by Darren Shan
‘Shar?’ I echo blankly. Then I remember the birthday girl. ‘No. I’m a FOAF.’
‘A foaf?’ She blinks, and her eyelids glitter silver confusion.
‘FOAF — friend of a friend.’
‘Oh.’ She giggles. ‘I thought you meant you were in the forces.’
There’s a moment of nice silence.
‘I’m a friend of Joe’s,’ I explain, not wanting to let the silence develop. ‘Joe Rickard?’
She shakes her head. ‘I know hardly anyone here. I’m a client of Shar’s. She works in a beauty salon.’ She drums her fingernails on the rail, then holds them up in the air and waves. ‘Ta-da!’
‘Did Shar paint those?’ I ask.
‘No. But she gave me the manicure.’ She studies her nails and frowns. ‘You don’t think I went a bit heavy on the silver, do you? I thought it would look good under disco lights, but out here in the open . . . ’
I shrug. I like the way they look, but if I said so it’d sound lame, like I was hitting on her. Which I am, but I don’t want to be obvious about it.
‘I’m sorry I came,’ she says, lowering her voice. ‘Shar invited me, but she invited lots of her clients and I’m about the only one who turned up. I think I was supposed to give her a card and a big tip and make my excuses.’
There’s another pause, during which we smile awkwardly at each other and try thinking of things to say. This time she breaks it by holding out a hand. ‘Deleena Emerson.’
‘Ed Sieveking,’ I respond, touching my hand to hers. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ As our hands part I say, ‘Deleena? I haven’t heard that name before. Where does it come from?’
‘It’s not a real name,’ Deleena says. ‘Just something my mother thought up.’
‘It’s nice. I like it.’
‘Me too,’ she says, and blushes sweetly. ‘Ed Sieveking,’ she murmurs, running the backs of her fingernails down her left cheek, as if trying to wipe the rosy glow away. ‘Did you know there’s a writer called Edward Sieveking?’
I stare at her, momentarily thrown. ‘What?’
‘A horror writer. Worth checking out if you like that sort of thing.’
I’m caught off guard. I’m not used to strangers recognizing my name, unless it’s at a convention. Deleena stares at me uncertainly as I gawp at her. I think about saying nothing, letting the moment pass. For some ridiculous reason I’m almost ashamed to admit to my identity. But then I take a deep breath and squeeze it out. ‘I’m Edward Sieveking. The writer.’
‘No,’ she frowns, suspecting a joke.
‘Yes,’ I grin, gaining in confidence.
‘You wrote Soul Vultures?’ The disbelief – as if no mere mortal could have been responsible for such a wonderful book – makes me preen like a peacock.
‘Yes,’ I drawl. ‘And Nights of Fear and Summer’s Shades. I used to write under a pseudonym . . . ’
‘ . . . E.S. King!’ she finishes, whooping with delight. ‘That’s how I discovered Summer’s Shades. I mistook it for a Stephen King book. When I realized it wasn’t, I decided I might as well buy it anyway, since there was nothing else I was interested in.’ She covers her mouth with a hand. ‘Oh, what an awful thing to say! Like I only bought your book because I was desperate.’
‘That’s OK,’ I laugh. ‘I’ll take any sale I can get.’ Licking my lips, I fish blatantly for a compliment. ‘Did you like it?’
‘I bought the other two, didn’t I?’ she replies impishly. ‘Actually, I wasn’t too keen on Shades – I think it’s your weakest – but it interested me enough to make me pick up Nights of Fear, then Soul Vultures when it came out.’ She studies me again. ‘This is weird. I’ve met plenty of writers at parties and functions but I’ve never bumped into one of my favourites by accident. And to think I was regretting coming.’
‘You don’t regret it any more?’ I smile.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m only sorry I didn’t know in advance that you’d be here. I could have brought my books to be signed.’
‘Maybe I can sign them for you another time,’ I suggest.
‘Maybe,’ she agrees, eyes half-slit as she considers that.
We talk about my books and what it’s like to be a writer. As much as I love discussing my work, I try steering the conversation on to other topics a couple of times, afraid she’ll think I’m in love with myself. But she won’t have it. She asks about sales and royalties, how long it takes to write a novel, how I research my stories. She’s dismayed when she learns how little I make.
‘That’s terrible!’ she cries, resting a sympathetic hand on mine. The heat almost moulds the flesh of my palm to the rail.
‘I knew you weren’t on the best-seller lists but I’d no idea your sales were that poor.’
‘They’re not that bad,’ I demur. ‘Those are actually pretty good figures. And sales have picked up a lot this last year or two.’
‘Still,’ she mutters, ‘how can you afford to write full-time?’
‘My parents left me an inheritance,’ I lie, as I always do whenever that question is asked. ‘And I was in business – computers – before striking out as an author. I’ve enough set by to see me through the lean years. Besides, I can live frugally when I have to. Money isn’t everything.’
‘Nice to see someone dedicated to his craft,’ she says.
‘I don’t know about dedication,’ I respond modestly. ‘I’m just stubborn. I know I’m not the world’s greatest writer – not even its greatest horror writer – but I’m determined to prove that I can make it, even if my books are lacklustre, thrill-free affairs, as one critic cruelly put it.’
‘But they’re not!’ she exclaims, tightening her fingers over my knuckles, which melt with ecstasy at the pressure. ‘You’re a wonderful writer.’
‘Oh stop.’ I grimace, and lay my free hand over hers. ‘How’d you like to become my agent?’
‘What’s the starting salary?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’ll take it.’
We laugh in chorus and my fingers link with hers. Deleena looks down at our hands and her laughter subsides. I half-unhook my fingers from hers. If she takes her hand away now, the moment will be spoiled and I’m sure she’ll find an excuse to leave. But to my delight she lets it lie where it is and gazes up at the underbelly of a bridge as we pass.
We discuss her life. She works in the City for a private banking firm. Not the most interesting of jobs, she says, but the pay’s good and so are the perks — trips abroad three or four times a year, regular hours, plenty of promotion opportunities.
Deleena left school at sixteen and ‘arsed about for a couple of years’ before marrying an older gentleman a week after her eighteenth birthday. ‘It was a mistake. I didn’t love him, didn’t even really like him. But he was a man of the world, he had a good CD collection, he was –’
‘You married a man for his CDs?’ I interrupt.
‘Taste in music is very important,’ she asserts. ‘I could never get involved with anyone who listens to the Eagles or Rod Stewart.’
‘What about Dire Straits and Bob Dylan?’ I ask nervously.
‘Dylan’s a legend. Dire Straits . . . ’ She makes a so-so gesture.
‘Acceptable?’
‘Just about.’
‘Phew.’ I pretend to wipe sweat from my brow.
The marriage lasted eight months. ‘I hated him by the end, which was wrong, because I was the one who forced him to get married. I sat down with him a few years ago and we managed to put things straight. We’re good friends now.’
After the divorce, she ran home to her parents to sort out her head. Her mother convinced her to finish her education, which she did, earning three A levels at night class, then graduating with honours in business studies at university. She spent a couple of years in Europe brushing up on her languages – she speaks six and is working on Chinese – and fell into banking more by chance than design. Upon her return to London she went to work for one of the major ban
ks, before being headhunted by her current employer four years ago.
Piecing together her chronology as it unfolds, I realize she’s older than I thought. When I ask delicately about her age, she laughs, taps her nose and says she won’t see thirty again.
I quiz her about current boyfriends. Nobody serious. There was a guy called Mark who she met while travelling across Europe. They were together for a few years. Only brief flings since then.
Then it’s my turn to spill the beans. I tell her a bit about my early life, how I was born in Chicago, moved to Seattle when I was six, then to Detroit when I was ten, when my father got a job there, back when they still made cars. I gloss over my pre-writing career, like I do when giving interviews, saying I worked in a variety of job across the States. I move on quickly to my more recent travels, the countries I’ve visited over the last few years.
Given all the travelling, she’s convinced I have a girl in every port. I swear that isn’t true and pretend my modest sex life is a choice. ‘Sex by itself is nothing special,’ I insist. ‘It’s not enough for bodies to touch — hearts and minds have to touch too.’
She stares at me silently, solemnly, then explodes into laughter. ‘Bullshitter!’
‘What?’ I react with wounded innocence, but my smile gives me away.
‘How many girls have you sweet-talked into bed with that one?’ she jeers.
‘Not as many as I’d like,’ I admit.
‘No wonder. The sixties are a long time gone, flower boy. Get with the programme.’
‘So educate me,’ I encourage her. ‘What am I saying wrong?’
‘Everything. Ditch the lines. You don’t need them. Be yourself.’
‘OK.’ I chance it. ‘Despite the gruff front, I’m a quiet, introspective guy. One might even say shy, if one was so inclined. I was married once but that went wrong and it hurt. I haven’t committed to anyone since. I often think I’m not meant for love, that I’m destined to be alone.’
‘Nobody’s destined for loneliness,’ she disagrees. ‘People choose it or they don’t. No one’s saddled with it.’
I could argue that one with her, but I shrug diplomatically and mutter, ‘Maybe.’
The serious turn in our conversation doesn’t drain the night of its pleasure, but it sets us reflecting and we don’t say much afterwards, just stand, hands joined, listening to the sounds of the disco, staring out over the flowing water of the darkly entrancing Thames.
THREE
Deleena refuses to give me her phone number – she never gives it out to people she’s just met, even if they are ‘fabulously wonderful writers’ – but she takes mine and promises to call sometime soon. I don’t get to sleep until nearly three in the morning, thinking about her, replaying our conversation inside my head.
A ringing phone startles me. The ghost of the girl is in my face when I jerk awake, hissing silently at me. I ignore her and glance quickly at my watch — I’ve been asleep less than half an hour. Sitting up, I grab my cell, shake the worst of the wooziness from my head and answer.
‘Did I wake you?’ Deleena asks.
‘Yes,’ I yawn.
‘I can call later if you’d like.’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘Don’t hang up.’
There’s a long pause. Finally Deleena says, ‘I had a good time tonight.’
‘Me too.’
‘I hope I didn’t come across like a groupie. It was only when I got home that I realized how many questions I’d asked about your books. I wanted to ring and say sorry. I was hoping to catch you before you went to bed.’
‘Please,’ I chuckle. ‘You don’t have to apologize for fawning over me.’
‘I wouldn’t have said I was fawning,’ she mutters.
‘Well you were,’ I smirk.
Running a hand through my hair, I discover a long piece of purple paper stuck to my scalp. Peeling it off, I ask Deleena if she’d like to meet for breakfast or lunch.
‘I can’t. I start work early, and I only get to do lunch if it’s with a client. Every other day I’m stuck at my desk till closing time.’
‘I thought you said you worked regular hours.’
‘Regularly long,’ she laughs. ‘How about meeting up around eight?’
‘Great. Where?’
‘The National Film Theatre? They’re showing a season of eighties horror features. I think Killer Party is playing tonight. I know you love slasher flicks, so I thought we could –’
‘What gave you that idea?’ I interrupt, then recall that Summer’s Shades features a protagonist who is hooked on gory films.
‘You don’t like horror?’ Deleena asks, taken aback.
‘Not really, apart from the classics like The Omen, Hellraiser, The Exorcist.’
‘But Summer’s Shades . . . ?’
‘My characters aren’t me, Deleena.’
‘But it’s so convincing. Shades reads like it was written by somebody truly in love with the genre.’
I laugh. ‘Trust me, it wasn’t!’
‘You aren’t a horror buff?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Thank heaven for that,’ she sighs. ‘I can’t stand horror films. I love to read nasty stuff but I can’t bear to watch it.’
‘You only suggested the film to keep me happy?’ I ask cockily.
‘Don’t crow,’ she warns. ‘You don’t know my phone number. If I disconnect and don’t call back, you’ll be trotting around London on your tod.’
‘What’s a tod?’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ she snaps.
‘OK. Horror films are out. What does that leave?’
She hesitates. ‘A meal?’
‘Anywhere particular?’ She mentions a small restaurant in the West End. I agree to that, then ask, ‘And after?’
‘Let’s wait and see,’ she responds. ‘Maybe I’ll have had enough of you and will want to go home early.’
‘Or maybe you’ll want to take me home with you,’ I whisper cheekily.
A pause. It lengthens. Just when I’m about to ask if she’s still there, she whispers back, ‘Maybe.’ And hangs up.
The next two nights are delicious. We dine by candlelight in snug restaurants, chatting easily, laughing freely. I’m at ease around her, even more so than I am with Joe. I feel like a different, less complicated and reserved person.
Later we go for slow walks around Piccadilly Circus, bustling with young, loud tourists as it always is, no matter what time of the day you visit. The Mall, the wide road running along St James’s Park, quiet at night, peaceful, Buck Palace glittering at the end of it like a fairy princess’s palace. Through the lovingly maintained expanse of Hyde Park and down by the casually meandering Thames, the green heart and dark blue soul of this grand old dame of a city.
Sometimes we stroll hand in hand, other times with our arms around each other. We talk softly about our past and future, hopes and dreams, disappointments and failures. I don’t tell her everything about myself, but I spill more than I have to anyone else recently. Details from my youth, my difficult teens in Detroit, how my parents died (mother of cancer when I was sixteen, father of what I hope was an accidental overdose two years later), some of my marital woes, how few friends I have, what a quiet guy I am.
She works my past out of me effortlessly, charmingly. And I do the same with her, learning of her equally difficult teenage years, the time she spent in rehab, her fractured relationship with her parents, the way she retreated from the world after she split from her husband.
For all our talking and sharing, we don’t kiss. At the end of each night I expect her to offer her lips, but she doesn’t. A quick peck on the cheek and that’s it, she hops into a cab and slips away. I’m confused but pleased — it’s nice to be on the slow burn. I’m sure there will be kissing and more later, but for the time being I’m content to talk and walk, getting to know her, letting her get to know me.
Joe returns to London. We meet at a café in Soho in the early afternoon. We
order drinks and sit outside, baking in the severe July sun. Joe looks tired and drawn. His mother pulled through but the doctor told him it’s only a matter of weeks before she succumbs to a fatal stroke.
‘I knew she was close to the end,’ he says, wrapped up tightly even though everybody else is in shorts and T-shirts, ‘but to have it confirmed . . . to be taken aside and told . . . ’ He shakes his head. The glass trembles in his hand.
‘You should have stayed with her.’
‘No,’ he says, tugging miserably at his beard. ‘Two of my sisters have moved in with her and I’ve got a brother three doors down. I’d be in the way. I might miss the finale, but that’s not such a bad thing. I’m not sure I want to see her when . . . when she . . . ’ He comes to a halt. I glance down at the plastic table, ashamed to think of how great a time I’ve been having while Joe’s been up north preparing for death. ‘My brother told me a good one,’ Joe mutters, managing a thin smile.
I groan. Joe loves terrible jokes. I almost tell him not to bother me, but I know he wants to distract himself from thoughts of his mother. ‘Go on,’ I growl.
‘Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday.’ He pauses, then sighs wistfully. ‘Those were the days.’
I chuckle despite myself. ‘That’s one of your worst ever.’
‘So why are you laughing?’
‘Damned if I know.’
We grin at one another, Joe managing to put the darkness of the last few days behind him for the time being.
‘So what have you been up to?’ he asks.
‘Nothing much,’ I lie.
‘No developments on the plot front?’
‘To be honest, I haven’t paid a lot of attention to the book. I was waiting for you to return.’ He perks up when he hears that. ‘Also, I’ve been seeing someone.’ He waits for me to elaborate. ‘A woman.’
He laughs. ‘I didn’t think it was a man.’
‘I met her at the boat party.’
‘Shar’s?’ he interjects excitedly. ‘You went?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you pulled?’
‘I did.’
‘Artful bastard,’ he snorts, looking more like his old self. ‘Didn’t take you long to muscle in on the action. What’s her name?’
