by PETER DAVEY
“Nicola, this is crazy! We've got to get back to reality! Tomorrow I'm going to get in my car and go and track down this Ted Haymer and tell him everything you've told me. I'm going to tell him how terrible you feel and how you want to make amends, and that I'm going to move heaven and earth – on your behalf – to get his other novels into print. And I'm going to ask him to forgive you.”
“I’ve got to be the one to ask him to forgive me. To his face.”
“Okay, but I think I should go first, to prepare the ground. I'll explain why you're reluctant to see him, just as you were reluctant to see him when he contacted you. It may take him a while to come to terms with things but he will come to terms with them, I know he will. He's a decent bloke, deep down. He's just bitter. And then, when the time's right...”
“Hang on a minute,” she said.
“What?”
“How do you know he's a decent bloke deep down? You've never met him.”
“Well, I... I just assume he is... from what you’ve said.”
Nicola was silent, considering his words. Dominic was holding his breath. “Yeah, well, you’re right, he is a decent bloke deep down, which is why I’ve got to make things right with him.”
“Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s make the confession. I’ll be behind you all the way.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Dominic... you’re fantastic!”
“I know. So what exactly are you planning to do? Are you going to issue a statement to the press?”
“No. I’ve got a better idea.”
2
Later that morning, having passed under Eric Gill’s lumbering frieze of Prospero and Ariel and been exhaustively grilled by two security guards about the purpose of their visit, Dominic and Nicola were finally issued with visitor’s passes and directed to Television News. The receptionist looked up and did a double take. Despite the tide of famous people ebbing and flowing past her desk, the appearance of a Hollywood superstar didn’t happen every day of the week.
“Hi, I’m Nicola Carson,” said Nicola.
“What can I do for you Miss Carson?” she smiled.
“I’d like to see the News Editor. It’s very important.”
“Yes, of course. Would that be the Director of News or the Head of Evening News?”
“I don’t care. Just whoever decides what goes in the news.”
“Just one moment.” She lifted a receiver, pressed a button and spoke to somebody called Rebecca. “She’s sending down Mr. Fanning who’s our new Head of Evening News,” she announced when she’d ended the call. “If you’d care to take a seat for just a moment?” She stood up and walked them the few yards to the cluster of sumptuous sofas as though there were a danger they might not find them on their own. She offered them refreshments but Nicola declined and the girl smiled and returned to her desk.
A bespectacled man in his fifties presently came striding towards them looking stressed and harassed, his expression seeming to say, ‘What the hell’s this about?’
“Miss Carson, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand briefly as she and Dominic stood up. “I love your work and my daughter adored your novel, ‘Loss’.”
“Thank you. This is my boyfriend, Dominic.”
Dominic shook the man’s hand rather dreamily, basking in the title which had just been bestowed upon him. They all sat down.
“I want to make a statement,” said Nicola. “It should take three minutes air time tops and I want it to go out on the 6 o clock news.”
The man she was addressing was actually not John Fanning, Head of Evening News but Alan Tilson, the new Deputy Director of News and Head of News Programmes, an old hand who had cut his teeth on Fleet Street then worked as a foreign correspondent in Asia and the Middle East. Nicola Carson’s celebrity thus held no magic for him. Guessing the ‘statement’ had something to do with her high-profile love life, he said, “Miss Carson, with all due respect, do you think the evening news is the best medium for something like this? Maybe the newspapers... or Hello magazine?”
Nicola stared at him for a moment then shot to her feet. “Come on Dominic, we’re going to ITN.”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me, I’m having a very stressful day. Please. Do sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Nicola, having simmered for a few seconds, resumed her seat. Dominic followed suit. “My novel that your daughter adored so much. You can tell her I didn’t write it. I stole it.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “You stole it?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“From whom?”
“From an unknown author called Edward Haymer.”
“You mean, you just stole this person’s manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t object?”
“Yes he did. He tried to sue me. But he couldn’t prove it was his.”
The man became thoughtful. “It won the Connaught Prize, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t write it?”
“No.”
“So you won the Connaught Prize and accepted the prize money fraudulently?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Carson, are you sure about this?”
“Of course I’m sure! How could I have imagined not writing a novel?”
“No, I mean, are you sure about publicly admitting it? You have committed a crime, after all. Possibly more than one crime.”
“Yes. I want to admit it.”
He lapsed into thought again. “We’re going to have to run this by our legal department.”
“Your legal department? Why?”
“Because Connaught International could sue us. As could your publisher. Which is one reason why it probably would be better coming from you. Who is your publisher, by the way?”
“Jonathan Hale.”
“Mmm... a multi-million dollar corporation. We need to run this by our legal department. Definitely.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Not long. We can go ahead with the recording anyway. The question is whether we’ll be allowed to use it.”
*
After leaving Broadcasting House, they had lunch in a French restaurant but Nicola was in sombre mood. Dominic reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “It’ll be fine, honestly,” he said.
“I never realized telling the truth was so fucking complicated.”
“If only you had told the truth!”
“Yeah, well, you know what I mean.”
After lunch they made their way back to the flat where she immediately lay down on the bed and curled up in the foetal position. Dominic lay behind her and threaded his arms around her tummy. “I’m glad I’m officially your boyfriend anyway,” he murmured.
“I couldn’t be bothered explaining you,” she snorted.
“Explaining me?”
“Yeah, that you’re my chauffeur cum sex slave.”
At ten to six he opened a bottle of Chardonnay and they settled on the sofa in time for the evening news as though preparing to watch a film. They still did not know whether the BBC was going to use the recording, but then, suddenly, there it was, after the announcement of the latest unemployment figures and an earthquake in Japan and thankfully before the pivotal moment when Huw Thomas’ grave expression assumes its wry twinkle to herald the ‘granny thwarting the burglar by whacking him over the head with her handbag’ slot.
“The actress and author Nicola Carson, in a dramatic statement to the BBC earlier today, claimed that she did not write the best-selling novel ‘Loss’ and that she stole the manuscript....” Then there she was – head and shoulders, full to camera.
“God, I look like shit.”
“No you don’t, you look pale and frail, which is how you wanted to look. It wouldn’t work if you looked too bonny.”
“Hi,” said her image on the screen, “I’m Nicola Carson. I want to say that I’m making this
statement entirely voluntarily, that I haven’t been coerced or pressured by anyone in any way. I’m going away soon, but before I go I have something very important I want to say. My novel ‘Loss’ which won the Connaught Prize – I didn’t write it. It was written by someone called Edward Haymer.”
She paused, the camera focused on her mercilessly. She rubbed her fingertips fiercely against the side of her nose.
“It happened like this. I met Ted years ago down in Wemborne, where we went to live after my dad walked out on us. I worked for a while in his local and one evening he walked me home after my shift. He was really depressed because he couldn't get anything published. I expressed an interest in his work and asked to read it, so he emailed me his novel, which was called ‘The Tyranny of Love’. I thought it was brilliant.
“So why did I steal it and pass it off as my own? God knows. I was a total mess inside my head at the time – I still am – not that that’s any excuse. But I was desperate myself. I was getting nowhere as an actress, kept flunking auditions, getting knocked back, putting peoples’ backs up, and I guess I thought if I could publish a really good book and get my name known that way, I could use it to launch my career. I changed the title, of course, but I was sure someone would notice. But they didn’t – not for ages. By the time Ted found out the truth, I was famous and it was very hard for him to convince anyone I was a fraud.
“But I was. A complete fraud. There’s no way I could’ve written that book. I’m an actress not a writer, and being the brilliant young authoress was just a role I'd cooked up for myself – a role I really enjoyed, at first. That’s what acting’s all about, after all, isn’t it? Pretence. Make believe. Deception. Lying. But the lying's gone on long enough. And now, before I go, all I want to say is I’m sorry. Sorry to everyone who supported me, who helped me, who employed me, and to everyone who watched my films. I’m glad you thought I was good in ‘All About Me’ and I’m sorry I was crap in all the others. I’m really sorry. But most of all I want to say sorry to Ted. If you’re out there, Ted, if you’re watching this, I hope you’ll finally get the credit you deserve for your novel, not to mention the Connaught Prize which is rightfully yours. And I hope you’ll now get all your other amazing novels published and be a successful author just like you’ve always wanted to be.
“And that’s all I have to say. Just… sorry again. And goodbye.”
“They used the whole thing!” cried Dominic as they cut back to the newsroom. “They didn’t edit a single word!”
“Shut up!”
There on the screen was Miranda Cole. She appeared to be standing in the street outside her office:
“It’s nonsense,” she said into the microphone that was being held out to her, “complete and utter rubbish. I worked hand-in-glove with Nicola on the publication of that book and there’s no way it could’ve been written by anyone else.”
“So why is she saying it was?” asked the reporter.
“I’ve no idea. I’ve absolutely no idea. But I’m not alone in being concerned about Nicola’s emotional state.”
“What?” Nicola yelled at the screen. “Is she trying to say I’m crazy?”
“What do you suppose she meant by ‘I’m going away soon’?” asked the reporter.
“That’s what I’m concerned about.”
“They have to put that in for balance,” said Dominic. “Don’t worry, it won’t make any difference. You’ve made your confession, that’s the important thing. And everyone knows she’s got a vested interest.”
Dominic made supper that night but Nicola barely pecked at it. “It’s weird,” she said. “I thought I’d feel different after I’d come clean. But I don’t. I feel just the same. In fact, I don’t feel anything.” Then she tossed down her fork and, though it was still light, headed off to bed, back in her own little room.
“Have you taken your medication?” Dominic asked.
“Yeah yeah, I’ve taken my medication.” Then she paused. “Dominic, I just want to say... thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“It’s okay. I was glad to be able to help.”
“We have done the right thing, haven’t we?”
Dominic was far from sure they had done the right thing. “Yes, we have,” he said.
*
After she had gone, he slumped down on the sofa and fell into deep thought, finally giving in to exhaustion and drifting into a doze. Sometime later he was woken by voices down in the alleyway. He roused himself, crossed to the window and peered out. An explosion of camera bulbs blazed in his eyes.
He hurried to Nicola’s room and gently shook her shoulder. “Nicola, wake up!”
“What is it?” she mumbled.
“There’s a load of paparazzi outside with their cameras pointing at our windows.”
“Oh shhhhit! How did they find out where I was?”
“Someone in the building must have tipped them off.”
At that moment the doorbell rang. Dominic went through to the little entrance hall and peered through the peephole. The landing was crammed with reporters and photographers. He double-checked the lock and security chain then went round the flat drawing all the curtains. The doorbell kept ringing.
He went back to the living room and shut the door to try to banish it, with partial success. Nicola was now wide awake and sitting on the bed. “I’m sorry, Dominic. I should have been more careful.”
“It’s not your fault.”
The doorbell was now ringing continuously.
“Fuck!” he snapped, then stormed out into the hall and hammered on the door with his fist. “Fuck off, you bastards!”
“Oi, Dominic, has Nicola topped 'erself yet?”
“No, she hasn't topped herself! And you'll be sorry to hear she doesn't intend to!”
“Just tell 'er to give us a statement and a few shots and we’ll leave you in peace! Fair’s fair!”
He reached up and opened the fuse box, which was beside the meter just under the ceiling, and threw the mains switch. The doorbell died just as it was starting up again, along with the rest of the power in the flat. Though it was still just daylight, the whole place, with the curtains drawn, was plunged into gloom. He went back to Nicola.
“Maybe if I give them a statement, tell them you’re ill.”
“They won’t be happy with that! The bastards’ll keep this up forever, or until something better comes along – like World War Three. You don’t know what they’re like. We’ve got to get away from here, Dominic. Somewhere far away where we can get some peace. I don’t care where – just somewhere where we can be ourselves.”
He halted in his tracks and stared at her. “You mean you want to... be with me? Permanently?”
“Yes. That’s what I want.”
3
Peering through the dawn mist, Frank Brewer wondered if he was hallucinating. He could have sworn he saw a young man in a bomber jacket with a load of gadgetry slung round his shoulders scuttling, bent double, between the bushes around Ted's caravan like a soldier taking out a military target. Then there was another. And another. And another. Bellowing “Get off my land!” he raised his shotgun and discharged both barrels over their heads – the explosion cracking the air and sending the paparazzi tearing back to their cars with cries of “Jesus Christ!” and “Fuck me!”
Ted's head appeared in the caravan door. “What the hell's going on, Frank?”
“Just shooting vermin!”
“Do you have to do it right on my doorstep? You scared the shit out of me!”
“It's you that's attracting them!”
“What, pigeons?”
“No, photographers! You're famous, mate! Didn't you know?”
It was true. Ever since Nicola’s appearance (which was trending on Twitter and had notched up a record number of hits on You Tube), the search engines of the world had been trawling in vain for information about the mysterious hermit Edward Haymer from whom she had purportedly stolen her novel. Was he her bio
logical father? Was he a practitioner of the black arts who held some kind of demonic power over her? Was he a former mafia boss hiding out in the English countryside? The Queen’s Head (which had quickly been identified as the pub Nicola had been referring to) was busier than Ian had ever seen it that lunchtime, despite his attempts to keep the press from harassing his regulars. “I’ve had the BBC on the phone,” he shouted at Ted over the hubbub. “They want to get your reaction to Nicola’s statement but they haven’t got any contact details.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Mr Haymer, would you care to make a statement to...”
“No he wouldn’t!” retorted Ian to the customer who didn’t look like a journalist but obviously was. “He hasn’t had his lunch yet.” Then, turning back to Ted: “I just said I thought it was unlikely you’d want to do it, since you’re a bit of a loner.”
“Actually I do want to.”
Ted was locked in the private function room where Melanie, looking flabbergasted, brought him his beer and a sandwich. “I just can't believe it. That bitch who worked here all those years ago was Nicola Carson. Ian kept that jolly close to his chest!”
“She was Nicola Pearson then. Her mother swore Ian to secrecy for some reason best known to herself.”
Melanie shrugged. ‘Well, it’s a good job she’s better at acting than she was at waitressing.”
The BBC outside broadcast unit was heading down the M25 even as they spoke. The interview was arranged for four o’clock in the saloon bar – when the Queen’s should be relatively quiet. It wasn’t quiet that afternoon, however, the curious onlookers having to be corralled to make way for the camera and sound equipment. Ted was positioned at his favourite table by the inglenook. “I’m going to put a plaque over that seat,” laughed Ian. “Now that you’re famous.”
The brindled correspondent was apparently quite well-known but Ted did not recognise him since he hadn’t owned a television in years.
“Edward Haymer,” he began, “What’s your reaction to Nicola Carson’s statement?”
“Well, I find it incomprehensible. I can only guess that it’s a response to the terrible pressure she’s been under and another manifestation of her compulsion to denigrate and humiliate herself, in the same vein as her breakdown at the BAFTA ceremony. It’s common knowledge she’s attempted suicide and I believe this is a form of professional suicide. I’m no psychologist but I’m sure there must be a name for it. I’m gratified by the way she spoke about me, though.”