by Tom Sharpe
‘It seems to have a lot of Vitamin B,’ he said, avoiding the allure of those eyes.
‘The Bs give you energy,’ murmured Baby.
‘And As?’ asked Piper.
‘Vitamin A smooths the mucous membranes,’ said Baby, and once again Piper was dimly conscious that beneath this dietetic commentary there lurked an under-tow of dangerous suggestion. He looked up from the Wheatgerm label and was held once more by that masklike face and limpid azure eyes.
11
Sonia Futtle rose late. Never an early riser, she had slept more heavily than usual. The strain of the previous day had taken its toll. She came downstairs to find the house empty apart from Hutchmeyer who was growling into the telephone in his study. She made herself some coffee and interrupted him.
‘Have you seen Peter?’ she asked.
‘Baby’s taken him someplace. They’ll be back,’ said Hutchmeyer. ‘Now about that proposition I put to you …’
‘No way. F & F is a good agency. We’re doing well. So what would I want to change?’
‘It’s a Vice-Presidency I’m offering you,’ said Hutchmeyer, ‘and the offer stays open.’
‘The only offer I’m interested in right now,’ said Sonia, ‘is the one you’re going to make my client for all the physical injury and mental suffering and public ridicule he sustained as a result of yesterday’s riot you organized at the docks.’
‘Physical injury? Mental suffering?’ shouted Hutchmeyer incredulously. ‘That was the greatest publicity in the world and you want me to make an offer?’
Sonia nodded. ‘Compensation. In the region of twenty-five thousand.’
‘Twenty-five … Are you crazy? Two million I give him for that book and you want to take me for another twenty-five grand?’
‘I do,’ said Sonia. ‘There is nothing in the contract that says my client has to be subjected to violence, assault and the attentions of lethal frisbees. Now you organized that caper—’
‘Go jump,’ said Hutchmeyer.
‘In that case I shall advise Mr Piper to cancel the tour.’
‘You do that,’ shouted Hutchmeyer, ‘and I’ll sue for nonfulfilment of contract. I’ll take him to the cleaners. I’ll goddam …’
‘Pay up,’ said Sonia taking a seat and crossing her legs provocatively.
‘Jesus,’ said Hutchmeyer admiringly, ‘I’ll say this for you, you’ve got nerve.’
‘Not all I got,’ said Sonia, exposing a bit more, ‘I’ve got Piper’s second novel too.’
‘And I have the option on it.’
‘If he finishes it, Hutch, if he finishes it. You keep this sort of pressure up on him he’s likely to Scott Fitzgerald on you. He’s sensitive and—’
‘I heard all that already. From Baby. Shy, sensitive, my ass. The sort of stuff he writes he ain’t sensitive. Got a hide like a fucking armadillo.’
‘Which, since you haven’t read it …’ said Sonia.
‘I don’t have to read it. MacMordie read it and he said it made him almost fetch up and MacMordie don’t fetch up easy.’
They wrangled on until lunch, happily embroiled in threat and counter-threat and the financial game of poker which was their real expertise. Not that Hutchmeyer paid up. Sonia had never expected him to, but at least it took his mind off Piper.
*
The same could not be said for Baby. Their walk along the shore to the studio after breakfast had confirmed her impression that at long last she had met a writer of genius. Piper had talked incessantly about literature and for the most part with an incomprehensibility that Baby found so impressive that she returned to the house feeling that she had undergone a cultural experience of the most profound kind. Piper’s impressions were rather different, an amalgam of pleasure at having such an attentive and interested audience and wonder that so perceptive a woman could find the book he was supposed to have written anything less than disgusting. He went up to his room and was about to get out his diary when Sonia entered.
‘I hope you’ve been discreet,’ she said. ‘That Baby’s a ghoul.’
‘A ghoul?’ said Piper. ‘She’s a deeply sensitive …’
‘A ghoul in gold lamé pants. So what’s she been doing with you all morning?’
‘We went for a walk and she told me about her interest in conservation.’
‘Well she didn’t have to. You’ve only got to look at her to see she’s done a great job. Like on her face.’
‘She’s very keen on health foods,’ said Piper.
‘And sandblasting,’ said Sonia. ‘Next time she smiles take a look at the back of her head.’
‘At the back of her head? What on earth for?’
‘To see how far the skin stretches. If that woman laughed she’s scalp herself.’
‘Well all I can say is that she’s a lot better than Hutchmeyer,’ said Piper, who hadn’t forgotten what he had been called the night before.
‘Hutch I can handle,’ said Sonia, ‘no problems there. I’ve got him eating out of my hand so don’t foul things up by making goo-goo eyes at his wife and blowing your top about things literary.’
‘I am not making goo-goo eyes at Mrs Hutchmeyer,’ said Piper indignantly, ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.’
‘Well she’s making them at you,’ said Sonia. ‘And another thing, keep that turban on. It suits you.’
‘It may suit me, but it’s very uncomfortable.’
‘It will be a lot more uncomfortable if Hutch finds out you didn’t get hit with a frisbee,’ said Sonia.
They went down to lunch. Thanks to a call for Hutchmeyer from Hollywood which kept him out of the room for most of the meal it was a lot easier than breakfast. He came in as they were having coffee and looked at Piper suspiciously.
‘You heard of a book called Harold and Maude?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Piper.
‘Why?’ said Sonia.
Hutchmeyer looked at her balefully. ‘Why? I’ll tell you why,’ he said. ‘Because Harold and Maude just happens to be about an eighteen-year-old who falls in love with an eighty and they’ve already made the movie. That’s why. And I want to know how come no one told me I was buying a novel that had already been written by someone else and—’
‘Are you suggesting that Piper’s guilty of plagiarism?’ said Sonia. ‘Because if you are let me—’
‘Plagiarism?’ yelled Hutchmeyer. ‘What plagiarism? I’m saying he stole the goddam story and I’ve been had for a sucker by some two-bit—’
Hutchmeyer had turned purple and Baby intervened. ‘If you’re going to stand there and insult Mr Piper,’ she said, ‘I am not going to sit here and listen to you. Come along, Mr Piper. You and I will leave these two—’
‘Stop,’ bawled Hutchmeyer, ‘I’ve paid two million dollars and I want to know what Mr Piper has to say about it. Like …’
‘I assure you I have never read Harold and Maude,’ said Piper, ‘I’ve never even heard of it.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ said Sonia. ‘Besides, it’s quite different. It’s not the same at all …’
‘Come, Mr Piper,’ said Baby and shepherded him out of the room. Behind them Hutchmeyer and Sonia could be heard shouting. Piper staggered across the piazza lounge and sank ashen-faced into a chair.
‘I knew it would go wrong,’ he muttered.
Baby looked at him curiously. ‘What would go wrong, honey?’ she asked. Piper shook his head despondently. ‘You didn’t copy that book, did you?’
‘No,’ said Piper, ‘I’ve never even heard of it.’
‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Miss Futtle will sort it out with him. They’re two of a kind. Now why don’t you go and have a rest?’
Piper went dolefully upstairs with her and into his room. Baby went into her bedroom thoughtfully and shut the door. Her intuition was working overtime. She sat on the bed and thought about his words, ‘I knew it would go wrong.’ Peculiar. What would go wrong? One thing at least was clear in her mind. H
e had never heard of Harold and Maude. That was sincerity speaking. And Baby Hutchmeyer had lived with insincerity long enough to recognize the truth when she heard it. She waited a while and then went along the passage and quietly opened the door of Piper’s room. He was sitting with his back to her at the table by the window. At his elbow was a bottle of ink and in front of him a large leatherbound book. He was writing. Baby watched for a minute and then very gently shut the door and went back to the great waterbed inspired. She had just seen true genius at work. Like Balzac. Downstairs there was the rumble of Hutchmeyer and Sonia Futtle in battle. Baby lay back and stared into space, filled with a terrible sense of her own inutility. In the next room a solitary writer strove to convey to her and millions like her the significance of everything he thought and felt, to create a world enhanced by his imagination which would move into the future a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Downstairs those two word-merchants haggled and fought and ultimately marketed his work. And she did nothing. She was a barren creature without use or purpose, self-indulgent and insignificant. She turned her face to a Tretchikoff and presently fell asleep.
She woke an hour later to the sound of voices from the next room. They were faint and indistinct. Sonia and Piper talking. She lay and listened but could distinguish nothing. Then she heard Piper’s door shut and their voices in the passage. She got off the bed and crossed to the bathroom and unbolted the door. A moment later she was in Piper’s room. The leatherbound book was still there on the table. Baby crossed the room and sat down. When she got up half an hour later Baby Hutchmeyer was a different woman. She went back through the bathroom, locked the door again and sat before her mirror filled with a terrible intention.
*
Hutchmeyer’s intentions were pretty terrible too. After his row with Sonia he had retreated to his study to blast hell out of MacMordie for not telling him about Harold and Maude but it was Saturday and MacMordie wasn’t available for blasting. Hutchmeyer called his home number and got no reply. He sat back fuming and wondering about Piper. There was something wrong with the guy, something he couldn’t put his finger on, something that didn’t fit in with his idea of an author who had written about screwing old women, something weird. Hutchmeyer’s suspicions were aroused. He’d known a lot of authors and none of them had been like Piper. No way. They had talked about their work all the time. But this Piper … He’d love to have a talk with him, get him alone and give him a drink or two to loosen him up. But when he came out of his study it was to find Piper screened by women. Baby was down with a fresh dressing of warpaint and Sonia presented him with a book.
‘What’s that?’ said Hutchmeyer recoiling.
‘Harold and Maude,’ said Sonia. ‘Peter and I bought it in Bellsworth for you. You can read it and see for yourself—’
Baby laughed shrilly. ‘This I must see. Him reading.’
‘Shut up,’ said Hutchmeyer. He poured a large high-ball and handed it to Piper. ‘Have a highball, Piper.’
‘I won’t if you don’t mind,’ said Piper. ‘Not tonight.’
‘First goddam writer I ever met who doesn’t drink,’ said Hutchmeyer.
‘First real writer you ever met period,’ said Baby. ‘You think Tolstoy drank?’
‘Jesus,’ said Hutchmeyer, ‘how should I know?’
‘That’s a lovely yacht out there,’ said Sonia to change the subject. ‘I didn’t know you were a sailing man, Hutch.’
‘He isn’t,’ said Baby before Hutchmeyer could point out that his boat was the finest ocean racer money could buy and that he’d take on any man who said it wasn’t. ‘It’s part of the props. Like the house and the neighbours and—’
‘Shut up,’ said Hutchmeyer.
Piper left the room and went up to the Boudoir bedroom to confide some more dark thoughts about Hutchmeyer to his diary. When he came down to dinner Hutchmeyer’s face was more flushed than usual and his belligerence index was up several points. He had particularly disliked listening to an exposé of his married life by Baby who had, woman-to-woman, discussed with Sonia the symbolic implications of truss-wearing by middle-aged husbands and its relevance to the male menopause. And for once his ‘Shut up’ hadn’t worked. Baby hadn’t shut up, she had opened out with further intimate details of his habits so that Hutchmeyer was in the process of telling her to go drown herself when Piper entered the room. Piper wasn’t in a mood to put up with Hutchmeyer’s lack of chivalry. His years as a bachelor and student of the great novels had infected him with a reverence for Womanhood and very firm views on husbands’ attitudes to wives and these didn’t include telling them to go drown themselves. Besides, Hutchmeyer’s blatant commercialism and his credo that what readers wanted was a good fuck-fantasy had occupied his mind all day. In Piper’s opinion what readers wanted was to have their sensibilities extended and fuck-fantasies didn’t come into the category of things that extended sensibilities. He went in to dinner determined to make the point. The opportunity occurred early on when Sonia, to change the subject, mentioned Valley of The Dolls. Hutchmeyer, glad to escape from the distressing revelations about his private life, said it was a great book.
‘I absolutely disagree with you,’ said Piper. ‘It panders to the public taste for the pornographic.’
Hutchmeyer choked on a piece of cold lobster. ‘It does what?’ he said when he had recovered.
‘It panders to the public taste for pornography,’ said Piper, who hadn’t read the book but had seen the cover.
‘It does, does it?’ said Hutchmeyer.
‘Yes.’
‘And what’s wrong with pandering to public taste?’
‘It’s debasing,’ said Piper.
‘Debasing?’ said Hutchmeyer, eyeing him with mounting fury.
‘Absolutely.’
‘And what sort of books do you think the public are going to read if you don’t give them what they want?’
‘Well I think …’ Piper began before being silenced by a kick under the table from Sonia.
‘I think Mr Piper thinks—’ said Baby.
‘Never mind what you think he thinks,’ snarled Hutchmeyer, ‘I want to hear what Piper thinks he thinks.’ He looked expectantly at Piper.
‘I think it is wrong to expose readers to books that are lacking in intellectual content,’ said Piper, ‘and which are deliberately designed to inflame their imaginations with sexual fantasies that—’
‘Inflame their sexual fantasies?’ yelled Hutchmeyer, interrupting this quotation from The Moral Novel. ‘You sit there and tell me you don’t hold with books that inflame their readers’ sexual fantasies when you’ve written the filthiest book since Last Exit?’
Piper steeled himself. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do. And as another matter of fact I …’
But Sonia had heard enough. With sudden presence of mind she reached for the salt and knocked the waterjug sideways into Piper’s lap.
‘You ever hear anything like that?’ said Hutchmeyer as Baby left the room to fetch a cloth and Piper went upstairs to put on a fresh pair of trousers. ‘The guy has the nerve to tell me I got no right to publish …’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Sonia, ‘he’s not himself. He’s upset. It was that riot yesterday. The blow he got on the head. It’s affected him.’
‘Affected him? I’ll say it has, and I’m going to affect the little asshole too. Telling me I’m a goddam pornographer. Why I’ll show him …’
‘Why don’t you show me your yacht?’ said Sonia, putting her arms round his neck, a move designed at one and the same time to prevent Hutchmeyer from leaping out of his chair to pursue the retreating Piper and to indicate a new willingness on her part to listen to propositions of all kinds. ‘Why don’t you and me go out and take a cosy little sail around the bay?’
Hutchmeyer succumbed to the soothing influence. ‘Who the hell does he think he is anyhow?’ he asked with unconscious acumen. Sonia didn’t answer. She clung to his arm and smiled seductively. They went out on to the terr
ace and down the path to the jetty.
Behind them from the piazza lounge Baby watched them thoughtfully. She knew now that in Piper she had found the man she had been waiting for, an author of real merit and one who, without a drink inside him, could stand up to Hutchmeyer and tell him to his face what he thought of him and his books. One too who appreciated her as a sensitive, intelligent and perceptive woman. She had learnt that from Piper’s diary. Piper had expressed himself freely on the subject, just as he had given vent to his opinion that Hutchmeyer was a coarse, crass, stupid and commercially motivated moron. On the other hand there had been several references to Pause in the diary that had puzzled her and particularly his statement that it was a disgusting book. It seemed a strangely objective criticism for a novelist to make about his own work and while she didn’t agree with him it raised him still further in her estimation. It showed he was never satisfied. He was a truly dedicated writer. And so, standing in the piazza lounge staring through limpid azure contact lenses at the yacht moving slowly away from the jetty, Baby Hutchmeyer was herself filled with a sense of dedication, a maternal dedication amounting to euphoria. The days of useless inactivity were over. From now on she would stand between Piper and the harsh insensitivity of Hutchmeyer and the world. She was happy.
Upstairs Piper was anything but. The first flush of his courage in challenging Hutchmeyer had ebbed away, leaving him with the horrible feeling that he was in desperate trouble. He took his wet trousers off and sat on the bed wondering what on earth to do. He should never have left the Gleneagle Guest House in Exforth. He should never have listened to Frensic and Sonia. He should never have come to America. He should never have betrayed his literary principles. As the sunset faded Piper got up and was just looking for another pair of trousers when there was a knock at the door and Baby entered.