly looked as tall as Kit Harington from my vantage point atop my ruinously high heels.

  My glass was empty again. I looked around for a waiter. None to be seen. Hayley said she would join us later and left our group.