“So that’s what you’re doing, copying another writer’s story? There’s a word for that, Mr Slater. Plagiarism.” He handed the papers back. “Can I suggest you rethink this, Mr Slater. The purpose of this course is to produce quality work, work that one day might be publishable. You’re wasting your time, my time, and the class’s time with this drivel.”
Grose was about to walk back to his table when he spotted Slater’s notepad. It was open at a drawing. Grose frowned and picked up the notepad. Slater tried to take it from him but Grose moved the pad away from him. It was a caricature. A man in a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows sitting at a typewriter. Above his head was a balloon filled with question marks. The man had a weak chin and lines across his forehead and heavy bags under his eyes and he looked tired, as if the world was treating him badly and he expected the treatment to get worse. Grose felt his heart began to pound but he resisted the urge to snap at Slater. Everyone was looking at him and he’d gain nothing by losing his temper. “Very amusing, Mr Slater,” said Grose, tossing the pad down. “Perhaps if you spent more time writing and less time doodling you’d be able to produce better work. But somehow I doubt it.”
Grose walked back to his table, feeling the eyes of his class boring into his back. He took off his glasses and turned to face them. He forced a smile. “Right, who else has something they want to share with the class? Hopefully something more akin to a novel this time.”
CHAPTER 8
Slater was on the sidewalk when Jenny walked out of the Arts Faculty building. She smiled and he smiled back. “Well I liked it,” she said.
“What?”
“Your work in progress. It was cool.”
“Thanks.” He was carrying a black motorcycle helmet and had a backpack slung across one shoulder.
“You’ve got a bike?”
“Nah, I just like wearing the helmet,” he said, and grinned when he saw her face fall. “Yeah, I’ve got a bike.” He was wearing his shades and she could see herself reflected in both lenses.
“A Harley?”
Slater laughed. “Why does everyone always assume that if you’ve got a bike you’ve got a Harley? Harleys are heavy and slow and handle like refrigerators. Harleys are for dentists who want something big between their legs on weekends.”
“So what do you have?” she said. She grinned slyly. “Between your legs on weekends?”
“A Kawasaki,” he said. “A big one.”
“There you see, I was always told that size isn’t everything.”
“Is that so? Because I was always told not to believe everything I was told.” He winked at her and headed off.
She hesitated for a second, then hurried after him. He didn’t look at her as she fell into step beside him. “I can see what you're trying to do,” she said. “Shock tactics. Grab the reader by the throat and don't let go.”
Slater didn’t say anything.
“How many words do you think it'll be?” she asked.
He shrugged. “As many as it takes. It’s like asking how long’s a piece of string.”
“That’s easy,” said Jenny. “It’s twice as long as the distance from the end to the middle.” Slater didn’t react, he just kept on walking purposefully, but not so quickly that she couldn’t match his pace. “I guess you never know how long a book’s going to be until you finish it, right?”
“Have you finished writing a book yet?”
Jenny laughed. “I wish. I’ve rewritten my opening chapter a dozen times. More than that. Fifty, maybe.”
“You’re striving for perfection, is that it?”
“I just know that it’s not right. It’s like I know when it’s wrong but I don’t know how to put it right.” She clasped her laptop case to her chest. “I guess that’s why I’m on the course. To become a better writer.”
“Yeah, well I’m not sure that Grose is gonna help you with that,” he said. “The man’s an idiot.” He stopped walking and looked at his watch, a chunky diver’s model with a numbered bezel.
“Have you got to be somewhere?”
He shrugged carelessly. “Wondering whether to go home or to get a coffee.”
“ Coffee sounds good,” she said.
He looked at her and frowned. “That wasn’t me trying to hit on you,” he said. “You realize that?”
Jenny laughed. “Yeah, I didn’t notice any subtext,” she said. “Anyway, we’ve already met cute. So coffee is just coffee.” She realized that she was hugging her laptop case close to her chest and she forced herself to relax.
“Met cute?” he said. “You believe in that crap?”
“I was joking, Adrian.”
“Yeah, but you know that meeting cute is the prelude to characters getting together. It’s such a cinematic cliché. Act One they meet cute, Act Two obstacles are placed in their way, Act Three they overcome the obstacles and live happily ever after.” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s writing by numbers. The same formula followed by millions of wannabe writers.”
Jenny shrugged. “Rain check on the coffee, then,” she said, and started to walk away. She felt her cheeks reddening and she lowered her head and let her hair fall across her face.
“Jenny!” he called after her but she pretended not to hear him and carried on walking. He hurried after her. “Wait,” he said.
She didn’t stop and didn’t look across at him when he fell into step behind her. “I’m sorry. I get a bit carried away sometimes. It’s just I know I can write, but I keep coming up against idiots like Grose who tell me there’s only one way to write and that it’s their way or the highway.”
“I understand,” said Jenny.
“You do?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“I know you’re not stupid. I didn’t mean that.” He chuckled softly. “This has gone from meeting cute to hating each other at first sight.”
“I don’t hate you,” she said.
“I was being ironic. Really.” There was a Starbucks ahead of them. “Can I at least buy you a coffee?”
“You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. You can tell me how good you thought my story was.”
“Now that’s more like it.”
“More like what?”
“Irony,” she said. “Okay, you can buy me coffee.”
They went into the coffee shop. Slater ordered an Americano and Jenny asked for a latte. “Do you want a muffin or a sandwich?” he asked.
She patted her stomach. “I don’t feel so great,” she said. “My stomach’s been off for a few days. I think there’s a bug going around. Just coffee. Latte. Low fat milk.”
“Hold this for me, yeah,” he said, and handed her the motorcycle helmet. She took it over to a table by the window and sat down and waited for him. He carried over the coffees. “I figured you didn’t take sugar,” he said.
“You figured wrong.” She laughed. “I’ll get it.” As Slater sat down she went over and got herself two packets of sugar and a plastic spoon. Slater was staring through the window at the passers-by when she got back to the table.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, before,” he said.
“You didn’t upset me.”
“It came out wrong. I didn’t mean that you wrote by numbers. I was trying to be funny but sometimes I say things without thinking.”
“You’re passionate,” she said as she sat down. “Passion is good. Without passion you might as well be writing an instruction manual.”
He nodded, still looking out through the window. “I don’t think Grose sees it that way.”
“He’s a different sort of writer,” she said. “He’s more cerebral.”
Slater snorted softly, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Cerebral? That’s one way of putting it.” He picked up his coffee and sipped it. “So what’s your novel about?”
“It’s nothing,” she said.
“Nothing?” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “You’re writing about nothing?”
She fe
lt her cheeks redden. “It’s not that. I just don’t like talking about it.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll jinx it.”
He sipped his coffee again. “Don’t tell me the specifics then. Just generally.”
Jenny nodded thoughtfully. “Okay,” she said. “It’s a romance.”
“Romance is good,” he said. “Just don’t tell me there are vampires in it.”
“Of course not,” she said. “It’s about a girl who works in a diner, waiting tables. She has a boyfriend who’s a mechanic but he isn’t the best boyfriend in the world. Blue collar, loves his truck more than her, drinks too much.”
“A regular Joe.”
“Exactly.”
“And definitely not a vampire? Or a werewolf?”
She giggled and put her hand up to cover her mouth.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Cover your mouth when you laugh. You look pretty when you laugh, you should let the world see it.”
Jenny shook her head. “I don’t know how you do that. How can you say exactly what you’re thinking?”
“I can’t be bothered with bullshit, Jenny,” he said. “Life’s too short to be anything less than honest.” He sipped his coffee again, then pointed at the gold charm bracelet on her right wrist. “That’s interesting,” he said.
She held out her arm so that he could get a better look. It was a thick gold chain dulled by age and from it were hanging a dozen small charms. “It was my grandmother’s,” she said. “She died two years ago and she left it to me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Slater. He flashed her a tight smile. “Sorry that she passed away, I mean. Not sorry that she gave you the bracelet. It’s pretty.” He held one of the charms between his thumb and forefinger. “Is this a Bible?”
Jenny nodded. “A miniature one. You can open it and there are the words of the Lord’s Prayer. It’s more than a hundred years old, she said. It belonged to her mother. So did the chain.” She shook her wrist. “It’s really heavy.”
“Must be worth a fortune,” he said. “You should be careful, wearing that in the city.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “I’d hate to lose it. Every one of the charms meant something to my Gran. The Bible because she was a Christian. There’s a small pair of scissors because she worked as a seamstress when she was a teenager. There’s a heart that her husband gave her on the day she was married. There’s a crib that granddad got her the day my mom was born. There’s a small Eiffel tower she got after they went on a vacation to France, a ship to celebrate when they went on the Queen Mary and a steering wheel because she used to drive around in an old Volkswagen Beetle. Every one of them meant something to her.”
“That’s wonderful,” he said. He was holding her hand as he studied the charms and he looked up and smiled.
Jenny smiled back but then felt her cheeks suddenly redden and she pulled back her hand.
“So have you really just done one chapter?” asked Slater, picking up his coffee.
“I don’t want to start the second until the first one is perfect. Dudley says that…” She looked down at her cup.
“Dudley?”
“Doctor Grose, I mean.”
“But you said Dudley. Is he Dudley to you, Jenny?” Slater leaned across the table towards her. “OMG,” he whispered. “Dudley and Jenny, sitting in a tree…”
“It’s not like that,” she said, but she could feel her cheeks going bright red. She had always blushed when she was embarrassed, ever since she was a toddler.
“You’re secret’s safe with me,” said Slater. “If you and Cuddly Dudley have a thing going on, it’s none of my business.”
“There’s no secret,” she said. “And no thing. He’s married.”
“Being married doesn’t mean anything,” said Slater. “But like I said, your secret’s safe with me.”
“Stop saying that,” she said. “There’s no secret. It was a slip of the tongue.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “Can we just change the subject?” She forced a smile. “So is this bestseller thing your first novel?”
“No,” said Slater. “I’m not a virgin.” He grinned.
“How many have you written?”
“A few,” said Slater. He looked around. “I could do with a cigarette.”
“You smoke?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”
“You’re not worried about cancer?”
“Jenny, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. And I like smoking.” He finished his coffee. “Do you want to go for a walk? In the park? I can smoke and I’ll tell you about the book I’ve just finished.”
“You’re not allowed to smoke in the parks in New York. How can you not know that?”
“I’m not from here, remember. How the hell did they get away with telling New Yorkers they can’t smoke outdoors?”
“It’s the law.”
“Smoking dope’s against the law, are you telling me you’ve never even tried a joint? And using a cell phone while you’re driving, you’ve never done that? And how old were you when you first had a drink?”
“You’re a rebel, aren’t you?”
“Now you’re being sarcastic. I just don’t think anyone had the right to tell me I can’t enjoy a cigarette outdoors. It’s nonsense.” He gestured at the park. “Come on, let’s go break the law. You can be a rebel, too.”
CHAPTER 9
Slater put his motorcycle helmet down on the grass, used a battered Zippo to light a cigarette and then blew a tight plume of smoke into the air with a look of contentment on his face. He held out the pack of cigarettes but she shook her head. He slowly looked around the towering blocks that overlooked the park and smiled. “New York always brings out the serial killer in me,” he said quietly.
“What?” said Jenny.
Slater chuckled softly and took another long drag on his cigarette. “It’s the first line of the book I’ve just finished,” he said.
“Not the one you were talking about in class? The Bestseller?”
“No, The Bestseller is a work in progress. The serial killer one is called The Basement. The central character is a guy by the name of Marvin Waller and that’s the first thing you hear him say in the book.”
“That’s not the one you were reading from. In class?”
Slater shook his head. “The Bestseller isn’t written yet. It’s a work in progress. That was always the idea, to read out what I was writing and then incorporate the reaction it gets into the story.”
“So you’ll be writing about Dudley?”
“About everybody. That’s the point.”
“You mean I’ll be in the book?”
“Sure.”
“And this conversation we’re having? Will that be in the book.”
Slater grinned. “It’s not a diary,” said Slater. “Only stuff that’s relevant to the plot will go in. The plot’s got to keep moving otherwise there’s no story. What about you? Do you keep a diary?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“You look like the sort who’d keep a diary, that’s why. A lot of writers do. It’s a way of collecting thoughts that you can use in your writing.”
“You’re right. I’ve always kept a diary, ever since I was a kid.”
“A pink one with a padlock?”
Jenny laughed. “When I was six, yes. Now I use a proper notebook.”
He held out the pack of cigarettes again. “I’m not a smoker, Adrian,” she said. “Never have and never will. So this book that you’ve finished. It’s about a serial killer?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“Sort off?”
“It’s complicated,” said Slater. “I’ve tried to keep the reader guessing.”
“But it’s written from the viewpoint of the killer, you said. So it’s like American Psycho as well?”
“Now that would be a spoiler, Jenny. I’ll let you read
it some time. Anyway, Waller is a wannabe screenplay writer who isn’t having much luck selling his movies. Truth be told, he isn’t a great writer but he thinks he is. He just figures that if he can get his screenplay on the right desk he’ll be rich and famous.”
“That much is true,” said Jenny. “It’s all about getting your work read by the right people. If you can’t get an agent you can’t get a publishing deal. And agents are really hard to get to.”
“I’m sure Dudley will help get your book out there,” said Slater, and he picked up his mootorcycle helmet and started walking across the park.
Jenny hurried after him. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” said Slater. “Grose has contacts, he knows agents, he can get your work read.”
“I’m not sleeping with him!”
Slater stopped walking and looked at her with a broad smile on his face. “Did I say you were?”
“You’re inferring it.”
“I might be implying it, but I’m definitely not inferring it,” said Slater.
“What?” said Jenny, confused.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Slater. “I just said that Grose should be able to help you. He’s got contacts. You’re the one who mentioned sleeping. The lady do protest too much, methinks.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shakespeare. Hamlet Act 3, Scene 2. Most people misquote it and say “methinks the lady do protest too much” but as usual most people would be wrong.”
“You read Shakespeare?”
“Jenny, you can’t be a writer without knowing the classics. Shakespeare, Dickens, Hardy. Grisham.” He grinned. “I’m joking about Grisham.”
He started walking again and Jenny fell into step next to him. “I’m really not sleeping with him.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because he’d be abusing his authority and it’d cost him his job, tenure or no tenure.”
“Anyway, he’s married.”
Slater flicked ash from his cigarette. “Oh sure, married men never sleep around.” A woman pushing a toddler in a stroller glared at him as he smoked his cigarette. Slater grinned at her and held up the cigarette. “It’s not real, ma’am. It’s plastic. One of those new-fangled artificial ones.”
The Bestseller Page 5
