by Louise Beech
‘Me?’ Cora leaned on the trolley. ‘That’s all – I read a story to you and I can come to your big posh do?’
Andrew nodded.
‘Maybe.’
She smiled and pushed her trolley on to the next room.
‘Meet me here at three,’ he called after her.
Later, Andrew joined the other writers in the Regency Suite for the first talk. Lynne Lowell read an extract from her novel and answered the questions fired afterwards. Paul Stock followed with seven pages from Jason’s Magic Pencil. He then signed copies on a table in the corner. Reeking of alcohol, Leo heckled Paul, asking why a child with a magic pencil would paint puppies when he could have had a Nintendo Wii.
Andrew was glad when Paul thanked the audience for listening, so he could sneak away to wait for Cora. At ten past three he thought she wasn’t coming. Eventually she knocked. She had changed into a polkadot dress. Aware of how peculiar this meeting was, Andrew asked if she would like one of the five flavours of tea.
‘I’ve tried them all,’ Cora admitted. ‘The yellow is best. I shouldn’t tell you this, should I, sir.’
‘Call me Andrew. I feel like a school teacher when you call me sir.’
‘Oh, sorry, sir … Andrew.’ Cora looked at the shampoos scattered about the bathroom, the pyjamas on the floor. ‘I ought to be cleaning.’
Andrew laughed. ‘I’m messy, I know.’
He took the printed copy of The Lion Tamer Who Lost from his case. In some ways, it was a memoir. Every page had been influenced by Ben – every rewrite by his thoughts, every plot development by their relationship.
‘When you read earlier, how did you make it sound so…’ Andrew wasn’t sure what word he wanted; ‘…hopeful?’
Cora sat on the bed and fiddled with her strap. ‘I just think about…’
Andrew sat on the adjacent bed. ‘About what?’
Cora’s voice assumed its lyrical quality as she talked about a father who disappeared when she was five. She said she later left school at fifteen with no qualifications. When she finally learned to read she felt if she did it aloud her father, somewhere, somehow, might hear and come back one day.
Cora said, ‘Stupid, I know.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ insisted Andrew.
He handed her the manuscript.
‘You wrote this?’ Cora touched the pages. Andrew nodded. ‘Wow.’
‘Will you read it to me?’
She did.
‘“Here comes the Stick-Man!” they cried. In the chorus, no voice was louder than the next. “Hey Ben! You walk like you got one leg shorter than the other!’”
Those lines Andrew had written while Ben was sleeping.
‘Like a pride of hungry lions, they circled Ben. But he knew they would soon tire of teasing a creature who could not outrun them. He knew when the girl in 6G who wore an eye-patch appeared with a skipping rope he would be forgotten.’
Andrew had typed these words knowing Ben would be waking soon.
‘Nancy headed for the lunchtime club with a stack of chess set boxes. She turned away from Ben. Perhaps she hadn’t seen him. Perhaps the sun got in her eyes. But Ben didn’t think so.’
Andrew had edited those lines after Ben had gone.
Cora stopped. ‘Is that enough?’ she asked. ‘Oh, sir, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, these are good tears. I guess I just have to read it as though I’m reading it to someone special, like you do.’
‘And who would that be?’
Andrew paused. ‘Ben.’
‘Who’s he?’ Cora asked.
‘My brother. He’s away.’
Until now he’d never said brother aloud. There was curious relief in sharing it with a stranger. He could say it, as though he really had one, without judgement.
‘Read it to him then.’ Cora paused. ‘So what happens tonight?’
Andrew gathered up his pages. ‘I only know it begins at eight. Shall we meet in the bar five minutes before?’
‘Do you think you’ll win?’ asked Cora.
Andrew hadn’t thought about it. He could barely think beyond having to read in front of an audience.
‘Just being here is a win,’ he said.
Then he thanked Cora again and walked downstairs with her, saying ‘If only we could swap places,’ before heading back to the Regency Suite.
Andrew was the fifteenth of sixteen readers. He wasn’t sure if it was worse seeing the others perform first but there was little he could do except wait. Most of them gave long lists of credentials, catalogues of university MAs and competition wins. Leo took to the podium ninth and read confidently, looking up frequently to engage with the room. Andrew wondered if he should fake a migraine.
When it was his turn, he climbed the steps, heart hammering, and launched straight into the chapter after a shaky breath. An elderly woman suggested that he move closer to the microphone and he lost his way. The audience were deathly quiet. He resumed and tried to read it as though Ben were listening but that only made his throat tight. He was glad when it was over.
Questions followed.
‘Your first time?’ a woman with red lips said, and Andrew nodded.
‘Your first book?’ asked a bespectacled man, and Andrew shook his head.
‘Reckon it’ll win?’ asked Leo, and Andrew left the stage.
Later, before the prize-giving, the finalists occupied four oval tables in the restaurant for watercress and crispy duck salad, pan-roasted halibut, and sticky ginger parkin. Leo was at Andrew’s table. Two Hundred Blue Skies author Geoff began the meal with descriptions of all the writerly retreats he had stayed in. This led to Leo describing how prostitution was an esteemed profession in China. Gladys, the woman who asked Andrew to move nearer the microphone, said prostitution was not suitable table talk.
Louisa, the red-lipped woman who asked Andrew earlier at the reading if it was his first time, said, ‘Travelled much, Andrew?’
He opened his mouth to speak but Leo butted in. ‘He’s diabetic. He always preferred it when I travelled. Second-hand travel I call it.’
‘You two know each other?’ Geoff shovelled halibut into his mouth.
‘We dated for four years,’ said Leo. While the others continued chatting he leaned closer to Andrew and said, ‘So what is it you like so much about what’s-his-name?’
‘He’s called Ben and you know it.’
‘Can’t be going that well if he’s too busy to come to something like this with you. He was like a devoted little puppy in the hospital.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’ Andrew couldn’t eat any more.
‘So something is wrong?’
‘No.’ Andrew found himself counting the remaining morsels on his plate.
‘Your face says otherwise. You never were any good at hiding your feelings. Talk to me. Christ, we were together four years.’
To shut him up, Andrew snapped, ‘We split up.’
‘Shit. Why?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Isn’t it always?’
Andrew stood, said good luck to the others, and headed for the door.
Leo followed, catching up with him at the stairs. ‘Sorry if I was rude.’ He paused. ‘Come on. Why’d you really split with what’s-his-name?’
Andrew glared at him. ‘It’s Ben. And it’s none of your fucking business.’ He continued up the steps.
‘So you do know why,’ Leo said gently, dropping the rude persona. He was suddenly the man who had long ago attracted Andrew, unmasked as though at a fancy-dress ball. ‘Come and have a drink? We’ll talk.’
Andrew shook his head, suddenly exhausted. ‘I wish you luck though.’
‘Luck?’
‘Tonight.’
Andrew returned to his room and slept for an hour. He dreamed of hungry lions. One was hungrier than the others. He snarled long and low. He crouched as though to attack.
I’m hungry again, he said.
Andrew moaned in hi
s sleep.
39
The Lion Tamer Who Lost
Ben never won, but he played as though he had many times over.
Andrew Fitzgerald, The Lion Tamer Who Lost
Cora waited for Andrew in the hotel bar. He spotted her on a bar stool, swathed in black silk, hair dotted with sparkling jewels.
‘I keep nodding at the guests like we have to when they pass in the corridor,’ she said. ‘Only they don’t know who I am so they stare.’
‘No wonder,’ smiled Andrew. ‘You look wonderful.’
Cora blushed and confessed she and her flatmate shared the dress, each wearing it when they had somewhere to go.
‘So, are you ready?’ asked Cora.
‘Not really.’
Walking into the Royal Function Suite, where a stage with promotional plaque and ceiling spotlights dominated, Cora chattered to Andrew about the pervy guest in room 342, and he was glad he had invited her. She would distract him. Rows of chairs sheathed in velvet faced the podium, none yet occupied. Guests and judges moved about the room, taking canapés and glasses of champagne from waiters. Leo chatted with red-lipped Louisa by the fire exit but looked over when Andrew entered. Andrew pointed out who was who and who had written what to an overexcited Cora.
Leo came over and handed Andrew some champagne, looking smart in a dark grey suit. ‘Who’s your guest,’ he asked.
Andrew introduced Cora, said she had been helping him read.
Leo laughed. ‘You’ve written three books and you can’t read?’
Louisa swept up to the group. ‘Five minutes and they begin the announcements,’ she said. ‘My money’s on that Two Hundred Blue Skies guy. Of course, I hope it’s me though.’ She paused, studying Cora as though she were an insect beneath a microscope. ‘Don’t I know you? I do. You cleaned my room this morning. Not very well I might add – you left stains in the bathroom.’
‘But there were so many,’ Cora whispered to Andrew.
He smiled behind his champagne glass.
Louisa went in search of more fitting company.
Cora asked Leo how he thought Andrew had done at the reading earlier.
‘Not bad,’ he admitted. ‘He was a bit quiet. Needs to project the words more. But I guess it was sincere.’
Cora looked pleased at the word sincere. ‘That’s because he read it for his brother, Ben,’ she said.
Champagne bubbles popped in Andrew’s mouth.
‘His brother?’ Leo shook his head. ‘Ben? You must be mistaken.’
‘No, he told me,’ said Cora. ‘Ben, who’s gone away…’
‘But he doesn’t have a broth—’
Tara Smith’s magnified voice requested that guests please take their seats for the prizes. Louisa came over and took Leo’s arm, insisting he sit with her at the front, and dragged him away. He looked back at Andrew, frowning. As they all sat, Cora studied Andrew with concern, said he looked white as the lilies in her mam’s garden.
What had possessed him to tell her?
And then bring her here?
Christ. He felt sick.
An insect buzzed about the back row, an unwelcome wasp in winter. It hovered in the spotlight that elongated the lines in Tara’s face, so she looked like a sketch in a children’s book. Her hair was golden. Since the chemo had thinned his, Andrew noticed hair more than usual. Sickness killed it. The balding lion in the circus years ago had been dying. Leo twisted in his seat to stare at Andrew. His hair met in a point at his neck’s nape.
On stage Tara spoke, holding a package like the Wish Box.
‘We commend you all for making it this far.’ Several people cheered. ‘You can be very proud – to have shortlisted out of all the incredible books we received means this is only the start of your careers. Well, you must be impatient, so here we go.’
Andrew wasn’t thinking about the winners’ names.
Only the word brother.
‘I am delighted,’ said Tara, ‘to announce that in third place is Louisa Thompson with her charming tale, Midnight.’
Louisa’s hair fell snake-like about her shoulders as she went up for her prize.
‘And the second-place prize,’ said Tara, ‘goes to Thomas Gibbs for Peter and the Golomoth Grasshopper.’
Thomas had black locks that curled tightly about his ear.
‘And finally, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.’ Rapturous cheering. ‘It gives me immense pleasure to award the first prize, an amazing ten thousand pounds, to Geoff Summer for Two Hundred Blue Skies.’
Ripples of applause, then. Deflated faces and forced congratulatory smiles. Geoff, whose thinning hair screamed sickness, went to receive his prize. What was his sickness? Diabetes? Cancer? Incest? Had he married a woman only to discover she was his sister?
Andrew tried to escape.
‘You stay,’ he insisted to Cora. ‘I’ve been feeling ill all day. Tell me about it tomorrow.’
Leo caught up with Andrew on the stairs. ‘Hang on. Andrew, wait. What the hell are you running from?’
He reached his room but Leo blocked the doorway.
‘What did that Cora mean?’ he asked. ‘Ben’s not your brother.’
Andrew slid his key card along the slot, but the light flashed red.
‘She was just mixed up.’ He tried the key again.
‘She seemed pretty sure,’ Leo insisted. ‘And you’re acting weird. You’re hiding something. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’ Flustered, Andrew dropped the card and tried again. Green. Escape. He opened the door, but Leo blocked his way.
‘Is Ben your brother?’ he asked.
Andrew couldn’t answer. He was no liar. But this truth stuck in his throat. He pushed past Leo and slammed the door on him.
‘Why would that girl think you said it?’ asked Leo through the door. ‘Brother isn’t something you would accidentally say.’ A pause. ‘You said it was complicated. Earlier. Is that what you meant? But… how…? Jesus.’
Silence.
Then questions through the wood: What the hell happened? Is it true? How did you find out? Is this why you split up?
Andrew put his hands over his ears. When Leo finally left, he dropped into the chair by the dressing table. He looked in the finger-print-streaked mirror. He saw Ben. When Ben once said he loved Andrew’s half-up, half-down mouth he probably never realised that he had it too. They would always be together – in Andrew’s own face.
In the morning, Tara found Andrew as he was checking out and commiserated with him on losing. Commiserate sounded like the word misery, and made Andrew think of Ben’s random mis-words.
Keen to depart before Leo appeared and interrogated him again, Andrew thanked Tara. ‘Sorry to rush off,’ he said, ‘but I’ve a train to catch in twenty minutes.’
‘I really liked Lion Tamer,’ said Tara. ‘But Geoff Summer just blew us all away. He had that X factor. Good luck anyway.’
‘Thanks. For the opportunity.’
Andrew hurried away. He wished he had never have gone to the ceremony. He just wanted to get on the train, go home and resume his nothing life.
40
Dark
When they were reunited at the Maths Makes Magic! club Nancy asked Ben how many zeros made infinity. ‘Enough,’ he said, and she smiled because he always had a more interesting answer than Mr Dobbs, even if it was probably wrong.
Andrew Fitzgerald, The Lion Tamer Who Lost
A few weeks after the London ceremony, Tara surprised Andrew with a phone call, inviting him to her office for a meeting. Contrasting with the lemon shades of her room, Tara wore a black suit befitting a funeral. Her walls were lined with front covers –Antichrist! by Jack Shane: Best First Novel; Playing with Fire by Lynne Lowell: two million copies sold – and four Andy Warhol prints.
‘We’ve had a slot suddenly come free for a new book in April,’ she said, after the usual pleasantries. ‘The writer of the book we were planning on releasing had an accident.’
; You always follow an accident.
The words came to Andrew hard.
‘So we’re delaying that one for now. We want to release The Lion Tamer Who Lost alongside Two Hundred Blue Skies. We think they will complement one another nicely. What do you think?’
Andrew didn’t know what to say. He had been recovering at home. After not placing at the awards, he had convinced himself that it was over for his book.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think … yes.’
‘Great. Things will have to move fast though,’ Tara said. ‘Plenty of editing to be done. We’ll have to work around the clock. Are you up for it?’
‘I am,’ he said.
‘We’ll go through it properly soon, but I had an immediate thought the first time I read it.’
‘What was that?’ asked Andrew.
‘I don’t think both of Ben’s parents should die.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t be hasty and consider it if you will,’ said Tara.
Andrew felt protective of Book Ben and his story.
‘How about this … how about only one of them – let’s say his dad – dies and Ben is only crippled for a month or so and when he does recover it’s fully, not walking like a – how did you put it – ah, yes, like a stickman.’
This was new to Andrew. He didn’t know how much control he would have over his book. He hadn’t signed anything yet.
‘You can be honest,’ smiled Tara. ‘It’s your book. That was just my initial gut reaction. That one parent dying is surely enough.’ She moved in the chair and it squeaked as though wanting to reject her. Behind her, the window overlooked London’s unsymmetrical skyline.
Andrew spoke carefully. ‘But if Ben walks again that soon the lions won’t visit him for long, and he’ll barely get to know them. I worry then that the reader won’t care?’
‘Maybe. But both parents dying? That’s dark, Andrew.’
‘Is it?’
‘How about just his dad?’
Andrew couldn’t speak. If he did this – if he handed his book over – it wouldn’t be his anymore. And it was all he had left.
