by Matt Wilven
She pulls out two crystal glasses and a decent bottle of Glenfiddich from her bottom drawer, pours over an inch into both and offers me the fuller one. I take it.
“It’s a little bit disjointed but that’s the point. At least, it is at this stage.”
“It’s great that you’re writing again.”
“I know it might take readers a little bit of getting into, but I’m pretty sure the pay-off will be worth it in the end.”
“Vince, stop. They’re turning the screw. Tightening belts. We’ve got to get rid of our three lowest earners and replace them with one new writer who we’re willing to take a risk on. A risk. Ha! That’s one way of putting it.”
“Shit. Am I one of them? One of the lowest three?”
“You’re the lowest, darling. I’m sorry. But we’ve never made a penny out of you. It’s like they constantly tell me when I go upstairs: we’re not a charity.”
“But this is the one. I can feel it. I just need to, wait, do you think Ajwan White is one of his agent’s bottom three?”
“I very much doubt it. Why? What’s all this Ajwan White talk? Is this book more like what he does?”
“No. No. Jesus.”
“Too bad.”
“It’s going to sell. I promise you.”
“It’s out of my hands.”
“So what happens? Do I take my deal somewhere else?”
She sighs.
“That’s the other thing I need to tell you. There is no deal.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was waiting for the right time. I thought I might be able to sell the rights on to somebody else.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You missed three deadlines, lovey. I know it’s been a tough couple of years, and writing’s no science, but they can’t sit on their hands these days. You signed a contract. Maybe if we were further along… What’s it going to be called?”
She picks up a notepad and pen.
“I’m not sure yet. But, wait. I still don’t understand. There’s no book deal?”
“No.”
“So I can’t send it to them directly?”
“There is no them. The ship has sailed, come back and sailed again. You’ll have to send it to agents, like you did with the first one.”
“I got fifty-four rejections before you took it on.”
“So you’re well-practiced.”
“Are you joking? Is this a joke?”
“You can send it to me. When you’re done. I’ll put it to the top of the slush pile.”
“The slush pile?”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” she says. “Drink your drink.”
I take a sip.
“Please. You can’t drop me. Lyd’s parents already think I’m a failure. This is the only thing I have going for me.”
“Right now, the top of the slush pile is the best you can hope for.”
“So… I’m fired?”
“Ha! Sorry. Did you ever read your contract? Writers are never really hired, darling. They get picked up.”
“And dropped.”
“Unfortunately. But it’s a business, Vince. And business isn’t booming. It used to look good, having a certain spread of talent on the books, but they can’t afford to carry people anymore. The culture is changing.”
“That’s it then?”
“There’ll be some paperwork in the post.”
“Paperwork?”
“Options. From the publisher. For repaying your advance.”
“Repaying? I’ve got a baby on the way. I don’t have any income.”
“A baby? Congratulations,” she says. She means it. “That’s wonderful news. But really, doll, how are you surviving? Most of my writers have a second job. Even the successful ones. There’s all these creative writing courses popping up. Have you thought about teaching?”
“This can’t be happening.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. You know I always loved your prose. Do you want another drink?”
“What? No. Thanks.”
I get up from my seat.
“Let’s not end on a bad note,” she says.
“No, of course.”
But I’m not with her anymore. I’m retreating, spurned and wounded. I need air. I’m halfway out the door and I don’t hear the last thing she says. I’m in the lift swaying and sinking. I’m swiping and swiping but the stupid barrier gate isn’t opening.
Rushing out, I get called back by the receptionist. I can’t face looking into the eyes of another human being so I pretend I haven’t heard her. This only makes the security guard by the door move into the middle of the entrance way. Caught out, I turn back towards the desk. The woman is friendly but I can’t communicate. I can barely focus on the portion of the page she wants me to sign after I’ve given her my visitor’s card. She mentions that I should write in the time but this is a step too far. I push the clipboard and her generic pen back at her and walk out past the security guard with my eyes fixed on the ground.
The London streets are full of bright sunlight and car fumes. July is just beginning to get hot. Everybody is dressed for different weather. The busyness of the general street environment is too much for me. I can hear blackbirds singing but I can’t see them. Their whistles are mixing with the traffic and people, creating a wall of random, jittery sound. When I put my hands over my ears the birdsong seems louder.
Welcome to the chaos, it says. Feel free to break down and scream at the sky.
I rush to the nearest Underground. When I’m on my own I usually prefer the bus but I just want to disappear and reappear where I need to be, get away from this barrage of noise. On the Tube I keep my hands over my ears and rock back and forth in time with the vibrations and whirring and clucking sounds, trying to ignore the jolts and bangs.
When I get back to the house I slam the door on the twittering skies. I hear wittering in the kitchen, faint chirruping behind me. I walk through the hallway to the kitchen. Fee and Dom are sitting at the table with Lyd. They look concerned to the point of tense and Lyd is on the verge of anger.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Why aren’t you at work?”
I have not been warned about this visit. I was expecting an empty house. I wanted to lie face down on the bed and shout into a pillow, scrawl neurotic rants about literary agencies and birdsong in my notebook. This is the opposite of what I wanted.
“Lydia needs to talk to you,” says Fee.
Lyd whips a warning glance at her mother. I’m struggling to repress thoughts of madness and failure. I take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
“Lyd?”
She’s unsure how to proceed. There is a long pause whilst she tries to phrase things correctly.
“We think you might need some help,” says Fee, butting in.
“Help? Help with what?” I ask.
“Mum, can you not?” says Lyd.
“We’re worried that you’re becoming unstable again,” says Fee.
“We? Who’s we?”
“Myself and Dom,” she replies. “And Lydia.”
“We’re not attacking you,” says Dom.
I raise my hand to him.
“Just say what you came to say.”
I force myself to take a seat with them at the table. They have had tea and biscuits and a calm, resolved talk in the build-up to this. By comparison, I got denounced by the one thing that set me apart from being a complete failure. I can’t even try to project the visage of a calm, centred human being. My legs are jigging and my eyes are wild. I’m holding onto the edge of the table like it’s the edge of the Earth.
“Look at yourself,” says Fee. “You can barely even sit at a table.”
I look at Lyd. She turns away. Dom coughs.
“We just think you maybe need to start seeing someone,” he says. “Nothing too serious.”
“Lyd, could you please tell me what the hell is going on here?”
“What?”
“I’ve known for months.”
I glance at Fee and Dom. I hate to admit this breach of trust in front of them.
“Was it Jamal?” I ask. “Did Jamal tell you?”
“Jamal knew?”
“No. I mean… I just thought he might…”
“You can tell Jamal but you can’t tell me?”
“No. It’s not like that.”
“And he knows exactly what happened to you. I’m going to kill that little stoner the next time I see him.”
I glance at her parents. They are both fidgeting twitchily after hearing the word “stoner”.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Really. But I don’t need it. I never did. I lost my grip when Charlie died. That’s all. It makes me too fuzzy. I walk into a room and I don’t know what I’ve gone in for. How am I supposed to write when I feel like that?”
“God forbid you should be unable to write,” says Lyd.
“We’re worried that the news of this baby has set you off again,” says Fee.
“Brought up old feelings,” says Dom.
“I really can’t do this in front of your parents.”
“No,” she agrees, “I know.”
Lyd stands up, glares at her mother and leaves the table. Fee lifts her head diagonally with forced pride to show that she stands by her behaviour. Lyd walks out of the kitchen. I follow her. She turns to me in the hallway.
“This isn’t coming from you,” I say, quietly. “Do you think I should be seeing someone?”
“You should at least see your doctor. You can’t just stop taking lithium like that. The rest is up to you.”
“I swear, I don’t need it.”
“I’m still paying a credit card bill that says otherwise.”
“Every pill I swallowed was for you.”
“And you stop when I get pregnant?” she snaps, folding her arms.
“I just wanted to be me again. For us. For the baby.”
“I lost you when I needed you most. I’m not going through that again. I can’t risk it. Not with a baby in the house.”
“Okay. So we need to talk about it. I know we’re not very good at that but we get there in the end. Why did you have to get your parents involved?”
She looks back towards the kitchen and sighs.
“I didn’t mean to. I planned to talk to you before they arrived. I meant to do it last night but I lost my nerve. I’m so used to you being free, I forgot about your meeting this morning… I’m going to stay with them for a while.”
“You’re leaving? You can’t leave. What about work?”
“There’s plenty I can do with an Internet connection. And I’m in Geneva for a fortnight after next week anyway.”
“Can you fly?” I ask. “Is it safe?”
“I think so.”
“But… What about us?”
“I have no idea what’s going on with us. I just know I have to leave.”
“When did you decide all this?”
Lyd leans back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling.
“It’s too tense for me here. We’re in completely different worlds. Things haven’t been right since we found out I was pregnant.”
“No. But I thought we were working on that. I didn’t expect you to run back to your parents.”
“I’m not running back to my parents,” she says, aggressively. “I’ve made a decision that I need some distance. The stress here isn’t good for me. This is the best way around it.”
“You’re leaving me, aren’t you? They’re going to talk you into leaving me.”
“Forget about my parents, Vince. It doesn’t matter what they want. I’m sorry you had to walk in to that but this has nothing to do with them.”
“I stopped taking it for you. I swear.”
Lyd shakes her head with disbelief.
“This is broken,” she says. “What we have. Here. Surely you can see that? You can’t talk to me. I can’t talk to you. If we can’t be honest about what we’re going through then we need to go through it alone.”
“Please. Don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”
“Not that you’ve noticed, but this isn’t about you. I’ve got my own stuff to deal with.”
She breaks eye contact, no longer receptive to anything I might say. I know this obstinate look from experience. There’s nothing I can do. I try anyway.
“Whatever it is,” I say, “you can tell me. I know I’ve been too self-involved lately but you can always talk to me. I’d never judge you.” Her look hardens. My desperation increases. “Can you at least tell me when you’re coming back? Are you ever coming back?”
She doesn’t respond.
FOUR
Polaris (the North Star) always points true north. This casts the illusion that all the other stars in the sky pivot around it but its actual role in the celestial body is not central and only seems this way due to its relative position to Earth. With its heightened gleam and consistent position, Polaris almost certainly instigated the earliest discoveries of astronomy but it no doubt also helped to elongate the belief that humanity was at the centre of an orchestrated cosmological plan. After all, it is much more probable that the night sky’s point of true north would be black, not the brightest star in the sky.
I have a new routine. I wake up at 5am, make myself coffee and toast, feed Blackie and his children and then write and edit in my dressing gown for as long as I can manage. For the first three hours or so my nerves are settled and assured. I invent things, solve problems, make progress, whittle away at words. I don’t seem to worry about the value of what I’m doing, or whether all the different stories are ever going to join together. At 5am I can work without doubts.
It’s the remaining fifteen hours of my day that I find more difficult. Around 8am my legs begin agitating. The hours ahead seem lonely and vacant. My stomach starts turning. My jaw clenches until my temples ache. I can’t imagine the world inside the words I’m working on. The emptiness becomes bigger and wider and harder to ignore until I lose focus completely and I have to face it.
Today, delaying this inevitable confrontation with the big nothing, I visit pregnancy websites and read about the different aspects of the second trimester. Our baby should be beginning to wriggle. It is around six inches long (having doubled in size during the last two weeks). Currently, it’s covered in a fine, downy hair called lanugo and a waxy coating called vernix. It has eyebrows, eyelashes, fingernails and toenails. It can hear and swallow. It can make its father feel completely alone.
When the postman comes I close my Internet window and go downstairs to retrieve the letters. Only one of them is for me. I separate the junk for recycling and put Lyd’s in a pile that I intend to forward to her parent’s address at the end of the week.
I open mine.
The cover letter is from a lawyer detailing how much I owe my publishing company (£14,654) and what my options are for repayment (very few). The next page is a receipt of monies owed and a breakdown of the coming interest and charges. The last page is a note from an account executive at the publishing house offering me the opportunity to buy the remaining stock of my books at a reduced rate (from as little as £2.16 per unit for all 1,278 units, ranging up to £3.91 per unit, for a minimum of 10 units). I’m still reading the final page of the letter when someone knocks on the door.
I look through the frosted glass and see that it’s Jayne, Lyd’s sister, so I run into the kitchen and hide behind the breakfast counter. When the knocking returns I wonder what I’m doing, why I’ve panicked, and since I’ve acknowledged the fact that I’m squirming by the counter I tell myself that I have to walk through the hall and face her. I can’t plead temporary insanity. I’m a coward if I don’t go.
I open the front door to a blast of brightness, Jayne’s silhouette and a loud burst of birdsong. The
discordant melodies are so loud that they almost seem to be connected to the sunlight. They throb in my eyes and brain in the same way. I try to focus on Jayne.
“This is unexpected,” I say, squinting, my right eye twitching all of a sudden. “Come in.”
“Have you just got up? I could come back after work?”
She glances down at my hand. I look at it too. I’m scrunching up the letter in my fist. I manage to angle it so she can’t see the letterhead but my fist has given off a general air of tension.
“I’ve been up for hours,” I say. “I just like working in my dressing gown.”
“Okay. Sure.”
She steps into the hall. She’s wearing a sixties-style paisley dress, cherry red Dr Martens and purple tights with white polka dots. She doesn’t have much in common with Lyd (on any level) but in their physical forms I always register a resemblance around the neck and shoulders, and they both have the same curves on their legs. These simple lines, these echoes of Lyd, make me want to reach out and hold her, embrace her, but I have enough clarity of mind to know that only a desperately lonely man would do that.
“Do you want a drink? Tea? Coffee? Juice?” I ask, closing the front door and walking towards the kitchen.
She follows me.
“Maybe a glass of water,” she says.
I quickly stash my disturbing letter behind the fruit bowl on the way past and then pour her a glass of filtered water from the fridge.
“How’s it going?” she asks, glancing at the fruit bowl.
“I miss her.”
Jayne nods and meets my eyes sympathetically, mirroring my sorrow as she accepts her glass of water. My right eye twitches and I wonder if she sees it.
“It must be hard,” she says.
“We should be together. Preparing for the baby.”
My eye twitches again. Jayne breaks eye contact and moves away from me. I’m pretty sure she’s seen my eyeball juddering around in its socket and is going to phone Lyd the second she leaves to tell her that I’ve gone completely mad.
“How’s the writing?” she asks.
“My book? Good. I’m over half way through the first draft now. It’s getting there, slowly but surely.”
“I do wonder about creative people; where it all comes from.”