by Jean Levy
‘I know you already, don’t I? From before.’
Episode Nineteen
I felt his breathing deepen, his heart beat faster, felt the words rise within him.
‘I missed you. Sarah, love. I couldn’t leave you on your own like that. They warned me not to interfere, that it might make you worse, but I thought they were wrong and I …’
I placed my finger across his lips.
He closed his hand around my fingers. ‘You need to sleep.’
‘I don’t want to sleep.’
*
It was still not light. I felt the duvet being pulled across my shoulder. I rolled over. Matthew was propped up on several pillows reading the iPad. ‘It’s not time to wake up yet,’ he said. ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s morning.’
I touched his arm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Checking a contract. New author. Could be the next Roald Dahl. We’ve got a meeting at ten, which is about six hours from now.’ He pushed the iPad to one side. ‘Do you want your pillows back? You threw them on the floor.’
‘I always do that.’
‘I know. Are you alright? Are you angry with me about not telling …?’
‘Yes.’ I moved closer. ‘Tell me how we met. Do you remember?’
‘I’m not supposed to tell you things like that.’
‘I want to know! Tell me! Or I’ll be really cross with you. When was it?’
He put the iPad on the floor. ‘I really shouldn’t do this …’
I wriggled with anticipation.
‘It was May, four years ago. I was just struggling into the third year of the business, sitting in my office, praying for a J.K. Rowling to walk in and throw me a quill-written manuscript …
Bloomsbury
‘Lucy, I don’t know what you expect me to do about this. I can’t conjure brilliant writers out of the air just because your bloody accessories bill has gone beyond its first million.’
‘For fuck’s sake, darling, you’ve had no end of manuscripts …’
‘They were NOT good enough!’
‘… loaded with all kinds of wizards and dysfunctional families and freak animals. I remember one about unicorns.’
‘I have standards, for God’s sake!’
‘Standards? Matthew, darling, we’re talking about children’s books!’
‘Lucy, I am not having this argument again. I’m not going to embarrass myself with wishy-washy crap about wannabe Harry Potters … or philanthropic vampires. Or retro-fucking-Blyton! I’m looking for something different.’ He reached over and rotated his desk puzzle 180 degrees. A cacophony of ball bearings reorganised themselves.
Lucy Ashdown watched him ignore her. ‘You know, Matthew, you’re such an arrogant arse. You think you’re some kind of literary gatekeeper when, in actual fact, all you are is another guy waiting to make a buck out of someone else’s words!’
He looked up from the ball bearings. ‘So you can go and spend that same buck on a pair of Manolo flip-flops!’
She straightened her skirt. ‘OK. I haven’t got time or the inclination to argue. I’m having lunch with David Marchant.’ She inclined her head. ‘Hillier’s new MD?’
‘I know who he is!’
‘I was hoping to offer him something.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll think of an alternative to literature. I’ll be careful not to wait up.’
He pulled his laptop closer and listened for the door to close, before taking out his mobile and checking messages. He scrolled down until he came to the number he was looking for, read the two lines with satisfaction and replied: 20MINS CANT W8. As his declaration flashed through cyberspace he heard footsteps approaching, threw his mobile into his jacket pocket and braced himself for deceit. The door opened: ‘Lucy, I …’
A flurry of denim, shoulder bag and brown hair rushed into the room. Its owner, a young woman, seemed to be on an inevitable collision course with his desk. But she halted just short of impact and stared straight at him. Then, without introduction, she hauled an enormous red apple from her bag and banged it down on his desk, narrowly missing his Publishers’ Association paperweight. And, as if that wasn’t enough, she pulled a wad of paper out from under her denimed arm and banged that down beside the unsolicited fruit. Her eyes blazed. Her gaze did not stray from his:
‘I’ll give you half this apple if you read my book because it’s the best fucking book in the world and it’s worth sacrificing half an apple for!’
He fought for some kind of sentient riposte, at the very least an appropriate reaction.
‘Isn’t it worth a whole apple?’ he asked.
‘That’s what I want you to tell me!’
He felt himself nodding. An image of one of those wobble-headed dogs that people kept on the back shelf of their cars sprang into his mind. He needed to respond to this unreasonable behaviour, immediately and cleverly, in a style worthy of his position and expertise. But her brown eyes were searing straight through into his grey matter and transforming him into an idiot.
‘What are you going to do with the other half?’ he managed to say.
‘I’m going to eat it!’ she replied, without a moment’s hesitation.
He was clean out of neurons. He took a deep breath. ‘Have you just escaped from somewhere?’
The brown eyes continued to look at him. ‘I wouldn’t tell you if I had.’
OK, this was an emergency. He was completely at a loss. He was not used to being the weakest link in a conversation, if this was a conversation, which he doubted. He was also not used to his office being invaded by seemingly unstable aspiring clients, if that’s what she was, which he also seriously doubted. So he opted for,
‘The name’s Parry. Matthew Parry.’
‘It doesn’t suit you.’
Damn this woman! ‘Right. Do you have a name?’
She seemed irritated by the question. She pointed her finger. ‘It’s on the front page.’
Instinctively, he looked down at the papers, the apple, back to the papers: ‘It says Sarah Blake. I … we mostly handle young adult literature. Even younger. Depends how good it is …’
‘It’s for young children. And it’s fantastic!’ she indicated the chair that still wafted Lucy Ashdown’s unmistakeable perfume. ‘Shall I sit here?’
‘Er?’
‘While you read it.’ She sat down and settled her bag on her lap.
What? He cleared his throat. ‘You want me to read it now?’ He glanced at his watch.
‘Yes, or I’ll go somewhere else. It’s up to you. Your eyes are a very strange colour, aren’t they?’
‘I had them done to match the bedroom curtains.’ Damn, not that old line! ‘Look, I can’t possibly read with you looking at me.’ Now he was defending himself. This had to end. ‘And I’m meeting someone in …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Ten minutes!’
Sarah Blake jumped to her feet, walked back to her previous position and bent over to reclaim the apple. Without thinking, He leant forward and caught her hand.
‘Wait!’ He withdrew into the safety of his chair. ‘I … give me a minute.’ He took out his mobile and keyed in a brief message: HELD UP.
She watched him, her arms folded, her eyes flickering with the promise of triumph. Then she smiled. It was a wonderful smile. He rallied.
‘Why don’t I get you some coffee and then I’ll go off and read this and, while you’re sitting here waiting for me to come back, I’ll send for the people from the asylum and they can take you back to your cell?’ He smiled back at her. At last he had regained the ascendancy. But it had been a close-run thing.
‘I don’t want coffee. Can’t you offer your authors anything else?’
This was unbelievable! He picked up the phone and pressed a button. ‘Poppy, have we got something other than coffee? … I don’t know: tea, chocolate, hemlock …’ He looked up from the phone. ‘Do you fancy a glass of chardonnay?’ He was gratified to see her shrug. At least that was not a comp
lete rejection. ‘OK. Poppy, sweetheart, bring glasses.’ He put down the phone. ‘What’s it about?’
‘What, my book? It’s about what really happens to things when they go missing.’
‘Fairies? Ghosts? Aliens?’
‘No, something more interesting than that! It’s about a place called Raggedy Lyme.’ She almost smiled. ‘Raggedy Lyme where there’s wasted time.’
‘Wasted time?’ He wet his lips. Picked up the slim pile of papers, carried them over to the window and started to read. After no more than two minutes he looked up and reassessed this new person. ‘Are there others?’
‘It’s a series.’
His pocket emitted a grinding noise. He paused to check the message. Gave a small regretful frown. Then he smiled.
‘Fancy lunch? There’s a nice little bistro not far from here. We can talk about the realities of publishing schedules. There’s an art to stringing out a series.’ At last he had achieved her silence. And another unbelievable smile.
The door opened and a flamboyant young man stepped into the room, two glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other.
‘Thanks, Poppy,’ said Matthew. ‘Put it on ice would you? We’re just nipping out to Tony’s. And text Lucy and tell her to buy herself a new pair of flip-flops.’
Episode Nineteen (continued)
‘Did I really say all that? What did you do?’
‘I got a keypad entry system to protect me from mad people … I read your manuscript. Then I phoned Hillier and told them a winner had landed on my desk.’
I pushed myself up on to one elbow. ‘Are you my agent?’
‘Of course I am!’
I rolled over and snuggled up to him. ‘When were you going to tell me that?’
‘I don’t know.’ He stroked my hair back over my shoulder. ‘You ought to be asleep.’
‘But I’m wondering.’
‘Wondering what?’
‘What kind of apple it was.’ I stifled a yawn. ‘So when did we become lovers?’
He took a deep breath. ‘That is not an appropriate question at four o’clock in the morning. I’ll tell you tomorrow.’
‘I want to know now! Tell me now!’
He sighed. ‘Well, surprisingly, we did not make love until well over two years later, in Burgundy, on the way back from the Frankfurt Book Fair. You seduced me with the promise of a new manuscript. Sarah, go to sleep! You’ll be tired.’
‘Will you stay tomorrow night as well?’
‘I’ll stay every night. Now, will you … what are you doing?’
Episode Twenty
Before leaving, Matthew helped me compile a shopping list.
‘Is this too much for you on your own? Why don’t you wait until later? We can shop at five.’
I followed him into the lounge and watched him checking his shoulder bag. ‘I always shop first thing to avoid the crowds.’
‘But if I’m with you, you won’t need to avoid the crowds. I’ve got to keep this appointment. I’m already risking a staff mutiny because I’m never there.’
‘Have I been interfering with your job?’
‘You could say that! But they all want to see you again.’ He tugged at the sleeve of my dressing gown. ‘I’ll check with Dr Gray first.’
‘Do they know we’re together again?’
He laughed. ‘More or less. I confided in Poppy and he’s told everyone.’
‘Poppy?’
‘Poppy Abercrombie. He’s one of my editors, in fact he’s your editor.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I don’t want you to go.’ I slumped on the nearest sofa.
Matthew stepped over and sat down beside me. ‘I have to. It’s called going to work. Mrs P will be here in a couple of hours to keep you company. Make sure you don’t accidentally mention me spending the night. Then if you get lonely after she’s gone, go next door and ask to borrow your cat.’ He kissed my forehead. ‘I’ll ring after lunch. What time does Mrs Parkin go?’
‘One o’clock usually.’ I followed him over to the front door. ‘Matthew, if we were together before all this, why did you have a separate flat? Why didn’t we live together?’
He turned to face me. ‘It’s complicated. We’ll talk about it later.’
‘Is there … is it just you in the flat in Crouch End?’
‘Sarah, don’t be ridiculous! It’s just me and a tribe of very large spiders. Look, love, I have to go. I really will explain later, I promise.’
As he went to step outside, I caught hold of his sleeve. ‘But you used to stay over, right? Then I just disappeared?’
He exhaled. ‘I’ll explain. Trust me. If you don’t hear from me, meet me at the supermarket, OK?’ He paused. Then he smiled. ‘Five o’clock. Next to the apples.’
I forced the sheet, duvet cover and pillowcases into the washing machine, added green capsules, started the programme then fetched fresh linen. But I was hopeless at bed-making. It took me ages to persuade the duvet into its sack, and the origami that Mrs Dickson did with the sheet and the corners of the mattress was beyond my comprehension. When I walked back into the kitchen the washing machine was progressing through its routine so I decided to make a start on my next story: about the girl who held apples up to the sun. I thought I might call her Peggy.
In between delirious moments of reliving the events of the previous evening and the night that followed, the writing came easy. By 11:30 I had a rudimentary plot. So I went to the kitchen to find chocolate which I discovered wasn’t there. Alfie was asleep on the doormat and the washing machine was still struggling through its programme. The washing didn’t take this long when Mrs Dickson did it. I checked the dial. There seemed to be another chunk of washing time left before the drying. Perhaps it was stuck. The doorbell rang. Alfie immediately jumped through the cat flap. I glanced at the clock: 11:38. Perhaps it was Matthew, popping back before taking the new Roald Dahl to lunch. But if it was Matthew he might run into Mrs Parkin, and that would be terrible. I hurried to the door and peered through the peephole. It was Mrs Parkin. Why was she early? I let her in. She waited for me to close the door.
‘I’m a little early because …’ She paused. ‘You have a television?’
‘Yes. I …’
‘I’m a little early because there are a few things we need to go through.’
‘What things?’
‘Shall we talk about thatover some tea, my dear?’
She indicated the kitchen. I walked ahead of her. It reminded me of a hot and sticky afternoon, being marched along a dark corridor to see Miss Grainger, the headmistress, to explain why I’d emptied a carton of Ribena into Alice Parker’s school bag. I felt, just like then, as if I was going to have to justify my actions. Please, Miss Grainger, I don’t want to tell you but Alice Parker said my mother was in a loony bin. Alice Parker deserved it.
Mrs Parkin followed me into the kitchen and came to an abrupt halt. ‘Are you doing your own washing, Sarah? I thought your cleaner took care of that?’
Please, Miss Grainger … ‘Dawn came last week and she didn’t change the bed. And I spilled tea. And I want to be able to do my own laundry.’ I was aware that this was over-justification. Fortunately, my explanations were interrupted: the washing machine had alighted upon an instruction to spin, which seemed to demand a series of violent collisions with the inside of its cubbyhole beneath the worktop. The noise was deafening.
‘Good Lord, does it always do that?’ shrieked Mrs Parkin.
I wanted to laugh. ‘No, but it should be about to finish,’ I yelled.
Mrs Parkin’s face contorted with disapproval, but despite the noise she pulled out a chair, sat down and watched me fill the kettle. ‘I’ll mention this to the ancillary manager. It ought to be checked!’ She eased a small packet of chocolate fingers from her bag. ‘It’s enough to make somebody lose their mind!’
I bit my lip and concentrated on choosing mugs from the cupboard. When I was sure my desire to snigger was under co
ntrol, I turned and shouted above the washing machine’s histrionics. ‘I’ve still got some custard creams from Monday, if you’d prefer.’
Mrs Parkin’s face brightened. ‘Yes!’ she screeched, ‘I’ll take these to my next client. Waste not, want not!’ At that moment, the washing machine moved to a higher pitch. The banging diminished but the machine now sounded like a 747 preparing for take-off. Mrs Parkin jumped up. ‘Are you sure this is safe? Good Lord!’
I turned away but not soon enough. Mrs Parkin had noticed. ‘Sarah, I don’t think this is a laughing matter! I’m surprised your cleaner hasn’t reported it!’
I forced myself to be serious. ‘It doesn’t usually do this.’ I hurried to make tea, the washing machine became silent and Mrs Parkin ate a custard cream.
