by PETER DAVEY
*
Anne’s mobile rang as she was on her way from her office to her car. It was Bill Peach.
“I assume you know,” he said.
“Know what?”
“About your husband withdrawing the suit.”
She halted in her tracks, stunned into silence. Then she blurted out, “But he can’t do that!”
“Of course he can.”
“But…why?”
“He wasn’t very clear. He just said he’d changed his mind and asked me to make up my account.”
Anne was shaking her head in consternation. “Look, Bill, just keep everything on hold for the moment. I’m going to talk to him.”
Fortunately she had no appointments that afternoon and went to see Ted in person, taking her Wellingtons since they forecast rain. It started to fall just as she was entering Wemborne. The field across which she trudged to his caravan was already a quagmire.
She hammered on the door. The grubby lace curtains twitched and, a moment later, the door opened.
“What the hell are you playing at?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don't go all vague on me! You know perfectly well what I'm talking about!”
He sighed. “You'd better come in.”
Frowning, she clambered into the caravan. At least she was now prepared for what met her eyes and her nostrils.
“Do you want some tea?”
“No I don’t want any sodding tea! I want an explanation!”
“I’ve changed my mind, that’s all.”
“So I gathered, but why for God’s sake? And why didn’t you discuss it with me first?”
“Because I knew how you’d react. We’re not going to win, Anne. I know we’re not. I was lying awake last night thinking about it and suddenly it all became crystal clear. We’re going to lose and it’s going to ruin me. It’s just too big a risk.”
“I thought you didn’t care about that! ‘Why should I care about bankruptcy when I’ve lived on nothing all these years anyway? They can take my typewriter and my clarinet – wasn’t that what you said? Come on, Ted, where’s that glorious negativity of yours when we need it?”
“I got cold feet, that’s all.”
“But we’ve come so far! I always wanted to pursue this, as you know, but the lawyer in me had doubts. It was you who changed my mind! It was you who had the brilliant idea of getting Tom Newcomb on side...”
“Tom Newcomb’s lying,” he said, cutting across her.
She was taken aback. “What?”
“He’s lying. I know he is.”
“Why should he be?”
“Vindictiveness. He’s born a grudge against Nicola all these years and this is his chance to get back at her. And her smart-arse lawyers are going to see through him in an instant.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Look, Tom Newcomb may be a great writer but he’s also a famously incontinent womaniser and he’s always thought he was God’s gift – he probably still does. He didn’t take Nicola under his wing out of the goodness of his heart or because he cared about helping young writers, he did it because he expected her to return the favour by sleeping with him. I don’t know the precise details – whether she just politely refused or whether she mortally wounded his male pride in some way – probably the latter, knowing her – but I’ll be willing to bet that’s what happened. And her lawyers are going to spot it at once and expose his testimony for what it is.”
“They may not. He is a very respected literary figure after all. And the circumstantial evidence backs it up.”
“He’s a respected literary figure but his personal life’s an emotional bombsite. Two divorces. God knows how many mistresses. They’ll ask him why he didn’t reveal Nicola’s duplicity at the time and he won’t have an answer – other than that he was infatuated with her. And someone’s who’s infatuated doesn’t make a reliable witness. His testimony, in fact, is going to be worth squat.”
Anne heaved an exasperated sigh, swept a heap of Ted’s underwear onto the floor and rammed herself down in the seat. “I just don’t believe this.”
“Look, why don’t you have some tea?”
“If it’ll shut you up on the subject.”
“I’ve got some fennel tea. It’ll calm you down.”
“I don’t want to calm down!”
“It’s just that, if we have ordinary tea, the milk might be off.”
“I’ll have it black.”
“I usually put a dash of whisky in it – helps to keep out the cold.”
“Oh for God’s sake Ted, just make the bloody tea! You can piss in it for all I care.”
He filled the battered kettle and struck a match and soon it was roaring away cheerfully.
“The thing is,” he went on, peering into his little cupboard in search of a mug that wasn’t too chipped, “I’ve been having a long, hard think and I’ve realised that what I said when we had lunch – about not caring whether I get my novels published – isn’t entirely true. But the fact is my novel has been published. Those are my words out there, not hers – they’re my thoughts, my observations, my characters, my images – and, thanks to Nicola, millions of people are reading them – far more than would have done if I’d published it myself. The only people who matter to me – you, the children, and the few friends who I’ve bullied into reading my drafts, already know I’m the real author. I’ve even won the Connaught Prize – indirectly – not that I give a damn about prizes except insofar as they might make more people read the book. But it’s the book that counts, and what it says, not the name on the cover. Actually, thanks to Nicola, I’ve got everything I wanted.”
Anne grimaced. “Everything you wanted? You wanted success. You wanted to be acknowledged as a serious writer. You wanted to communicate, to be remembered. And I wanted that too, which is why I supported you all those years and why I suggested you give up work to devote yourself to it. What’s happened to you, Ted?”
“I’ve changed. Grown up, maybe. Like I said before, living here on my own with nothing has put things in perspective. It’s restored my sense of what really matters in life.”
He was bouncing a tea bag in a cup of boiled water, into which he then tipped a slug of whisky before handing it to her.
She gazed sadly at the black liquid for a while. “It just seems such a bloody shame. What you say about Tom Newcomb may be true but it’s only one element in a much bigger picture. She played right into our hands by going on like that at the BAFTAs, whatever Dominic says. Something’s cutting her up inside – I know it is. She feels threatened... and cornered. And then there’s David. And more and more other people are coming out of the woodwork saying that, now that it’s been brought to their attention, that book doesn’t look like the work of a twenty-three-year-old girl. We’d have won, Ted, I’m damn sure we would! You’d have finally got the credit you deserve for ‘Tyranny’, they’d have been forced to give you the Connaught Prize and you’d have become a famous author overnight!”
“I don’t want to become famous like that – at the cost of destroying someone else. And as to being vindicated, I never will be. There’ll never be any absolute proof. Even if the court did decide in my favour she’d still have her loyal band of followers who would always maintain she’s the real author. For as long as anyone cares.”
“But she’s committed a crime. She ought to be punished!”
“I think she’s being punished enough by her own demons.”
Anne responded with a hopeless sigh and they both sank into silence.
“And what about your other novels? Are you going to give them to her to publish as well?”
“Of course not. But I will get them published, I promise. By the time-honoured method. I’m still determined on that.”
She snorted.
“Well, I’m touched by your faith in me.”
“Oh come on, Ted! You’ve spent the last twelve years trying to get your novels published by the
time-honoured method. What makes you think anything’s changed?”
“I’ve changed. I’ve always suffered from that famous negativity you were talking about – a kind of in-built conviction that I’m never going to succeed with my writing. And I’ve always been in awe of publishers even though I never stop running them down. But I don’t feel that any more. I’ve had some insight into how things work and I’ve realised that publishers are just people, working in an office and trying to make a living like everyone else. They’re not Gods sitting on some Olympus holding our fate in their hands. So I’m going to take the bull by the horns and approach things in a positive way from now on. No more anger, no more righteous indignation, no more self-pity. Just professionalism. It’ll happen, you see. I don’t need the backlash from some high-profile scandal.”
Anne was about to say something but she stopped herself. She knew it was pointless. When all was said and done, it was Ted’s novel and Ted’s decision and, whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, they were no longer part of each others’ lives. So she heaved another sigh and sipped her heavily laced tea – which was actually quite comforting – and sank into silence, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops on the caravan roof.
“I never thought it’d end up like this,” she murmured.
“Like what?”
“When we first met at Oxford I was convinced you were going to be a great writer. I imagined you getting your first novel published. The launch party. The glowing reviews. You being feted by all and sundry, me beaming with pride. I reckoned it’d be about two years after we graduated – poor, naïve little girl that I was.”
“I’ve always appreciated your faith in me. It’s always given me strength. But I know you think I was never ambitious enough, that I never pushed myself forward enough.”
“I did at the time. But now, looking back, maybe it was just that you were an idealist, that you weren’t prepared to make any compromises. I admire you for that, in a way. I think I just never realised how hard it was going to be. But now here you are, winner of the Connaught Prize – by proxy at least. It’s weird.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“What about?”
“Just... that things didn’t work out differently.”
“So am I.”
4
Miranda Cole noticed, with mild surprise, an email in her mailbox from Tom Newcomb. She opened it immediately.
Miranda
Long time no see – hope you’re well. You may or may not know that I was recently asked to testify in court regarding the authorship of Nicola Carson’s book. I’ve now been informed that the whole thing’s been dropped and I’m no longer required and I must say I’m a bit pissed off. I was rather looking forward to it – Jo-Jo and I were bringing the kids down to London to visit the Natural History Museum. It’s blatantly obvious to me that Haymer was intimidated by Nicola’s thugs into dropping the case. He was probably threatened, or his family threatened.
I had a feeling there was something fishy about that manuscript when I first read it, all those years ago, but I never gave it another thought until this lad turned up on my doorstep asking me to appear as a witness at the hearing. But it now seems as plain as day that Haymer wrote it and that she pinched it from him and used it as a springboard to her glittering career. It all makes perfect sense, though I suppose it’s too late to do anything about it now. I just thought I’d let you know my thoughts on the subject, since no one else seems interested any more.
Jo-Jo sends her love. All the best
Tom
*
Dominic heaved a sigh, having spent half an hour trawling through the appointments section of the Guardian. For months he had been living his dream but reality could not be kept at bay any longer – his car tax expired at the end of the month, final demands were dropping like confetti through the letter-box. He could not believe he was back in this situation, back with the dreary round of filling out application forms, dredging up referees from his dim and distant past (‘You may not remember me but I was in your tutor group of 1998’), putting on a suit and tie and smiling in front of a squad of condescending arseholes trying to convince them that the job they were offering was exactly what he’d always dreamed of doing, that yes, he considered himself an individualist as well as a team player, that he felt he had many unique talents to bring to the position and saw himself still loyally serving the company in ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred years’ time, so great would be his gratitude to them for granting him this glorious fucking opportunity. He folded the paper and slung it aside in disgust.
He gazed morosely around his little flat – the flat which had become a tip since Katie had ceased imposing her unique brand of order on it, the flat which he would probably have to abandon soon for something even smaller, cheaper and grottier. And he found himself thinking again of California, of the California he had passed up, of golden sands and deep blue sea (or ‘ocean’ as Katie had liked to call it) and she in her black bikini, happy and suntanned, lying at his side.
No! He mustn’t go there! He mustn’t lose heart! Whatever had happened, whatever anyone had said, he still had his scoop – his scoop – and he must hold on to it with all his might. He thought back to the evening he had first opened that copy of Loss and the excitement which had surged through him when he realised what had happened. Nicola Carson was still red hot property, even though she had dropped out of her latest film and hidden herself in rehab. And, in a way, Ted had done him a favour with his magnanimous and inexplicable withdrawal. The story would go cold and that would allow him breathing space to muster his resources and get a clear, unobstructed run at his target. Ted and Anne Haymer, Tom Newcomb and William Peach were out of the picture. They were history. And if he did manage to prove that Nicola Carson was guilty after all, the glory would be his and his alone. But that was the operative word – prove. That was the only way, and that was what he had to focus on with all his mental and physical energies. Circumstantial evidence and testimonies from lecherous old authors with bruised egos and pussyfooting around the Haymers’ sensibilities had all been a complete and utter waste of time. He had to find a way to prove, finally and irrefutably, what he knew to be true – that Nicola Carson had plagiarised that novel which had launched her career and won her the Connaught Prize. But how to do it? How the hell to do it?
Then he had a brainwave.
CHAPTER SEVEN
2008
Dominic sank back among the pillows, savouring the warmth of Nicola’s nakedness coiled around his own. Gently he slid his arm around her and gathered her to his chest and she smiled up at him, caressed his cheek and kissed him tenderly on the lips. “That was amazing,” she whispered.
The digital clock, glowing in the dark, said ten past three. Slowly, rhythmically, he was stroking her upper arm and inwardly bracing himself. The brainwave he had had that desperate day had born spectacular – if unexpected – fruit. He had found her in Malvern Hall, he had won her trust, she had come to his flat and finally to his bed. And now, though he wanted nothing less than to destroy the intimacy of this moment, he knew he could not carry on with this charade a moment longer – not now that things were the way they were between them, not now that she carried a tiny part of him inside herself. But then it was she who murmured,
“Dominic?”
“Mmm?”
“There's something I have to tell you.”
He waited in silence.
“You know when you asked me, yesterday, how I felt about myself when I was writing?”
“Yes.”
“You were talking about ‘Loss’ weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Well, whatever I said, I was lying. I never wrote 'Loss'. In fact, there never was a novel called 'Loss'. It was called 'The Tyranny of Love' and it was written by someone called Edward Haymer.”
His fingertips froze on her skin.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Yes.
”
“And what do you think?”
He said nothing at first. Then he murmured, “There were rumours going around, weren't there? After the BAFTA business. I always thought they were rubbish.”
“Well, they weren't.”
They lay in silence in the dark.
“Does anyone else know?”
“No. Only you. I knew I was going to have to tell you sooner or later – if we were going to have a proper relationship. That’s why I wanted to be sure you wouldn’t let me down. But I have to tell the rest of the world. I can’t go on living this lie.”
“You mean… you want to confess to the entire world that you stole that manuscript?”
She jerked back in the crook of his arm, frowning at him. “Stole it? I never stole it!”
“You didn't?”
“No, of course I didn't! Ted gave it to me!”
Dominic stared down at her. “You mean Ted, Edward Haymer, was in on it?”
“Yes. It was his idea.”
“Nicola, I’m not with you.”
“He knew he was never going to publish that novel himself, and he didn’t want to anyway. But he desperately wanted to get his career off the ground and to help me get mine off the ground too. I was young, pretty I guess, I had it all going for me. So the plan was that I’d pretend to be this brilliant, totally cool young authoress and when I’d made a success of the book we’d share the proceeds and I’d use my contacts to get his other books published.”