The Paper Cell

by Louise Hutcheson

  Only once had he asked Freddie to read one of his own samples, the opening chapter of a novel he had begun writing a year ago but had not touched for many weeks. It had been an uncomfortable experience. Freddie was enthusiastic, perhaps even warm in his praise, but it became clear that Lewis had craved more. After an increasingly fraught conversation about the intricacies of one scene, Freddie had discarded the manuscript on the floor and made it clear that he had no interest in massaging Lewis’s ego. Their fucking had been rough, almost violent that night. Knowing it to be a futile exercise in vanity, Lewis had not asked him to read anything again; Freddie would not gush if he did not feel justified in doing so, and besides, Lewis hadn’t written anything new since they had started.

  Many evenings they were joined by Mrs Bell. They would play cards, her inappropriate stories of Lawrence Hobbs punctuated by simpering requests for more sherry. Lewis tolerated her – indeed, found her fascinating at times – while Freddie delighted in her presence. This puzzled Lewis, for half of the stories were clearly fiction, and those which were not were embarrassing, painting a portrait of a hard-drinking, hard-loving man who took pleasure in discrediting his family’s solid reputation. It struck him that this appealed to Freddie, and he realised without feeling too petulant that perhaps he was serving as Freddie’s own quiet rebellion against the Hobbs family name.

  Without noticing, a month had passed.

  They were careful in the office, rarely speaking to one another, polite and cool when they were forced to. But always there was Julie. A walking smirk, all knowing looks and swinging hips, winking at him throughout every editorial meeting and looking intently at Freddie when she wasn’t doing that.

  Finally, Freddie noticed. Lewis felt vindicated, even gloated that he’d been more perceptive. Fool. It was only the beginning of the end. What was there to gloat over in that?

  II

  June twelfth was Ken’s birthday. He had asked Lewis and Ann to L’Etoile on Charlotte Street, and then they were to meet eight or ten others at his house for a small party. Lewis left the flat in a hurry sometime after six in the evening, Ken’s gift – a book – wrapped in blue tissue and tucked into his pocket. He left Freddie in his bed.

  ‘Who’s your date?’ he had asked.

  ‘Ann. But she’s not my date.’

  ‘Poor Ann.’

  Lewis bent and brushed a kiss on Freddie’s lips, more to shut him up than to be affectionate, and hastened out the door.

  He was not in a good mood. He had planned to shave and put on a fresh suit, but Freddie had arrived uninvited shortly after work, and as Lewis walked along the street now he realised he smelled of cigarette smoke and sweat. He had not had time to shave, either, and his chin and jaw were dark with stubble. He wished Freddie hadn’t come over, a fact which surprised him.

  Ann met him at the bus stop, pretty in a blue dress. She was wearing lipstick and had pinned her hair back, and he told her she looked lovely. Blushing, she took his arm and did not let go for the duration of the bus ride to Soho.

  Ken was already at the table when they arrived, cheerful and smiling. He chucked Lewis under the chin and told him he couldn’t pull off a beard before kissing Ann’s cheek and ushering her into a seat.

  ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ Ann said, passing him a slim box, which he opened immediately.

  ‘A handsome scarf for a handsome man, eh? Thank you, Annie, it’s perfect.’

  The silk Paisley scarf looked expensive, and Lewis was a little shamefaced as he handed over the book wrapped in tissue. It was a pocket poetry collection – Scottish poets – and he had written a brief note on the inner leaf wishing Ken a happy thirtieth.

  ‘That’s really something,’ Ken said, and he seemed genuine.

  They ordered a bottle of red wine and spoke in low voices about the rising stage actor who was dining at a table near the door. Ann was happy, and Lewis began to forget that he was in a bad mood. It felt nice to be away from Freddie, he realised. The restaurant was relatively small and it was busy, but it felt bigger and fresher than his flat, where he had spent too many evenings of late, so he decided to enjoy the company and made jokes with Ann about Ken’s imminent retirement, which Ken took in good spirits.

  ‘How’s the job?’ Ken asked.

  ‘Busy. More admin than editorial, to tell you the truth,’ Lewis said, as casually as he could.

  ‘I had a drink with that fellow Goldstein over the weekend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Don’t look so concerned. He only had good things to say about you,’ Ken said.

  Lewis wondered why Ken would be drinking with Goldstein but didn’t fancy talking about his Hobbs colleagues lest things stray in Freddie’s direction. Instead, he asked Ann about work. She had a sales job in one of the big department stores, but he could never remember which one.

  She shrugged. ‘I sell gloves.’

  They ordered another bottle of wine and gossiped about Arthur’s upcoming poetry publication. Ann scolded them both for being insincere but couldn’t help but laugh when Ken described the poem as ‘a warm shit in a cold room’.

  ‘What does that even mean?’ she asked.

  Lewis paid the bill, wincing internally at the price, but he couldn’t allow Ann or the birthday boy to pay. By the time they reached Ken’s townhouse, Lewis was pleasantly tipsy. He knew some of the other guests, mostly writers and other publishing colleagues. Ann remained by his side almost constantly, and he introduced her as his good friend, unsure whether that was the right phrase for it. People seemed to assume they were a couple, and as he watched the reactions of men who had not met her before, he realised he didn’t mind the assumption. Ann did indeed look lovely, and Lewis noted the way they watched her, how attentive they seemed. He began to enjoy himself and even put his arm around her waist. She leaned into him, happy.

  His good mood vanished when Ken ushered two new guests into the reception room, a man and a woman. She had not yet seen him, but the woman was Julie Sutherland. She kissed Ken on the lips and they laughed as she wiped a smear of red lipstick from his mouth. Her companion gently pulled her back, perhaps feeling possessive.

  ‘Do you know them?’ Ann asked, catching his gaze.

  He looked down at her, uneasy.

  ‘She works at Hobbs,’ he said. ‘Not a nice a woman.’

  Ann frowned and looked over at Julie, who had finally spotted Lewis. She broke into a wide smile and made her way across the room, leaving her date stuck in conversation with Ken and staring after her.

  ‘Darling! Fancy seeing you here.’

  She treated him to the same performance he had already witnessed on Ken, leaning in to deliberately kiss his mouth, then glancing at Ann and laughing as she rubbed the red mark from his lips.

  ‘Ann Barbour, this is Julie Sutherland. Julie, this is my good friend Ann.’

  Ann stuck her hand out, perhaps hoping to avoid a kiss, but Julie merely pulled the smaller woman towards her by the wrist and bumped a hard kiss on her cheek. Ann rubbed self-consciously at the spot as she pulled back. Julie looked them up and down, noting his arm around Ann’s waist.

  ‘You must be Lewis’s secret friend,’ she said, winking.

  ‘Secret?’ Ann asked.

  Not wishing to play, Lewis cleared his throat and passed Julie a glass of champagne from the drinks table behind them.

  ‘So how do you know Ken?’ he asked, hoping to distract her. She took a sip of her drink and winked at him.

  ‘He so hates to talk about himself, doesn’t he, Ann?’

  ‘Um, I–’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Julie interrupted. ‘We’re all entitled to our private lives. What were you asking, Lewis? How do I know Ken? Oh, I don’t, not really. He’s Walter’s agent,’ she said, nodding over at her date, who was still talking to Ken. The man seemed to sense her gaze and looked over, then gestured for h
er to return to him. She sighed. ‘I suppose I should go tell him how wonderful he is.’

  She turned back and smiled at Ann. ‘You don’t have to worry about that with Lewis, of course.’

  ‘I don’t?’

  ‘Lewis can actually write, unlike poor Walter. Well, so Frederick tells us. Speaking of, I heard through the grapevine that we might be printing one of your short stories in next month’s issue. Frederick is very excited about you.’

  ‘Lewis, you didn’t tell me!’ Ann jostled his arm and he laughed awkwardly.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s news to me too,’ he said, staring at Julie and trying to determine if she was lying.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Frederick just wants to give you the good news himself.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Lewis sipped at his champagne, willing her to leave. She smiled at him, seemingly aware of his discomfort.

  ‘Well. Back to dear Walter I go. Enjoy your night, lovebirds. What a lovely couple you make.’

  She winked and left them without another word. Lewis removed his arm from Ann’s waist, who looked up at him with a frown.

  ‘She seems nice,’ she said, her tone uncertain.

  ‘No, she’s really not.’

  6

  Lewis exhaled slowly, a plume of smoke spiralling into the air above his head. He was lying on his bed in the dark, drapes open and pale moonlight spilling across his face. The cigarette was burning his throat, but he continued to take long, dry draws of it. A plate of cold ham and eggs lay unappetising on the dresser alongside an uncorked bottle of wine. Not much of the wine was left, though the plate remained untouched.

  His eyes moved from the ceiling to the door as, for the third time that evening, Mrs Bell’s heels stuttered to a stop at his door. She rattled the doorknob.

  ‘Lewis,’ she called.

  ‘I’m quite alright, Mrs Bell,’ he said, somewhat tartly, and did not move from his bed. She was silent for a moment, though she shifted from one foot to the other as though contemplating further conversation. Finally, she gave up and departed down the stairs.

  Lewis returned to his quiet observation of the smoke plume. He felt somewhat undone, his sense of self dissipating at the seams, pressed down by his thoughts.

  Freddie was at dinner with Julie.

  He sat up and stubbed out the cigarette on the edge of the dresser, leaving an angry scorch mark. He immediately felt bad, his eyes darting over to the door in case Mrs Bell’s heels were silhouetted in the gap there. Self-indulgent, he chided himself.

  He made a decision.

  He rose from the bed and switched on the small table lamp. In the dimness drawn by the glow, he surveyed the mess he had left on the desk and shuffled the stacks of paperwork into orderly piles. At the top was a short manuscript bearing Ann’s neat handwriting. He dropped into the desk chair and angled the lamp directly over the text. Perhaps this week he would read it properly; she would appreciate his feedback in particular, he knew. He ignored her short summary and turned to the first page of the writing proper, drawing his wine glass over and settling into the task.

  On the last day of the twentieth century, the stars in the sky collectively fell, black and dead, and the world became their tomb.

  He drew himself up, surprised.

  The young woman watched them drop and knew that she was now the only soul left in the universe.

  Lewis flicked through the pages, nonplussed. She had rewritten the entire thing, he realised. It was better. Perhaps even quite good. Her prior drafts had been terse, unfeeling nonsenses about a lonely spinster. This was more interesting by far. He sat immersed in the pages for some time, making notes in the margins that were kinder than he would permit anyone else. Her heroine was prone to bouts of tedious gloom, but otherwise he found something starkly beautiful about the text. He was scribbling an enquiry when his doorknob rattled once more, and he turned, irritated.

  ‘Mrs Bell, I really am quite alright!’ He was aware of how unpleasant his tone was and did not regret it.

  ‘I’m sure you are, dear,’ she said, her voice muffled by the door. ‘I’ve only come to tell you that you have a visitor,’ she added, affecting a tone of affront now, no doubt for the benefit of said visitor.

  Lewis sprang to the door, certain it was Freddie. It must be Freddie. Julie wouldn’t –

  He stopped as Mrs Bell wobbled sideways and Ken appeared, grinning, at her shoulder.

  ‘Kenneth,’ he said, a bit dully. Ken strode past Mrs Bell. She giggled, and Lewis thought Ken might have brushed his hand against her backside.

  ‘Your brother has been telling me about your writers’ group, Lewis,’ Mrs Bell said, manoeuvring towards the doorway as if she was going to join them.

  ‘Brother?’ Lewis parroted, face aghast.

  Ken laughed, a loud and obnoxious intrusion in the small, quiet room.

  ‘Oh, no, Mrs Bell!’ he assured her, not at all offended by Lewis’s apparent horror. ‘I might hail from the North, but we’re not related. I’m a Glasgow man,’ he added, leaning towards her with a wink. ‘Real spit and sawdust town. We’re not so genteel as these Edinburgh boys.’ Lewis looked sharply at him, wondering if the emphasis on that last word – boys – had been deliberate. But Ken grinned at him, innocent.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Lewis asked, and Mrs Bell tutted. Recalling his manners, he added, ‘Not that I’m not glad to see you. I was spending a rather miserable night at my desk with Ann’s book.’

  ‘Aye, that does sound miserable,’ Ken said, though he looked over at the desk with some interest. ‘I’m taking you for a drink,’ he said, propelling them all out of the door and into the hallway. Mrs Bell’s shoe caught on the edge of the carpet and she stumbled, jostled too quickly by Ken’s large frame. Lewis reached out and steadied her, and he saw her throw a stern look at Ken.

  ‘Well, do be quiet when you come home, Lewis,’ she said. Ken, realising he had lost some of her good will, bowed deeply to her. It was a patronising move, and Mrs Bell’s jaw clenched.

  ‘I’ll have him home nice and early, Mrs Bell,’ he promised, his smile mocking. She merely nodded and tottered up the main stairwell, evidently climbing up to the attic level to bother someone else.

  ‘Christ,’ Ken muttered, and nudged Lewis’s arm.

  ‘She’s an excellent landlady,’ Lewis responded, inexplicably annoyed.

  Ken snorted and made for the stairs, indicating that Lewis should follow with a wave of his hand.

  They ended up in the King’s Head, suggested by Lewis to satisfy some perverse desire to be near the office, though he knew Freddie would of course be elsewhere. Would they be talking about him? The thought made him uncomfortable, which in turn tended to make him fidget. He closed his left hand around his right wrist, stilling its unconscious tremor under the table.

  As a child, these nervous tics had been more pronounced. When called upon to approach the blackboard in primary school, both hands would shake so much that the teacher would often have to write his answers for him. Lewis would walk back to his desk with his hands jammed into his trouser pockets, his cheeks red, exacerbating the snide laughter of his classmates. His father was incensed by these near-constant trembles, in particular the way in which he bobbed his ankle up and down under the dinner table, nervous under his father’s stare. He checked his foot now, self-conscious, and was pleased that it remained still. God forbid Freddie ever witness such anxiety.

  Ken sank into the chair opposite, two pints in hand, distracting Lewis from further agitation. He was putting on weight, Lewis thought, as he mopped at the sheen of sweat on his face. They drank in silence for a moment as Ken took in the bar clientele.

  ‘This is where your lot come?’ he asked, jerking his head at a group of men at the bar who might have been Hobbs employees. Lewis didn’t recognise any of them, but nodded nonetheless.

 
; ‘Aye, they’ve got that look about them.’ For the second time that night, Lewis wondered if Ken was trying to imply something. But he was drinking his pint, innocent, and Lewis decided he was being paranoid.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you in private,’ Ken said, putting his pint down and leaning towards him with an earnest look. Lewis stared back at him.

  ‘Oh?’ he managed.

  ‘What do you make of Arthur?’ Ken asked.

  Oh, Lewis thought. He sat back, a defensive move, and wondered if Ken wished merely to rub his face in Arthur’s success.

  ‘I think he’s an able writer. I’m glad for him,’ he said, the words sounding feeble even to himself.

  Ken snorted. ‘He’s not half the writer you could be,’ he said, surprising Lewis.

  He eyed Ken across the table, suspicious, and took a drink of his pint. He didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ve come across a bit of an opportunity. Chap at Crothers owes me a favour. I want to send him one of your manuscripts, act as your agent.’

  Lewis felt his pulse quicken. He took another drink, assessing Ken over the rim of the glass before he answered.

  ‘And why would you want to do that?’ he asked.

  Ken shrugged, affecting nonchalance, but his bearing betrayed his eagerness as he leaned back across the table. ‘You left one of your samples at the library the other day,’ he replied, his eyes bright. ‘It’s… Christ, Lewis, it’s the one. It’s a bestseller, I’m sure of it. An award winner, maybe.’ He looked almost feverish as he gulped down the lukewarm bitter.

  Lewis frowned, trying to recall what he’d taken to the library. He hadn’t written anything for weeks. After all, until the Thursday evening when they’d argued so furiously about Julie, Freddie had been something of a permanent fixture in his room. He had been distracted. He’s with her now, the traitorous thought ran through his mind. You behaved like a jealous infant and now he’s with her. He set it aside, angry, and realised suddenly what Ken was talking about. He had conducted a meeting on the Friday morning, still simmering from his and Freddie’s argument.