The Girl On the Page

by John Purcell

  Zoe and Max discovered they knew a lot of the same people. And Max found, as I had done, that Zoe could talk. For every story Max told, Zoe had a better one. And if it wasn’t one of her own, she was happy to borrow one of Trevor’s. Trevor did know everyone. And all the while, without drawing breath, she took more selfies and posted them, typing away at a furious rate on her phone.

  I looked over Max’s shoulder at Julia and saw what I didn’t want to see. Liam was with her now.

  I turned my back on them, knowing he would know I was there. He never missed a thing.

  I expected him to come and join us, especially as Max was with me, but he did no such thing. The next time I saw him was in the middle of a general movement of people towards the Great Hall. He had his arm around Julia’s waist.

  ‘Isn’t that Liam?’ Max asked as we followed the crowd.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that his wife?’

  ‘No, that’s my boss, or more correctly, was my boss, at M&R, Julia O’Farrell.’

  ‘Never heard of her. And they’re a couple now? Has he left his wife?’

  ‘He thinks he’s just fucking Julia. But she has other plans. As far as I know, he’s still with his wife. We haven’t spoken for a while.’

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘He’s trying to terminate our contract. He wants to go it alone.’

  ‘And what do you think about that?’

  ‘I try not to think about that. But I know something he probably doesn’t know yet.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He’s fucked.’

  Max looked at me. I raised my eyebrows and mouthed, ‘What?’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t fuck with Amy . . . noted. Where are you sitting?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We went over to the seating plan together. Hayley Granger was ahead of us. Zoe was with her. She turned and said, ‘Table eleven for us. I don’t know where you are, Max.’

  ‘Right at the back, I expect.’

  *

  By the time the winner was announced I was so bored I just wanted the night to end. I wasn’t listening to the speakers. I had completely tuned out. Julia and Liam were on the other side of the room out of sight and Max was behind me somewhere in the gloom. My attention was focused on the last few breadsticks standing forlornly in the glass. The rest of the table was either whispering together or scrolling on their phones. I was jealous of Zoe; she had been on Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, The Guardian, Tinder and now Twitter. And she had been interrupting these by messaging someone the whole night. My phone was now just a phone.

  So I didn’t hear them announce that Malcolm had won. I missed it.

  Zoe screamed, clapping her hands like a child, then laughed loudly before suddenly grabbing me and hugging me, her face pressed hard against my own, held her phone aloft and took yet another selfie. Hayley stood up. I shook off Zoe and stood up. Hayley kissed my cheek. It still hadn’t clicked. I looked around the tables nearby. They were all looking at us.

  ‘He fucking won?’ I said quietly to Hayley.

  ‘He fucking won,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘You’d better get your skates on. Do you have his speech?’

  ‘Somewhere.’ I looked around for my clutch. It was on the floor.

  ‘Hurry, the Duchess is waiting.’

  ‘Duchess?’

  I opened my bag and took out Malcolm’s envelope. I did not want to do this. When I’d said yes, it seemed there was no chance of me having to actually do it. I’d said yes because Malcolm asked with such desperation in his eyes.

  Hayley pushed me in the right direction and I made my way through the tables. The Duchess of Cornwall greeted me.

  I stood at the podium. The lights were not so bright as to blind me. I could clearly see the faces looking up at me expectantly. Faces I recognised, faces I didn’t. All was quiet.

  My mind was blank. Then I said this: ‘Just in case there’s someone here from the Daily Mail or The Sun, I want to be crystal clear, I’m not Malcolm Taylor.’ It got me a few laughs but I have no idea where it came from. ‘However, Malcolm has prepared a speech he’s asked me to read,’ I said in a faltering voice. ‘I only agreed to do this because they all assured me he wouldn’t win,’ I said as I turned the envelope in my fingers and added, ‘I’ve been drinking like a fish all night. Bear with me.’

  There was a little polite laughter.

  I then tried to open his envelope. It took a moment. I was finally forced to tear at it. I really should have opened it before getting on stage but Malcolm had warned me not to. And in the confusion of the announcement, I had forgotten.

  Three handwritten pages emerged.

  I read.

  ‘My name is Amy Winston, the brains behind the Jack Cade novels.’

  I stared at what I had just read.

  ‘He wrote that here,’ I said, holding up the page to the crowd for inspection. ‘I’m just reading what he wrote. I am Amy Winston, by the way.’ And I laughed and then abruptly stopped. I couldn’t see Liam. There was utter silence. ‘The speech begins now.’

  ‘I thank you for this award. But I do fear the judges have made a catastrophic mistake. A Hundred Ways is not a work worthy of such commendation. It is a cancer of a book, which needs to be excised from the body of literature before it spreads. That it has gained such notoriety worries me. It may be too late.

  ‘Some commentators have said it is the book this age deserves. But for me, this is the best of all ages. An age that deserves better than this. In fact, this book has nothing at all to do with what is occurring today. Trump and Brexit, the rise of the far right, are minor corrections in a general movement towards a more equitable future. I am not a doom and gloom writer.

  ‘A Hundred Ways is a full stop, an end, not a beginning. I didn’t want to start a conversation. I wanted to end one.

  ‘I have been writing professionally for fifty years. I am nearly eighty. I speak from some experience when I say this is the best of all ages. Which is not to say it is perfect. It is not. It is very far from perfect. But it is better than past ages.

  ‘A Hundred Ways is my full stop, a novel that closes the door on my apprenticeship. I feel ready to write now without the aid of my masters.

  ‘The writers in the room will understand me. At least the good ones will. And yes, there are good and bad writers. Good and bad books. If you can’t tell the difference you haven’t even started your apprenticeship.

  ‘A Hundred Ways should be published with a warning. I didn’t realise this until it was too late. I didn’t realise how attractive the book would be to the young and the uninitiated. Most of my peers recognise it for what it is: an ugly little book. They admonish me for writing it. But the young cradle it in their laps like a pet rat. They stroke and play with it, oblivious of the disease it carries.

  ‘And it won’t do any young writer any good to read it, either.

  ‘But enough about A Hundred Ways. It has won the Man Booker. The deed is done. There is no going back. I can only apologise for writing it in the first place and ask that none of you read it.

  ‘If you must read an ugly little book, read The Sellout by Paul Beatty, which would have been my pick for this honour. [Applause]

  ‘Before I let Amy leave the stage, I’d like to speak of my wife, the great Helen Owen. The finest British writer not to have won the Man Booker. Shame on us all.

  ‘Tomorrow will mark fifty years since we were married, which means I have been living and working beside one of the world’s greatest thinkers and writers for over fifty years. And for that I am thankful. It hasn’t always been easy. Helen does not rest. Helen does not bend. She is always evolving as a writer. Always striving to be better. Just being in her presence has made me a better writer. But it has been exhausting. At times I have felt like Muhammad Ali’s sparring partner.

  ‘And you guys have given me, the sparring partner, the Man Booker. What fools we all are. [Laughter]

  ‘Helen taught
me what it is to have integrity. She is an authentic voice in a sea of compromise. Hand in hand we have walked a difficult path, and we have been rewarded with a small but loyal readership who have kept the wolves at bay all these years. I want to thank the few for taking a little interest in us for such a long time. With your help we have been free from the corrupting influence of success for all our working lives. Publishers, in the main, are people of integrity. And our publishers have been committed to the good work we always aspired to create. They gave us their unswerving support in a world where poor work pays the bills, giving us the time and the freedom to remain true to ourselves.

  ‘I want to thank Hayley Granger, my publisher, who told me not to publish this book. I should have listened to you. And I want to thank my long-suffering agent, the legendary Trevor Melville, a man who never collected his fee because he said my work never sold enough to cover the cost of his accountant. You may want to collect on this one, Trevor. [Laughter]

  ‘And finally, as I would not be standing here if it were not for my wife, I dedicate this award to Helen Owen. I love you, darling.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I read the thank you and stood there for a moment. I wanted to say something, to add something to Malcolm’s words. While reading, tears had welled up in my eyes. They now fell unremarked. The audience was silent. Expectant.

  But I left the podium without another word. Malcolm had said everything that needed to be said. The room erupted in applause as I was ushered out the back and given a minute to compose myself.

  Then they made me pose for photos, which was odd. I’d had nothing to do with the book. I didn’t even know Malcolm when he wrote it. Thankfully I was joined by Hayley Granger, who took over those duties. She answered the questions of journalists. She spoke with the Duchess. I made my way to the ladies’ room.

  Chapter 60

  More Than Any Book

  When Amy left the stage, Malcolm turned the television off. The room went dark. Hearing his words coming from Amy’s mouth had been a strange experience. Though seeing her on television made sense. She was astonishingly beautiful. TV beautiful. The close-ups had caught the tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Though he had been telling himself and others for days that he would win, on hearing his name announced he had felt sick. His double bluff had failed. Fate wouldn’t be tricked. He’d only written the speech to ward off good luck. He had even insisted Amy read it as some kind of voodoo spell. She had nothing to do with the book, after all. But he had won, regardless. And the speech had been read.

  Then it struck him that Trevor hadn’t said a word throughout.

  He looked at Trevor. The park lights shone through the edges of the blinds allowing Malcolm to see his face. He lay perfectly still with his eyes closed.

  ‘Trevor?’ Malcolm whispered. On getting no reply he rested his forehead against the metal rail alongside Trevor’s bed. He supposed Trevor had been dead since the beginning of the broadcast. There was no chance a living Trevor would have restrained himself on hearing Malcolm had won the Booker. Malcolm admonished himself for not noticing for so long. He’d been so preoccupied with the horror of winning. But Trevor hadn’t been alone. Malcolm had been with him. He looked at Trevor’s peaceful face. He would have to get the nurse to come in but decided to wait a moment. As soon as he called they would spring into action and he would have no time with Trevor.

  ‘I didn’t mention Daniel in my speech. Did you notice, Trevor? There were no words for that kind of thing. Besides, Daniel had always been a private affair. It wasn’t quite right for two intellectuals to have a child. But then Malcolm and Helen the writers didn’t have him, Malcolm and Helen the ratepayers did. He had been our guilty pleasure. An irrational sidetrack. How we loved him, though. More than any book. How can I say any of that in a speech?’

  Malcolm turned on the bedside lamp and poured himself a glass of water. He drank from it and placed it on the over-bed table.

  ‘That he should take his own life at the age of nearly fifty. Suicide is a young man’s game, isn’t it? I can’t make sense of it. I’m not supposed to, I know, but old habits die hard. I should be able to understand this. He was my son. My son climbed into the back of his own car and hid under a picnic blanket. He swallowed pills, placed a plastic bag over his head and died. His two sons were not a mile away from him. Sons I know he loved. Why would he do that to them? Why abandon them?’

  Malcolm pressed the emergency buzzer.

  ‘They’ll come for you now, Trevor,’ said Malcolm, standing and placing his hand on Trevor’s for a moment.

  ‘What?’

  Malcolm looked at his friend. His eyes were closed. He hadn’t moved.

  ‘Trevor? Did you say something?’

  ‘Did you win?’

  Malcolm started to laugh.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘I thought you were dead. I’ve pressed the emergency buzzer.’

  ‘Good thing there’s no emergency then.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The buzzer doesn’t work.’

  Chapter 61

  Don’t Do This

  I sat on the loo and wiped my eyes. The chatter in the small bathroom was too loud. The cubicle was closing in on me. The hum coming from the Great Hall was no comfort, either. I’d have to go back out there. I’d left my clutch with Zoe. I’d have to find her and then leave. Malcolm’s win had set tongues wagging as he’d been the rank outsider. Everyone would want to talk to me.

  But I didn’t want to speak to anyone. All I could do was picture Helen alone at home listening to me read those words. Fucking Malcolm. I had to get back to Helen as quickly as possible. I wiped and flushed, then pushed my way through the crowded bathroom to the sink. A woman spoke to me, called me gorgeous. Said I read the speech very well. I got out of there.

  The narrow passage was blocked by a line of women desperate to pee, and then further along, Liam. I looked back the way I came and there was no exit. He was smiling at me.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I threaded my way through the women and tried to pass him without speaking, but he took hold of my arm. He really chose the wrong fucking night.

  ‘Amy, don’t do it.’

  His casual manner and smile had vanished. There was real fear in his eyes.

  ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘Amy. Please.’

  He let go of my arm. I moved out of the way of a passing couple.

  ‘You initiated this, Liam,’ I said. ‘You set your lawyers on me. You got M&R’s lawyers involved. Not me. Everything was perfect. You fucked it.’

  ‘Don’t do this to me.’

  ‘I didn’t do it. You did. I have to go. Don’t ever speak to me again.’

  And with that I left him.

  Chapter 62

  The Notebook

  Helen had been seated on the sofa watching the news for a while before she noticed the leather notebook on the sofa opposite her. She couldn’t remember having seen it before. The next article on the news was about Trump, so she turned her attention back to the television.

  The world was going crazy before her eyes. What she saw angered her and so she switched off the TV. The Booker wouldn’t start for another hour or so.

  With Amy on her way to the dinner and Malcolm with Trevor, the house was quiet and empty. She lifted a framed photo of Daniel from the coffee table. She’d been moving this particular photo from room to room with her since coming back from Edinburgh. She stared at his face. The photo had been taken in Braidburn Valley Park by Geraldine. They’d sent it to Helen for her birthday. It was her favourite photo of Daniel. For the first time in his adult life he had looked completely and unreservedly happy. It was before the boys were born, when he and Geraldine were in the first flush of love.

  She thought the picture captured life at full stretch. That Daniel was no more seemed refuted by the image. He lived and breathed in the frame. He was there. Eternally.

  She put the frame down
.

  The leather notebook caught her eye. It looked expensive and out of place. She stood up and reached for it. It was heavier than she expected. She lifted the notebook to her nose and sniffed it. It smelled expensive. She assumed it was Amy’s and opened it.

  As soon as she saw the neat pencilled script, she knew it was Malcolm’s notebook. She flicked through the pages. They were full. She caught sight of her name. Then closed the book.

  During the last few painful months, when she knew Malcolm was out, she had entered his office. She had been anxious to find signs of new writing. If he were writing she was certain he’d be all right. But in all of her searches she had come up empty-handed. She’d been looking in the wrong place, she knew now. Malcolm had changed, for some unknown reason, the practice of fifty-something years’ standing. He had discarded his foolscap for this flashy leatherbound notebook. The kind of notebook a doting grandparent gives a spoilt teen who has decided to write a novel.

  Malcolm had been very careful with it until this moment, Helen mused. She had no idea he’d been using it. She hadn’t laid eyes on it before. He was being unusually secretive.

  She had a couple of hours until the Booker announcement. She took the notebook upstairs to her office, intending to photograph every page. He was just as likely to throw it in the bin now that it was full. She wanted to make sure there was a record of whatever was there. She set up the camera as Daniel had shown her. But on reading the first page she changed her plan. She sat in her armchair and began to read.

  Chapter 63

  Knowing What We Know

  ‘Are you going?’

  I turned to find Max standing a few feet off. I nodded.

  I hadn’t been able to find Zoe to say goodbye, but bumped into Hayley who had my clutch. The man in the cloakroom handed me my coat. Max stepped forward and helped me into it.

  ‘Ben Okri has invited a few of us back to his place for drinks. Would you like to come?’

  ‘I have to get back to Helen. You can help me get a cab.’