The Pupil

by Dawn Goodwin

  Viola got to her feet and moved past me, brushing my phone onto the carpet as she passed. ‘Ooops!’ She bent to pick it up as I looked back at Sam, who was saying, ‘So, talk to me. Tell me what your concerns are.’

  ‘Well…’ Where did I start? Should I be honest and tell him that it was actually all I wanted, my dream come true, validation that I was talented and not as useless as I was led to believe? That it was everyone else around me who didn’t have faith in me? That the fear of being outed for my past mistakes was crippling? ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I started, ‘I am incredibly proud, excited and grateful for the opportunity. I’ve worked hard at this, probably harder than anything else in my life, ever. But… it’s complicated.’

  ‘Explain it to me.’

  He nibbled on sushi as he spoke, but my mouth felt like sandpaper and I doubted I would be able to swallow any food. I so badly wanted to confide in him – about my fears, how I felt about Paul, my resentment at how he was holding me back, and my worry that he was right in that I probably couldn’t cope and that I would end up failing spectacularly, either by readers lambasting what I had done, by failing to deliver on future books or worse. I couldn’t cope with being handed my dream on a plate, only to then see it collapse around me. If Viola hadn’t been in earshot, I probably would have opened up to him, but I couldn’t relax around her. She was putting me on the defensive, the way she was watching me so closely, like a social experiment.

  I took another gulp of gin.

  ‘Well, I’m worried about how it will be received, of course. What if the public doesn’t like it? Negative reviews, no sales. And then what about the next book? Where do I get the idea from? It took loads of hard work to write this one and I have two children at home who still need me. The first might be a success, but then emulating that with other books may be more of a challenge.’

  Sam took hold of my hand again. ‘This is classic Imposter Syndrome and I am here to tell you that even the greats feel that way. Why do you think this next book of mine has been such a chore? I still feel like someone is going to realise that I’m a fraud one day—’ I heard Viola cough loudly in the kitchen and he glared over his shoulder at her before continuing. ‘But one step at a time. There is no time pressure on you to produce anything. You can go as fast or as slow as you want. Some writers produce a book once every ten years; others only ever have one in them. But that’s no reason not to give this one a chance. Have faith in yourself.’

  I smiled at him, desperately wanting to believe him. Viola came over with their glasses, then indicated mine and said, ‘Finish that and I’ll get you a fresh one.’

  I drained the glass and handed it over. I could feel my anxieties unravelling as Sam spoke, his words and the free-flowing gin unpicking the tightly knitted threads.

  Viola handed me a full glass, ice chinking against the crystal. ‘Is there more to this?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, accepting the glass.

  ‘Well, those are all valid concerns and very common in debut authors. I’ve heard all that before, but you seem quite adamant that you don’t want to pursue this and I get the impression there is more going on here.’

  I put down the glass and sighed. ‘It’s just that all my life I’ve had people telling me that I’m not very good at anything. My mother never believed that I was good enough to be a writer – or that writing was even a job, more of a hobby. And Paul – well, he’s worried that it will be too much for me. I’ve struggled to cope in the past and he was the one who helped me through that. He just doesn’t want to have to go through it again, so he would prefer me to carry on as a stay-at-home mum and not take on any extra work.’ My tongue felt loose and I was surprising myself at how much I was admitting to Viola of all people.

  ‘But you have us to support you. And, as I say, we can take this as fast or as slow as you want,’ Sam replied.

  ‘And surely this is about what you want, not Paul?’ Viola added. ‘I know he’s your husband, but you are your own person and the question is whether you will regret not taking the opportunity. Anyway, let me serve dinner and we can talk more at the table. Perhaps I can go through some of my ideas, which publishers I would like to target, how we would go about marketing you, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Okay, lovely.’ I was happy to pause the conversation. It wasn’t like me to be so chatty. ‘Can I help – with dinner, I mean?’

  ‘No, no, you sit with Sam. It’s ready to go –Thai green curry. I hope you like spicy food?’

  ‘Sounds delicious, thank you.’

  Sam was draining his glass again, so I made a valiant effort to catch up, but I was already starting to feel like I was softening around the edges.

  Viola called us over to the table and served large portions of steaming rice and curry, while Sam opened the bottle of Chablis and poured similarly large servings into glasses as big as vases.

  ‘So, if you tell your husband that this is something you really want to do, he would be okay with that, wouldn’t he? Surely any husband would support their wife in following their dream, regardless of what it may or may not entail?’ Viola pushed. ‘My husband and I have always been completely supportive of each other.’ She reached over and grasped Sam’s hand, but from where I was sitting it was almost like she was gripping it tightly in her talons.

  The room around me swayed a little. I needed to eat something. The gin had gone straight to my head.

  ‘Not all marriages are as symbiotic as ours, darling,’ Sam said, releasing his hand.

  I scooped a forkful of curry into my mouth quickly, swallowed without tasting it and said, ‘I think he would be if he knew how important it is to me.’

  ‘Well, there’s your answer. It all depends on how important this is to you.’ She pointed her fork at me like a dagger. ‘Forget everyone else; your mother, your husband. The only people who should matter to you are your children, who will think it very cool that their mother is a published author – and you of course.’

  The idea of telling Paul made nausea inch up the back of my throat. ‘Can I get a glass of water please?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sam said and reached over to a pitcher of water sitting at the far end of the table.

  I drained the glass.

  ‘That Chablis is delicious, Katherine. Try some,’ Viola urged.

  I took a sip and it was lovely against the spice coating my tongue. I drank some more and then ploughed through the curry. ‘Sam, tell me about your book. How is it going?’ I said, wanting to steer the attention away from me in case I said too much.

  ‘Oh, it’s a challenge. I keep getting lost in a labyrinth of words with no sign of the path to a feasible plot goal. It’s frustrating and I can’t decide if I should be binning the whole thing and starting over or if I should persevere.’

  ‘Oh, please, let’s not talk about that this evening, Katherine. He gets so morose about it that if we go there, it will ruin this lovely atmosphere. I think we should eat this lovely food, drink this lovely wine, then get out the contract and sign your name on the dotted line,’ Viola interrupted.

  ‘You’re right! I propose a toast!’ Sam launched to his feet. ‘To Katherine and the success that undoubtedly lies at her feet like the yellow brick road.’ He took a slug of his wine and I followed suit, unable to stop the smile of joy on my lips. His enthusiasm was contagious, but I could imagine his melancholy could be too. Like Viola, he was a man of extremes, constantly switching between hot and cold. Paul was perpetually lukewarm. I should be pleased about that, but sometimes I yearned to see just a flash of fieriness from him, a sign that he could be stirred to lively excess. All I got was veiled disappointment and mild annoyance – at me, the children, his job, his life. Even his pastimes were polite and well-mannered, his clothes perfectly sensible, creased in the right places and of the correct muted shade of beige.

  That flare of rebellion sparked in me again and I drained my wine glass in two big gulps as if in a two-fingered salute to Paul, who I
’d never seen drunk. Sam refilled it immediately while I finished the rest of my curry with gusto.

  A cheese board followed and richly dark truffles along with the rest of the bottle of wine shared between us. The conversation moved onto lighter topics, with Viola sharing trade gossip and Sam regaling us with his stories of bizarre encounters with overzealous readers. I listened, enthralled, aware that this could be my life if I had the guts to reach out and grab it.

  Then Viola produced a contract and a pen.

  This was it. A crossroads. I took seconds to consider my decision before reaching for the pen to sign, feeling like I was on top of the world, but with a certain degree of vertigo attached. I felt like I was a witness to the action from outside my body. My head was spinning – from happiness or the wine, I couldn’t tell. Sam then put the empty wine bottle aside and popped open a bottle of Bollinger and we toasted my success again in tall, frosted champagne flutes.

  My tongue felt thick in my mouth and my ears like they were padded with cotton wool. I had no idea how much time had passed or how much I had now drunk. ‘Can I use your bathroom please?’ I asked, stumbling as I got to my feet.

  ‘Of course, right this way,’ Viola said and I followed her on unsteady legs, my heeled boots plotting to tip me over. She pointed at a doorway at the end of the hallway, but I focused on keeping one hand on the wall as a counterbalance. I could feel Viola watching me, but when I looked back at her, she had returned to her seat.

  I reached the end of the hallway and found myself faced with three closed doors and I realised Viola hadn’t said which one it was. Too embarrassed to call back to her, I opened the one straight in front of me and it revealed a beautiful, elegant master bedroom decorated in muted shades of bronze and beige. I closed the door quickly and opened the door to my right.

  The bright colours and zoo animal motif came as a shock and I recoiled. It was a child’s room, painted in summery yellows and greens, with a toddler’s bed almost completely hidden under a pile of cuddly toys.

  My head struggled to connect the dots. They’d said they didn’t have any children, so why did they have a child’s bedroom? One wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf full of picture books, games and framed photographs. My eyes were struggling to focus on the faces in the photos, but as I went to step further in the room, I heard the sound of a chair scraping and I hurriedly closed the door and opened the only other doorway to the right.

  I slammed the bathroom door shut and leaned against it, my eyes closed, breathing hard. I couldn’t comprehend what was going on, but I didn’t have time to think about it before a wave of nausea rushed at me. I sat heavily on the toilet and breathed deeply, hoping the nausea would pass. I had clearly had far too much to drink, more than I would normally have, but this felt like more than drunkenness. I looked down at my hands as my vision swayed in and out, as though I was adjusting the focus on a telescope.

  I put my head between my legs, but that only served to knock me off balance and I slid off the toilet and slumped onto the tiled floor.

  Mortified, even though no one could see me, I struggled to my feet, using the basin for leverage, and splashed some cold water on my face. I pulled a white, fluffy towel from the heated rail and dried my face, leaving dark mascara streaks on the immaculate cotton.

  I needed to get home. I looked at my watch and it took a moment for me to be able to focus enough to see that it was 10 p.m.

  I used the toilet, flushed and ran cold water over my wrists, then took a few steadying breaths before exiting the bathroom. I took another quick glance at the now closed bedroom door, not sure if I had seen correctly, then followed the low voices back into the lounge.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I think I’ve had too much fun! I’m not used to drinking and I feel a bit tipsy. I should go,’ I said, my voice sounding woolly in my ears. ‘But thank you so much for your hospitality.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a shame, we were just warming up,’ Viola said. ‘Don’t forget your bag.’ She went to retrieve my bag from next to the couch. ‘I like your dedication, bringing your laptop with you.’ She handed the bag to me.

  ‘Oh, no, I was going to return it, but… you know… the contract… do you still want it back?’ I was very dizzy and struggling to get my words to join up.

  ‘No, don’t be silly!’ Viola replied. ‘Oh, you’ve dropped something.’ She reached down and picked up a pill packet from the carpet where my bag had been. She looked at it curiously. ‘Oh, are these yours? You should’ve said. You probably shouldn’t be drinking when taking these, should you?’

  I looked at the packet she handed to me. It was my antidepressants. Was that where they’d been all this time? In my bag? I looked closer, turned the packet over in my shaky fingers, opened it. There were quite a few missing. When had I started taking them again? Did I take any tonight? Why couldn’t I remember?

  I could feel fear tickling the base of my neck. ‘I have to go,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Maybe we should make you some coffee before you leave?’ Viola swam in front of my eyes.

  ‘No, I’m fine really.’ I felt the urge to giggle. I think I actually did because Sam was suddenly next to me, holding my arm.

  ‘Woah, let me call you a cab at least. You can’t get on the tube like this.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘I insist.’ He turned to Viola. ‘I guess the champagne was a step too far.’ He escorted me back to the couch. ‘Sit here for a moment while I call our usual driver.’

  I slumped back against the stiff leather cushions and closed my eyes, but the room kept dipping and swaying, as though I was seaborne.

  Up the creek without a paddle.

  I giggled again.

  I opened my eyes. Viola had gone and Sam was pacing around his desk, talking into his mobile.

  I saw my phone sitting on the coffee table where I’d left it earlier. Grabbing it, I got to my feet to put it in my bag. Vertigo took over as I bent over and I threw my phone in and straightened up quickly. Too quickly.

  I needed water. I could see the jug of water now standing in the kitchen on the counter, so I sashayed over to it. Grabbing a glass from the draining board, I filled it and drank deeply, then put the glass down and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand before gripping the edge of the countertop and letting my head droop to my chest. My hand knocked against something and I noticed a teaspoon lying abandoned, a cloud of white dust coating the tip.

  Something about the white dust was trying to find a way through the wool in my brain, but I couldn’t grasp onto the thought. Behind me, Sam said, ‘The driver is here. Let me make sure you get downstairs.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sam, I’m mortified,’ I mumbled, my tongue heavy in my mouth. ‘Please apologise to Viola for my behaviour.’

  ‘Don’t be silly! If you can’t get pissed the day you sign with your first agent, then when can you? Come on, easy does it.’

  He picked up my bag and put it over his shoulder as I leaned on him. I turned to grab my coat in the hallway and saw Viola reflected in the mirror, standing behind me, watching, her expression unreadable. Before I could say anything to her, Sam had escorted me out the door, down the sweeping staircase and into the cool entrance hall.

  ‘I guess we’re even now on getting drunk and disorderly,’ he chuckled.

  ‘I do love you, Sam. You’re a good friend. In fact, I wish we could’ve been more than friends.’ I leaned in to give him a hug, then decided to mash my mouth against his in an awkward attempt at a kiss. My tongue lapped limply at his lips. He casually pushed me away, chuckled again and escorted me out into the street. The cold night air was like a hard slap.

  He opened the door of a dark-coloured car and I tumbled inside. ‘If you tell Henry your address, he’ll get you home safely.’ He placed my bag at my feet.

  Henry filled the driver’s seat and all I could see of him was his beady eyes watching me through the wing mirror. I suddenly felt inexplicably afraid of being alone in a car with a man I didn’t kno
w. But Sam had closed the door and the car was already pulling away.

  I could feel panic wrapping its cold fingers around my throat and squeezing. I was struggling to breathe. Paul was right. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t do anything. I was pathetic. I suddenly needed to have people around me, strangers, crowds.

  ‘Drop me off at Waterloo please.’

  I saw his eyebrows lift, but he didn’t comment. I kept my eyes on him, unwavering, watching his every move and concentrating on breathing in and out until the car pulled up outside Waterloo Station.

  The car had hardly come to a stop before I grabbed my bag and threw myself out and into the throng of people flowing into the station. Seeing all the unfamiliar faces taking no notice of me as I stumbled against them calmed me to the point where my breathing eased from shallow gasps to more regular inhalations. I weaved my way through to the concourse and stared up at the information screens, willing my eyes to focus. There was a train to Fulwell leaving in minutes and I was thankfully right by the platform I needed. I fumbled in my bag, found my purse with my card inside and ploughed through the turnstile and onto the first carriage I came to.

  The train was busy, full of revellers on their way home and men in suits reeking of after-work beer. I saw a seat further up the carriage on the aisle, next to a large black woman dressed in what looked like a nurse’s uniform under her heavy coat. I threw myself into the seat and stared past her out of the window, feeling exhaustion radiate from every pore. Everything was still fuzzy and soft around the edges, and I had an overwhelming urge to weep.

  Oh god, did I just try to kiss Sam?

  The nurse glanced across at me and I fully expected her to ask, Are you okay? I met her eyes defiantly. She looked away.

  A whistle sounded and the doors glided shut. The train rumbled out of the station and into the night. I listened to the couple behind me rehashing their evening, analysing their friends’ behaviour, laughing without a care in the world. Time passed slowly but the chemicals in my system showed no sign of abating. The swaying of the train was making me feel nauseous and disoriented.