Work in Progress

by Paul Thomas

  I’m sorry if it seems as if I’ve been storing all this up to dump it on you in one go but it’s not about that. In the first place, I owe you a full explanation; secondly, I sincerely believe the best thing I can do for you now is to be absolutely, brutally frank. So here’s the bottom line: I think you’ve lost your way. I think you’ve lost the vision and voice and original take of your early work and have fallen into the trap of trying different genres and formulae in the hope that one of them will pay off, rather like someone playing a slot machine. The reality is, Max, that most successful genre writers believe in what they’re doing. Regardless of what you or I or the critics might think of their stuff, they’re as passionate about it and as convinced of its merit as any ‘serious’ writer. Writers who come at genre cynically, thinking it’s just hack-work which anyone can do, will fail and deserve to fail. So if I could offer you one piece of advice it would be this: if you’re not passionate about it, don’t do it. And if that means you’ve reached the end of the road, then so be it. You’d be in pretty good company: we both know writers who’ve lost the drive and run out of things to say. True, some of them still make a good living by repeating themselves with the names changed but I doubt that that’s good for the soul.

  That’s really all I’ve got say, Max. I hope you don’t think too badly of me but I can live with it if you do because I’m sure this is the right step for both of us. I wish you luck, happiness and success in whatever you decide to do, especially if that means proving me wrong.

  Best

  Shelley

  PS My PA will be in touch to formalise the contractual issues. Needless to say, we herewith renounce any claim over the work we’ve handled in the past.

  I read it three times, mumbling the usual slurs, slosh more brandy into my glass and retrieve the cigarettes from under some old photographs in the bottom drawer. The idea is out of sight, out of mind; by definition you can’t hide objects from yourself. And why would I want to? There are some things you should never be without in this life and brandy and cigarettes are two of them.

  My hand shakes as I light up. This is obviously bad; the question is how bad? Shelley has been my agent for nineteen years. She’s not in the super league but then, if she was, she wouldn’t have taken me on in the first place. She’s a pro and knows a lot of people and her agency has affiliates here, there and everywhere. True, over the years I’ve sent her many a waspish fax or email and in private I’ve often cursed her for an idle, feckless bitch. ‘Jesus Christ,’ begins this windy soliloquy, ‘do I have to do everything myself? I’ve done the hard part; I’ve written the fucking book.’ Periodically, I’ve sought out other agents and dropped hints that I wasn’t ‘wedded’ to Shelley but no luncheon invitations were forthcoming so I settled for her, for better or for worse. And now she’s sacked me. When you’ve been a writer as long as I have, getting the sack from your agent is a very ugly, very ominous development. It means she thinks you’re all washed up and she’s not the only one.

  I can approach another agent here or in Sydney with a story about the distance and the time difference and the lack of face time but they probably won’t buy it; in the global village, everyone lives just around the corner. They’ll assume Shelley and I had a bust-up and it won’t take them long to work out who dumped whom.

  The intercom buzzer startles me. These days I don’t often have visitors at half past midnight. I think of the limo driver with hair by Madame Tussaud — ‘we know where you live.’ Wasn’t it about this time of night the KGB made house calls?

  I make my way to the kitchen on creaky legs. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Tania.’

  A timely reminder: the lower your expectations, the better the news; I was expecting pest activity or a drunk jabbing the wrong button. Tania and I haven’t tried tenderness yet but there was a lot to get through and tonight I’ll sleep easier for being in her arms. I could buzz her in but I’d rather go to meet her.

  From the foyer I have a rear view of Tania through the glass doors. She’s talking to someone, which I don’t like the look of. She spins around as I yank open the door. She’s wearing calf-length boots, a thigh-length skirt and an abbreviated white T-shirt over a black push-up bra. I’ve mentioned that she can be a little awkward but now she’s awkwardness personified. A forced smile comes and goes and she shifts from foot to foot, like a wallflower press-ganged onto the dance floor.

  ‘Hi there. I was in the neighbourhood and saw your lights were on.’ Her gaze tilts down. ‘You’re smoking. I mean, what the fuck, Max?’

  This is the paradox of Tania: when it comes to sex, she practises what she preaches which is if it feels good, do it. When it comes to consumption, however, she preaches, and practises restraint. And when it comes to tobacco, she lines up with the prohibitionists, with their shoot-from-the-hip statistics and punitive reflexes. I’ve rationalised this as a positive in that it forces me to keep a lid on my dirty little secret.

  I discard the cigarette. ‘Oh, someone left them. I just felt like one for some reason.’

  Befuddled and disoriented as I am, I’m aware that something’s not quite right and that we’re not alone. On the footpath a young man slouches against a snazzy little convertible with its top down. With his painstakingly unkempt hair and clothes and delinquent pout he could be a male model, or just someone who spends a lot of time in front of the mirror.

  ‘Who’s he?’ I ask.

  Tania resists the urge to look over her shoulder. ‘Marcus. Look, did you get my email?’

  I nod.

  ‘Well, like I said, we need to talk and now’s as good a time as any.’

  ‘Does that include Marcus? Does he need to talk too?’

  She rolls her eyes, then turns to him. ‘Call me tomorrow, okay?’

  He pushes off the car, hands thrust deep into his pockets. ‘You going to be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says.

  He flicks me a cold-eyed glance. ‘How’ll you get home?’

  ‘I’ll get a cab.’ She stretches out to squeeze his forearm. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  He nods. ‘Okay.’

  As Tania turns away, Marcus takes a couple of quick, light steps and assumes the doggy position. One hand sneaks over her exposed midriff and under the waistband of her skirt while the other helps itself to her breasts. Her eyes widen and she bites down on her lower lip. Marcus bows his head to dip his tongue in her ear. She chuckles — a low, drawn-out sound full of pleasure and regret.

  ‘Marcus, behave,’ she says, wriggling free.

  He backs away, grinning. ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘Do that.’

  He turns and saunters to his car. Head down, Tania swerves around me and goes inside, leaving me and Marcus to wrap things up.

  He opens the glovebox and brings out a g-string that looks familiar. ‘Don’t take it too hard, Pops,’ he says, twirling his trophy. ‘Time waits for no man.’

  Marcus starts his car as rowdily as one would expect, saving me the trouble of a reply. I stand there sucking down night air and petrol fumes until my nausea settles.

  Tania, who’s in the kitchen getting a glass of water, doesn’t bother to look up as I come in.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had a son,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, tres amusant.’

  As she brushes past, I flip up the hem of her skirt, which scarcely adds to the sum of human knowledge. She spins around, flame-eyed, with half a mind to slap my face.

  I stick my chin out. ‘Go on. Just bear in mind: whatever you can do, I can do better.’

  She retreats to the other side of the table. ‘Understand this, Max,’ she says, slitting her eyes, ‘if you lay a finger on me, I’m going straight to the cops. That wouldn’t be a good look, would it?’

  ‘It worked for Mailer.’ I advance and we circle the table like cyclists in the pursuit. ‘You know what this reminds me of? That scene where Louise deliberately makes her lover jealous to provoke him into dishing out some roug
h stuff. As I remember, he knocks her around a bit, ties her up and sodomises her — sans KY — and she loves every second of it.’

  ‘This isn’t a game,’ she snaps. I change direction and the pursuit continues counter-clockwise. ‘I came here to tell you that our relationship’s over.’

  ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? It’s not the same if you come right out and say you want to be beaten up and buttfucked.’

  She stops. Seeing I haven’t planned for the eventuality of getting my hands on her, I stop too. Her upper lip peels back. ‘Listen to him. If that was what I wanted, I’d be shit out of luck, wouldn’t I? You’re pissed, Max, and we both know what that means.’

  Yes, we both know what that means.

  ‘I’m getting a second wind,’ I say. Or should that be third or even fourth? It’s been such a long, liquid day I’ve lost track. ‘I might surprise you.’

  She strikes a pose, hands on hips, all apprehension gone. ‘Well, I suppose there’s always a first time.’

  No suitable riposte comes to mind — perhaps there isn’t one. What do come to mind are brandy and cigarettes. When I return from the study, Tania is on the sofa, arms folded, legs crossed.

  I light a cigarette. She shakes her head, her mouth pulled down. ‘Well, if I needed another reason …’

  ‘Yeah, let’s talk about reasons.’

  She stares past me, mentally rehearsing her speech one last time. ‘I guess it’s partly my fault — I was naïve. I thought we’d be soulmates but we’re not and we never will be. The gap’s too big. I’m not just talking about the age difference; I’m talking about attitude, lifestyle, taste, where we’re at and where we’re going … What it boils down to is I can’t afford to lose my edge.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  Now she stares at me, hard. ‘How many hours’ work did you do today? Or, to put it another way, how many hours’ drinking did you do today? You’re going nowhere, Max … Actually, it’s worse than that: you’re going backwards. I know where I want to go and I need people around me who’ll help me get there, not drag me down.’

  ‘And where does Marcus fit into this masterplan?’

  She can’t help smiling. ‘Marcus is quite simply a stunning fuck. He doesn’t have to be anything else.’

  ‘So where exactly do you want to go?’

  ‘All the way. I’m going to be big. Really big.’

  I shake my head. ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, as the man said, you can’t fool all of the people all of the time. Luck and gimmickry and self-promotion will only get you so far, Tania. After that, it comes down to talent.’

  She smiles again, the serene smile of the mastermind who’s always one step ahead. ‘You’re so transparent, Max. We both know you were blown away by Submission. Look, I can understand that this is hard for you, and feel free to hate me if that’ll help, but please, don’t compromise your intellectual and artistic integrity. Say what you like about me as a person but this is about the work. You can’t have forgotten what that means.’

  I pull up a chair and plant myself in front of her. ‘Let me tell you something, Tania: I’ve fucked more women writers than you’ve had hot baths. There’s a very simple formula — a few words of insincere praise and you can pick your hole. You want to know what I really thought of it?’

  Tania shakes her head slowly, sadly, even sympathetically, as if she derives no pleasure from seeing me hit rock-bottom. I go into the study and retrieve the hard copy of my review from the locked drawer of my filing cabinet. I’d forgotten just how extreme it is. It begins by asking how hard it can be to write designer porn. It goes on to say that Submission reads like the secret scribblings of a dangerously frustrated librarian dashed off in a hot flush after attending a two-day creative writing course run by the Happy Hooker. And that it does for chick-lit what O.J. Simpson did for interracial marriage. And so forth. And so on. I don’t just pound Submission into submission, I thrash it to a pulp, then pulverise it into particles of anti-matter. It is, by some distance, the cruellest, most damaging review I’ve ever written and there are a few authors out there I wouldn’t care to meet down a dark alley.

  I hesitate. Should I do this? Right now, Tania’s in that state of blissful unreality induced by the dramatic success of one’s first novel. There’s nothing like it for turning heads. Quite why the critics were so insistent that Submission was what it manifestly wasn’t I’m not sure, but reviewers can be pack animals: sometimes the lead dog goes the wrong way and the rest of the pack follows. And of course there are critics who simply can’t tell the difference: give them Lolita and some dismal slice of ‘real life’ and they’d struggle to arrange them in order of merit.

  Do I really want to burst her bubble? That will happen soon enough. It’s odds-on that the pack will savage her next book. They’ll review the content rather than the hype, the penny will drop and they’ll be all the more rabid for having been taken in last time. Why not let her enjoy it while it lasts? Sure, she turned out to be a tramp, but why should I have expected otherwise? A few hours ago I was telling Alan — admittedly for effect — that to all intents and purposes Louise was Tania. I wasn’t born yesterday; I knew all too well that the novel’s shallowness and opportunism were no accident. The truth is, I sniffed adventure and found it heady. I liked the thought of squiring around this hot item. I even calculated that it would boost my dwindling profile. No fool like an old fool.

  Tania’s still on the sofa, insouciantly swinging one booted foot. She doesn’t seem surprised that I’ve returned empty-handed. ‘Well?’

  ‘Can’t find it.’

  ‘I knew it,’ she crows, clapping her hands. ‘There never was a review, was there? Trish told me why you pulled out. Fuck, Max, you are so behind the times — that conflict-of-interest stuff went out with the electric typewriter. You don’t let the fact you’re sleeping with the author stop you from handing in a rave review, especially when the work speaks for itself.’

  I shrug. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Come on, admit it: it blew you away.’

  Her face is ablaze with triumph and I’m massively tempted to bellow the truth, even resort to low-level violence to jerk her out of her cocoon of conceit. But I’ve made my decision and I’ll stick to it. ‘Yeah, it’s something else, all right.’

  She nods, satisfied. ‘I knew you still had your integrity.’ She considers me thoughtfully. ‘Sorry about Marcus. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing — I saw your lights on and thought let’s do it. You know me.’

  ‘What the hell?’ I say. ‘He got a kick out of it.’

  ‘He’s a very naughty boy …’

  ‘But a stunning fuck.’

  She smiles dreamily. ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Worth cutting a little slack?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  She sinks back into the sofa, uncrossing her legs. It’s been a long, excessive, traumatic day and I’m obviously not seeing straight because it looks to me as if she’s parting her thighs. And not just a tantalising fraction either — I could get my head in there. No, it’s definitely not me. There it is, in all its neatly barbered glory, glistening at me. Hello there, had a busy night, have we?

  What the fuck is this woman on?

  I look up. She’s watching me with a loose, slightly unhinged grin, not unlike Sally’s in the taxi. ‘Enjoying the view?’

  ‘Well, familiarity’s supposed to breed contempt but …’

  ‘Not in this case, right?’ She hitches her skirt higher. ‘So are you just going to sit there twiddling your thumbs or what?’

  ‘I thought I was dumped.’

  ‘Call me sentimental.’

  ‘One for old times’ sake?’

  ‘That kind of thing.’

  ‘There’s one problem: I’ve had a few and, as you said, we both know what that means.’

  She sits up straight, all business. ‘Come here,’ she says. ‘Challenges bring o
ut the best in me.’

  And this is how I’ll remember Tania, hunched over my groin for no reason that makes sense, just living up to her lurid self-image. She might think there’ll be something in it for her but there won’t — I’ll only get one shot at this and it’ll happen quickly or not at all. Well, what do you know, there’s a train a-comin’. I could alert her, I suppose, but where’s the fun in that?

  four

  Tania’s a sport about it mainly, I think, because she sees it as quite an achievement on her part and further evidence that she is indeed a sexual virtuoso. Everything is viewed through the soft-focus lens of her self-regard; everything is assessed and either taken on board or discarded, depending on whether or not it fuels her gas-guzzling ego.

  I’m sitting at the table with my trousers back on, smoking a cigarette, unmistakably a spent force. Despite that and the fact that we no longer have a relationship to speak of — we both know we won’t be café buddies catching up every other week and I know I won’t even stay in tenuous touch — Tania’s in no hurry to be on her way. She gets more mineral water and perches on the edge of the sofa with her knees together and an expectant air, as if she’s waiting for me to entertain her.

  Instead I say, ‘What’s your agent like?’