‘He isn’t so bad,’ he offered.
Ken raised a cynical eyebrow but let it pass. ‘Well, the prodigal chose a good day to return,’ he said, jostling Arthur’s elbow. ‘We’re celebrating.’
Arthur looked abashed but pleased and ducked his head to both Ann and Ken, who beamed at him.
Lewis tensed. ‘Celebrating?’ he asked. Ken was watching him, his eyes roving across his face as though searching for something. Lewis threw a questioning glance at Ann, who smiled almost sympathetically.
‘Arthur’s only gone and secured himself a publisher,’ Ken announced, watching him.
Lewis swallowed. Arthur and Ann appeared to be eyeing him warily, and he fixed a bright smile to his face. ‘Well, congratulations, man!’ he managed, slapping Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur breathed a small laugh, relieved, and he saw Ann relax. This annoyed him far more than Ken’s knowing gaze. Had they expected him to erupt in a temper tantrum? He grinned and grabbed the whisky bottle. ‘Tell me all about it,’ he said, taking a burning swig.
Three hours later, he emerged into the rain with Ann. He pulled off his coat and attempted to cover both their heads.
‘Should we?’ Ann shouted up at him, nodding her head in the direction of a steamy café.
He nodded his assent, and they bumped shoulders as they ran across the street. Inside, Ann shook out her damp hair, cheeks pink, and for the first time he thought she might be quite attractive.
They ordered a pot of tea, and he watched her in silence as she stirred two sugar cubes into the milky blend. Their knees rested against one another underneath the small table, and he felt a warmth of companionship with her he rarely felt with anyone else. Ann was sweet and – God help him for thinking it – she was terribly impressed by him. They passed the first hour and the first pot of tea talking animatedly about the latest edition of Hobbs’ literary magazine – still only one woman in there, Lewis – and had ordered another pot by the time the second hour arrived.
‘They should have printed your last short, I think.’ She looked at him shyly, and he was flattered. He had submitted somewhere in the region of twenty short stories to the magazine over the last year, but each had been declined by the editorial department. Perhaps after last night, Freddie would – that tremble again, and he clattered his cup against the teapot, sloshing dark liquid over the side.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, embarrassed, as he mopped up the spillage with a handful of napkins. ‘I think I might be hung over.’ He made an attempt at a light-hearted chuckle.
‘Ah, you must be in with the boys. Friday night drinks in the King’s Head?’ She was smiling fondly, as though she’d been there herself.
‘How did you know?’ he asked.
‘Everyone knows, darling! Well, anyone who wants to be published, anyway. People have been lurking in the King’s Head for years, hoping to strike up a conversation with an editor. You didn’t notice the hangers-on?’
‘No,’ he confessed. He’d been far too busy negotiating his bloody unfathomable relationship with his boss.
‘Look closer next time,’ she said, a teasing note in her voice. ‘You’ll find plenty of adoring fans.’
6
It was past seven in the evening when Lewis finally walked back along the High Street to his flat. He was carrying a bag of chips as he swung open the gate, whistling as he strode up the path.
‘Lewis.’
He stopped in his tracks as Freddie appeared in the doorway.
‘I brought some wine,’ he said.
6
They lay in bed, Freddie’s leg entangled around Lewis’s, Lewis’s hand resting in Freddie’s fair hair. The bottle of wine sat on the bedside table, half of its contents consumed. The faintest whisper of daylight was beginning to creep through the drapes, but the room was mostly dark, and heavy with cigarette smoke.
The mood in the room was languid, but just beneath the surface, Lewis sensed a certain tension, a quiet hum or vibration, like a chord pulled too tight. And there was his fear. A leaden lump of terror that rose in his throat periodically, only to vanish just as quickly when a hand softly brushed over bare skin, or Freddie’s breath kissed a sigh onto his shoulder, where his head rested. These were easy moments, moments that caused his breath to soften and his mind to still – it was the lack of reserve in this touch, though, that when thought about afterwards, seemed like a violation.
The aftermath of their first coupling had brought, unbidden and startling, the memory of an afternoon on West Cairn Hill with David, the Canadian boy. David’s family had immigrated to Canada when he was five years old, but when his father died, he had returned to Edinburgh with his mother and sister and a catalogue of (probably fabricated) bear-
related stories that made his company especially valuable to his city-dwelling Scottish classmates. Lewis had forgotten about the boy, but that first bruising kiss from Freddie had awakened in him a distinct memory of David Wells.
Lewis had suggested they spend Sunday afternoon exploring the cairn with the express intention of taking David along the Thieves Road, where his father said the most notorious robbers used to target drovers and their cattle. David had inspired in Lewis a strong desire to impress, and displaying his outdoor hardiness as well as his knowledge of the Pentland Hills had seemed to his thirteen-year-old mind the most suitable way of achieving this desire. But David had been swift in disabusing him of any such notions. He was perhaps three inches taller than Lewis and was therefore quicker and stronger in his stride up the hill. When the smaller boy inevitably began to fall behind, the taller – who was by now projecting a very convincing image of elder superiority – declared he was bored, and lowered himself with an aged sigh onto the damp, flat surface of a green-
covered rock. Lewis, peeved and embarrassed, stopped short of this insulting resting place and scuffed his shoes into the peaty ground.
‘Do you smoke?’ David had asked as he extracted a small, bent cigarette from his inner pocket.
Lewis had shaken his head, mute, shocked, but achingly impressed with the boy’s adult glamour. He watched as David lit the match and lowered his dark head away from the wind chill and into the cup of his hands. It took three attempts, but once lit, he puffed on the cigarette with the air of one long initiated.
‘Well, take a drag, why don’t you?’ David said, perhaps because he had tired of the smaller boy’s stare.
Lewis took the shrunken white tip and took a deep, too-long inhalation of dirty, thick smoke. David of course laughed when he coughed. Hacking and bent over to his knees, Lewis decided that he hated David. But when a warm, strong hand straightened him and patted his back with a sort of rough affection, he caught himself laughing with him.
Their eyes met, Lewis’s streaming from his previous exhortations, and he lost himself for a moment to the glorious rebellion of it all. David hooked his arm around his shoulders and propelled them towards the top of the cairn, where, at the summit, he seemed moderately impressed with Lewis’s tales of thieving and night raids.
David was only in their class for three short months following their secret act – that dreadful, lovely cigarette – for his mother remarried quite suddenly and moved them once more, this time to Glasgow. Lewis was for some weeks quite bereft at the loss of his new friend, but soon began to forget the dark-haired Canadian.
He had shared his first kiss with Helen Craig the following summer. An uninspiring, one-off tryst that he didn’t enjoy half as much as he led his classmates to believe. He lost his virginity whilst at Edinburgh University, shyly, with a girlfriend who lasted a year but whom he no longer thought about. Her name was Mary; she was a soft-spoken music student, ultimately very boring, and he had no overly fond memories of their time together. She had asked him, several weeks before he ended the relationship, if he still found her attractive.
‘Of course I do,’ he had responded, not bothering to inter
rogate whether or not there was any truth in his response.
She had stared at him for a moment, quiet, unconvinced. ‘Is there someone else?’ she asked.
He had laughed, put down his dinner fork and met her eye across the table. ‘Absolutely not. I don’t know where this is coming from.’
‘No. Perhaps you don’t.’ She sighed.
It was only now, his hand resting in Freddie’s hair, that he realised she was more astute than he had given her credit for.
6
‘He can’t write for toffee.’
‘In your opinion.’
‘The correct opinion.’
‘You are grossly arrogant, Dickson. I –’
‘Enough! The bickering stops now.’ Freddie gazed severely across the desk at Dickson and Goldstein, his glasses slung low on his nose and a sheaf of paper curled in his fist. ‘This is not some two-bit book group. There will be no squabbling over opinions. We analyse here.’ A pregnant pause. ‘We have voted, Goldstein, and are in agreement that we will not be publishing the Hollinhurst. So. Please do shut up.’
Goldstein flushed, nodded, and adjusted his tie with great fastidiousness. Dickson flashed an apologetic nod towards Freddie and shuffled the papers in front of him.
The editorial meeting had been composed of several such episodes, and a palpable anxiety lay across the room. Lewis caught Julie’s eye for a second, shrugged his shoulders to signal exasperation. She turned her chin in the opposite direction. Oh, for goodness’ sake.
‘Finally, we may move on.’ Freddie’s gaze lingered for a moment on Goldstein’s bowed head before he turned to the rest of the editorial team. He did not look directly at Lewis, for which Lewis was glad. His palms felt revoltingly moist underneath the table, and he was sure he was sweating through his shirt.
‘I have here a piece from one of our own,’ Freddie’s sternness vanished quite suddenly and he smiled around the room. ‘It is a short essay on poetic translation by Mr Carson here, and I think it merits inclusion in this month’s magazine. Thoughts?’
Lewis coughed, his eyes searching the faces of the editorial team for signs of disbelief, or worse, mockery. Julie was certainly startled, casting him a long look he could not quite fathom. She was either impressed, or peeved. He could not tell the difference.
Goldstein, chastened, bobbed his head in assent, but made no further comment. Dickson looked perplexed and was attempting to meet Goldstein’s eye, but their earlier spat had clearly disturbed their usual equilibrium, and Goldstein was either unaware of his colleague’s appeal or was ignoring it. Lewis thought that the latter was most likely the case.
‘Give me strength,’ Freddie sighed. ‘For two hours you have squabbled like infants, but now you have nothing to say?’
Lewis nervously cracked his knuckle, and the group as a whole turned to look at him. He flushed.
‘It needs some work. I understand if people are hesitant.’ He shrugged, wishing to look modest.
Freddie frowned, annoyed. ‘No one said anything of the sort,’ he said. ‘Dickson. You’ve read the essay. What did you think?’
‘Oh, promising, sir. A bit academic, perhaps. But with a good edit, a fine essay, yes.’
‘We are nothing if not academic,’ Goldstein muttered.
‘Please,’ Freddie said, a note of warning in his voice. Goldstein’s chin was practically resting on his bellybutton. A short silence ensued.
‘Good. We are in agreement, then. Carson’s essay will lead the Reviews section next month.’
This signalled the end of the editorial meeting. Goldstein was the first to leave his chair, bolting for the door like a frightened rabbit. Dickson looked regretfully about the room before following him, an apology already half-formed on his lips. Subdued murmurs punctuated the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as the remaining employees shuffled from the room. Julie smiled at Lewis as she exited, and he was glad to be friends again. Lewis remained in his seat, as did Freddie, until they were alone in the room.
They sat for several minutes, contemplating one another across the table.
‘Thank you,’ Lewis said.
‘I didn’t do it because of us, if that’s what you think.’
Lewis gazed steadily at him.
‘Well, not strictly because of that,’ Freddie conceded.
‘Thank you,’ Lewis repeated.
Freddie smiled. ‘Should I close the door?’ he asked.
Lewis sighed. ‘Not here, surely.’
Freddie’s smile faded.
‘I only mean that we haven’t discussed anything,’ Lewis said. ‘I’m not sure... I’m not sure what we’re doing, exactly.’
Freddie nodded, pursed his lips. He stood and closed the door anyway.
‘I’m the first?’ he asked, appearing neither proud nor shocked, which Lewis appreciated.
‘Yes.’ Lewis gathered a modicum of courage. ‘And I for you?’
‘No. I’m sorry, but no.’
‘Oh. No need to apologise.’ Lewis looked down at his fingertips and scratched ineffectually at a catch of skin on his thumb.
‘Cambridge…’ Freddie trailed off, a troubled look on his face.
Oh, Lewis thought. The head of department? Someone else, perhaps. Someone important enough that Freddie felt compelled to leave. This ate at him for a moment as he considered his own feelings. It bothered him that Freddie might have felt this about someone other than himself. He stopped the thought in its tracks. What did Freddie feel? Lewis only knew that he himself felt at once elated, sick, troubled and overwhelmed whilst aching for his touch again. He had assumed Freddie felt the same, was as taken aback by their feelings as he was. But perhaps not. Perhaps he was just one of…
Lewis was aware that Freddie had moved to the back of his chair, and he sighed with pleasure as Freddie’s hand gathered in the hair at the nape of his neck. Freddie leaned over him and rested soft lips against his cheek.
‘You are important,’ he murmured, as though reading his thoughts.
Lewis closed his eyes as Freddie’s lips traced lightly down his neck. His arousal was clear, and he heard Freddie’s breath quicken as he reached down to release his belt buckle. He had almost tugged it open when there was a sharp knock at the door.
They leapt apart, burnt, startled, guilty.
Julie allowed several seconds to pass before she entered the room. She knows, Lewis thought. She knows.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said, clearly anything but. She appraised them both, pink cheeks on each and Freddie standing breathless two feet behind Lewis’s chair.
‘You haven’t interrupted, Julie. Not to worry. How can I help you?’ Freddie’s vocal composure was sound. Polite and distant. But she wasn’t fooled. Lewis knew, from the lingering gaze she directed at him to the faint smile that parted her lips as she looked back and forth between the two of them. She fucking knew.
‘I just needed you to sign off on this layout before we begin the final typesetting. A quick signature would be lovely, Mr Hobbs.’
‘Of course. Certainly.’ Lewis realised Freddie did not want to step away from behind the chair. His own erection was obscured by the desk in front of him, but Freddie had no such luxury. Julie waved the paperwork expectantly, her eyes dancing. The bitch. The goddamn bitch. A short pause, then Freddie laughed, embarrassed and self-effacing.
‘Forgive me. It’s been a testing morning. Let me sign those for you.’ He sidestepped the chair and, mercifully, Lewis could see no physical sign of their almost-encounter as he accepted the papers from Julie. He bent over the desk and began signing. Over their boss’s back, Julie gave Lewis a radiant and vindictive smile.
Shit.
Fuck.
She knows.
6
The weeks passed. They fucked. They smoked cigarettes in Lewis’s room. They ate cold pic
nics on the bed. Freddie brought expensive cuts of cheese and continental meats, and Lewis bought cheap wine. On the nights Freddie was absent, Lewis shut himself in the flat and smoked cigarettes, at a loss on what to do with himself.
He fretted over Julie, an anxiety Freddie dismissed with increasing irritation. It became clear he had no patience for these discussions, and it was the only time they came close to arguing with one another.
Lewis discovered that for the most part, he would talk and Freddie would listen, quiet, interested, his hands playing with strands of Lewis’s hair. They spoke about his mother, whom he loved, and about his father, of whom Lewis spoke with less warmth. Freddie seemed particularly interested in the girlfriend, Mary, expressing a strange sort of sympathy for her that made Lewis defensive.
But for the most part, they talked about books and writers. Where Freddie was reluctant to reveal details of his own life (that university lover held back from him in an act of sheer malice, Lewis felt), he was full of gossip from the literary hoi polloi. There was an agent at Cabot Circus who was known to make promises in return for certain financial and sexual favours – promises he never fulfilled in kind. There were rumours that Graham Church, a celebrated young novelist on the rise, had a problem with alcohol and that he would soon be dropped by his publisher.
Freddie was full of opinions, too, on the merits or failings of the city’s most respected writers. Kitty Jacob was the most talented novelist writing in England, he claimed, but would never be as successful as she ought to be because she insisted on having ‘countless idiot children’. Dorothy Fleming was equally talented, but too insubstantial – she was only a quiet spinster. Lewis had never met her and asked what age she was. Thirty-eight, Freddie snorted, and Lewis felt chilled.
But Freddie’s greatest monologues were reserved for the novelist Balmer, about whom he spoke with passionate disdain. Like a squalling infant at his mother’s breast – hungry, angry, insensitive to anything but his own loud voice in an otherwise quiet room. That Balmer was read widely and respected by critics and his peers seemed to anger him, and Lewis had wondered more than once – cursing his idiocy and childish jealousy – whether their relationship were somehow more intimate than that of author and reader. But he never dared to ask and would instead seek to prop up Freddie’s anger, preferring that he disdain the man than confess a more personal reason for his aggravation.
The Paper Cell Page 4
