Stranded

by Val McDermid

  But on the night, I took it as a good sign that my publisher’s table at the awards dinner was right down at the front of the room, smack bang up against the podium. They never like the winners being seated too far from the stage just in case the applause doesn’t last long enough for them to make it up there ahead of the silence.

  My award was third from last in the litany of winners. That meant a long time sitting still and looking interested. But I could only cling onto the fragile conviction that it was all going to be worth it in the end. Eventually, the knowing Virginia drawl of the MC, a middle-ranking news anchorman, got us there. I arranged my face in a suitably bland expression, which I was glad of seconds later when the name he announced was not mine. There followed a short, stunned silence, then, with more eyes on me than on her, the victor weaved her way to the front of the room to a shadow of the applause previous winners had garnered.

  I have no idea what graceful acceptance speech she came out with. I couldn’t tell you who won the remaining two categories. All my energy was channeled into not showing the rage and pain churning inside me. No matter how much I told myself I had prepared for this, the reality was horrible.

  At the end of the apparently interminable ceremony, I got to my feet like an automaton. My team formed a sort of flying wedge around me; editor ahead of me, publicist to one side, publisher to the other. ‘Let’s get you out of here. We don’t need pity,’ my publisher growled, head down, broad shoulders a challenge to anyone who wanted to offer condolences.

  By the time we made it to the bar, we’d acquired a small support crew, ones I had indicated were acceptable by a nod or a word. There was Robert, my first mentor and oldest buddy in the business; Shula, an English sf writer who had become a close friend; Shula’s girlfriend Caroline; and Cassie, the manager of the city’s premier sf and fantasy bookstore. That’s what you need at a time like this, people around who won’t ever hold it against you that you vented your spleen in an unseemly way at the moment when your dream turned to ashes. Fuck nobility. I wanted to break something.

  But I didn’t have the appetite for serious drinking, especially when my vanquisher arrived in the same bar with her celebration in tow. I finished my Jack Daniels and pushed off from the enveloping sofa. ‘I’m not much in the mood,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll just head back to my hotel.’

  ‘You’re at the InterCon, right?’ Cassie asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you, I’m going that way.’

  ‘Don’t you want to join the winning team?’ I asked, jerking my head towards the barks of laughter by the bar.

  Cassie put her hand on my arm. ‘You wrote the best book, John. That’s victory enough for me.’

  I made my excuses and we walked into a ridiculously balmy New York evening. I wanted snow and ice to match my mood, and said as much to Cassie.

  Her laugh was low. ‘The pathetic fallacy,’ she said. ‘You writers just never got over that, did you? Well, John, if you’re going to cling to that notion, you better change your mood to match the weather.’

  I snorted. ‘Easier said than done.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Cassie. ‘Look, we’re almost at the Inter-Con. Let’s have a drink.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘On one condition. We don’t talk about the award, we don’t talk about the asshole who won it, we don’t talk about how wonderful your book is and how it should have been recognised tonight.’

  I grinned. ‘Cassie, I’m a writer. If I can’t talk about me, what the hell else does that leave?’

  She shrugged and steered me into the lobby. ‘Gardening? Gourmet food? Favorite sexual positions? Music?’

  We settled in a corner of the bar, me with Jack on the rocks, she with a Cosmopolitan. We ended up talking about movies, past and present, finding to our surprise that in spite of our affiliation to the sf and fantasy world, what we both actually loved most was film noir. Listening to Cassie talk, watching her push her blonde hair back from her eyes, enjoying the sly smiles that crept out when she said something witty or sardonic, I forgot the slings and arrows and enjoyed myself.

  When they announced last call at midnight, I didn’t want it to end. It seemed natural enough to invite her up to my room to continue the conversation. Sure, at the back of my mind was the possibility that it might end with those long legs wrapped around mine, but that really wasn’t the most important thing. What mattered was that Cassie had taken my mind off what ailed me. She had already provided consolation enough, and I wanted it to go on. I didn’t want to be left alone with my rancor and selfpity or any of the other uglinesses that were fighting for space inside me.

  She sprawled on the bed. It was that or an armchair, which offered little prospect of comfort. I mixed drinks, finding it hard not to imagine sliding those tight black trousers over her hips or running my hands under that black silk tee, or pushing the long shimmering overblouse off her shoulders so I could cover them with kisses.

  I took the drinks over and she sat up, crossing her legs in a full lotus and straightening her spine. ‘I thought you were really dignified tonight,’ she said.

  ‘Didn’t we have a deal? That tonight was off limits?’ I lay on my side, carefully not touching her at any point.

  ‘That was in the bar. You did well, sticking to it. Think you earned a reward?’

  ‘What kind of reward?’

  ‘I give a mean backrub,’ she said, looking at me over the rims of her glasses. ‘And you look tense.’

  ‘A backrub would be . . . very acceptable,’ I said.

  Cassie unfolded her legs and stood up. ‘OK. I’ll go into the bathroom and give you some privacy to get undressed. Oh, and John – strip right down to the skin. I can’t do your lower back properly if I have to fuck about with waistbands and stuff.’

  I couldn’t quite believe how fast things were moving. We hadn’t been in the room ten minutes, and here was Cassie instructing me to strip for her. OK, it wasn’t quite like that sounds, but it was equally a perfectly legitimate description of events. The sort of thing you could say to the guys and they would make a set of assumptions from. If, of course, you were the sort of sad asshole who felt the need to validate himself like that.

  I took my clothes off, draping them over the armchair without actually folding them, then lay face down on the bed. I wished I’d spent more of the spring working out than I had writing. But I knew my shoulders were still respectable, my legs strong and hard, even if I was carrying a few more pounds around the waist than I would have liked.

  I heard the bathroom door open and Cassie say, ‘You ready, John?’

  I was very, very ready. Somehow, it wasn’t entirely a surprise that it wasn’t just the skin of her hands that I felt against mine.

  How did I know it had to be her? I dreamed her hands. Nothing slushy or sentimental; just her honest hands with their strong square fingers, the palms slightly callused from the daily shunting of books from carton to shelf, the play of muscle and skin over blood and bone. I dreamed her hands and woke with tears on my face. That was the day I called Cassie and said I had to see her again.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Her voice was cautious, and not, I believed, simply because she was standing behind the counter in the bookstore.

  ‘Why not? I thought you enjoyed it,’ I said. ‘Did you think it was just a one-night stand?’

  ‘Why would I imagine it could be more? You’re a married man, you live in Denver, you’re good looking and successful. Why on earth would I set myself up for a let-down by expecting a repeat performance? John, I am so not in the business of being the Other Woman. A one-night stand is just fine, but I don’t do affairs.’

  ‘I’m not married.’ It was the first thing I could think of to say. That it was the truth was simply a bonus.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re not married? It says
so on your book jackets. You mention her in interviews.’ Now there was an edge of anger, a ‘don’t fuck with me’ note in her voice.

  ‘I’ve never been married. I lied about it.’

  A long pause. ‘Why would you lie about being married?’ she demanded.

  ‘Cassie, you’re in the store, right? Look around you. Scope out the women in there. Now, I hate to hurt people’s feelings. Do you see why I might lie about my marital status?’

  I could hear the gurgle of laughter swelling and bursting down the telephone line. ‘John, you are a bastard, you know that? A charming bastard, but a bastard nevertheless. You mean that? About never having been married?’

  ‘There is no moral impediment to you and me fucking each other’s brains out as often as we choose to. Unless, of course, there’s someone lurking at home waiting for you?’ I tried to keep my voice light. I’d been torturing myself with that idea every since our night together. She’d woken me with soft kisses just after five, saying she had to go. By the time we’d said our farewells, it had been nearer six and she’d finally scrambled away from me, saying she had to get home and change before she went into open the store. It had made sense, but so too did the possibility of her sneaking back into the cold side of a double bed somewhere down in Chelsea or SoHo.

  Now, she calmed my twittering heart. ‘There’s nobody. Hasn’t been for over a year now. I’m free as you, by the sounds of it.’

  ‘I can be in New York at the weekend,’ I said. ‘Can I stay?’

  ‘Sure,’ Cassie said, her voice somehow promising much more than a simple word.

  That was the start of something unique in my experience. With Cassie, I found a sense of completeness I’d never known before. I’d always scoffed at terms like ‘soul mate’, but Cassie forced me to eat the words baked in a humble pie. We matched. It was as simple as that. She compensated for my lacks, she allowed me space to demonstrate my strengths. She made me feel like the finest lover who had ever laid hands on her. She was also the first woman I’d ever had a relationship with who miraculously never complained that the writing got in the way. With Cassie, everything was possible and life seemed remarkably straightforward.

  She gave me all the space I needed, never minding that my fantasy world sometimes seemed more real to me than what was for dinner. And I did the same for her, I thought. I didn’t dog her steps at the store, turning up for every event like an autograph hunter. I only came along to see writers I would have gone to see anyway; old friends, new kids on the block who were doing interesting work, visiting foreign names. I encouraged her to keep up her girls’ nights out, barely registering when she rolled home in the small hours smelling of smoke and tasting of Triple Sec.

  She didn’t mind that I refused to attempt her other love, rock climbing; forty-year-old knees can’t learn that sort of new trick. But equally, I never expected her to give it up for me, and even though she usually scheduled her overnight climbing trips for when I was out of town on book business, that was her choice rather than my demand. Bless her, she never tried taking advantage of our relationship to nail down better discount deals with my publishers, and I respected her even more for that.

  Commuting between Denver and New York lasted all of two months. Then in the same week, I sold my house and my agent sold the King’s Infidel trilogy to Oliver Stone’s company for enough money for me actually to be able to buy a Manhattan apartment that was big enough for both of us and our several thousand books. I loved, and felt loved in return. It was as if I was leading a charmed life.

  I should have known better. I am, after all, an adherent of the genre of fiction where pride always, always, always comes before a very nasty fall.

  We’d been living together in the kind of bliss that makes one’s friends gag and one’s enemies weep for almost a year when the accident happened. I know that Freudians claim there is never any such thing as accident, but it’s hard to see how anyone’s subconscious could have felt the world would end up a better or more moral place because of this particular mishap.

  My agent was in the middle of a very tricky negotiation with my publisher over my next deal. They were horse-trading and haggling hard over the money on the table, and my agent was naturally copying me in on the e-mails. One morning, I logged on to find that day’s update had a file attachment with it. ‘Hi, John,’ the e-mail read.

  You might be interested to see that they’re getting so nitty-gritty about this deal that they’re actually discussing your last year’s touring and miscellaneous expenses. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to see this attachment, but we all know what an idiot Tom is when it comes to electronics. Great editor; cyber-idiot. Anyway, I thought you might find it amusing to see how much they reckon they spent on you. See how it tallies with your recollections . . .

  I wasn’t much drawn to the idea, but since the attachment was there, I thought I might as well take a look. It never hurts to get a little righteous indignation going about how much hotels end up billing for a one-night stay. It’s the supplementaries that are the killers. Fifteen dollars for a bottle of water was the best I came across on last year’s tour. Needless to say, I stuck a glass under the tap. Even when it’s someone else’s dime, I hate to encourage the robber barons who masquerade as hoteliers.

  I was drifting down through the list when I ran into something out of the basic rhythm of hotels, taxis, airfares, author escorts. ‘Consolation Blonde, $500’, I read.

  I knew what the words meant, but I didn’t understand their linkage. Especially not on my expense list. If I’d spent it, you’d think I’d know what it was.

  Then I saw the date.

  My stomach did a back flip. Some dates you never forget. Like the US Book Awards dinner.

  I didn’t want to believe it, but I had to be certain. I called Shula’s girlfriend Caroline, herself an editor of mystery fiction in one of the big London houses. Once we’d got the small talk out of the way, I cut to the chase. ‘Caroline, have you ever heard the term “consolation blonde” in publishing circles?’

  ‘Where did you hear that, John?’ she asked, answering the question inadvertently.

  ‘I overheard it in one of those chi-chi midtown bars where literary publishers hang out. I was waiting to meet my agent, and I heard one guy say to the other, “He was OK after the consolation blonde.” I wasn’t sure what it meant but I thought it sounded like a great title for a short story.’

  Caroline gave that well-bred middle-class Englishwoman’s giggle. ‘I suppose you could be right. What can I say here, John? This really is one of publishing’s tackier areas. Basically, it’s what you lay on for an author who’s having a bad time. Maybe they didn’t win an award they thought was in the bag, maybe their book has bombed, maybe they’re having a really bad tour. So you lay on a girl, a nice girl. A fan, a groupie, a publicity girlie, bookseller, whatever. Somebody on the fringes, not a hooker as such. Tell them how nice it would be for poor old what’s-his-name to have a good time. So the sad boy gets the consolation blonde and the consolation blonde gets a nice boost to her bank account plus the bonus of being able to boast about shagging a name. Even if it’s a name that nobody else in the pub has ever heard before.’

  I felt I’d lost the power of speech. I mumbled something and managed to end the call without screaming my anguish at Caroline. In the background, I could hear Bob Dylan singing ‘Idiot Wind’. Cassie had set the CD playing on repeat before she’d left for work and now the words mocked me for the idiot I was.

  Cassie was my consolation blonde.

  I wondered how many other disappointed men had been lifted up by the power of her fingers and made to feel strong again? I wondered whether she’d have stuck around for more than that one-night stand if I’d been a poor man. I wondered how many times she’d slid into bed with me after a night out, not with the girls, but wearing the mantle of the consolation blonde. I wondered wh
ether pity was still the primary emotion that moved her when she moaned and arched her spine for me.

  I wanted to break something. And this time, I wasn’t going to be diverted.

  I’ve made a lot of money for my publisher over the years. So when I show up to see my editor, Tom, without an appointment, he makes space and time for me.

  That day, I could tell inside a minute that he wished for once he’d made an exception. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether he should just cut out the middle-man and throw himself out of the twenty-third-floor window. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he yelped in response to my single phrase.

  ‘Bullshit,’ I yelled. ‘You hired Cassie to be my consolation blonde. There’s no point in denying it, I’ve seen the paperwork.’

  ‘You’re mistaken, John,’ Tom said desperately, his alarmed chipmunk eyes widening in dilemma.

  ‘No. Cassie was my consolation blonde for the US Book Awards. You didn’t know I was going to lose, so you must have set her up in advance, as a stand-by. Which means you must have used her before.’

  ‘I swear, John, I swear to God, I don’t know . . .’ Whatever Tom was going to say got cut off by me grabbing his stupid preppie tie and yanking him out of his chair.

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ I growled, dragging him towards the window. ‘It’s not like it can be worse than I’ve imagined. How many of my friends has she fucked? How many five-hundred-buck one-night stands have you pimped for my girlfriend since we got together? How many times have you and your buddies laughed behind my back because the woman I love is playing consolation blonde to somebody else? Tell me, Tom. Tell me the truth before I throw you out of this fucking window. Because I don’t have any more to lose.’