The Pupil

by Dawn Goodwin

  ‘Good choice.’ Sam’s eyes lingered on me as he spoke. ‘I’ll have the squid to start and the seabass too.’ He handed his menu to the waiter dismissively.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Morton, ma’am.’

  ‘Let me be honest, Katherine,’ Sam said. ‘The introduction to your novel is… how can I say this? Thin and obtuse, perhaps. But the idea has merit. It needs a lot of work to make it commercially successful – and we both know that is the endgame here. You need me to help you shape it, grow it, let it fulfil its potential.’

  His tone reminded me of my mother telling me I hadn’t fulfilled my potential and I felt rankled.

  ‘You’re right, I guess – although I’d hoped the beginning is a little better than you suggest. Either way, yes, I need your help to finish it and take it to the next level. What are you proposing?’ I sipped at my wine some more.

  He was quiet for a moment, let his eyes run over my face some more. What was with the intense stares?

  I tried to match him, noting how he had a crooked smile, as though one side of his mouth was reluctant to show as much mirth as the other side, lending him an air of coquettish duplicity.

  ‘Well, I suggest we meet once or twice a week, depending on our respective schedules, and I’ll set you writing challenges, targets, that kind of thing, like homework, to stretch your writing muscles. Having a deadline for your word count will also help you to focus, because we need to get the book written before we can do anything else. How does that sound?’

  I studied my glass, twirling the stem between my fingers and acknowledging the bubbles of excitement in my throat.

  Cool and calm… cool and calm… You are not a silly schoolgirl. You are a serious writer.

  Without looking up, I said, ‘Forgive me for asking, but what do you get out of this arrangement? It seems a lot of work for you.’

  He shrugged. ‘Satisfaction. Knowing I can help you achieve the success that I have had is reward enough for me – and it will help my reputation when my name is associated with yet another bestseller.’ He smiled. ‘I enjoy teaching, sometimes more than the writing itself, if I care to admit it. It may also help me progress – I’m starting a new writing project myself and I could do with bouncing ideas off you too, if you’re up for that? Besides, there’s something about you that reminds me of what I was like when I started all those years ago.’ He chuckled. ‘Now I’m old enough to be your father.’

  I didn’t reply straight away as the waiter was back, starters in hand. He placed a long, thin white plate in front of me, artfully arranged with rainbow-coloured beetroot, white balls of goat’s cheese and spindly pea shoots. It looked beautiful, minimalist, but all I could hear was my mother’s Geordie voice saying, ‘I bet you drop that beetroot on the tablecloth; mind you don’t or it’ll stain.’

  I looked up from my plate. Sam was waiting for me to respond.

  ‘Yes, I’m interested and willing to help you in any way I can, of course. In fact, it would be an honour. And I’m prepared to put in the hard work needed. However, I do have commitments… at home, I mean. I have two children, so it would have to fit in with their schedules as much as possible. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Of course. Whatever works for you. It can be as relaxed an arrangement as you see fit. You need to be completely engaged when we’re working, not worrying about where else you should be instead.’ He smiled, then added, ‘Let’s eat.’

  I pierced a piece of beetroot and carefully brought it to my lips, then chewed slowly, trying to look classy yet contemplative, and hoping I didn’t just look like a cow chewing cud. It was delicious and I savoured the mix of sweet and salty flavours. Forcing myself not to gobble it, I put my fork down between mouthfuls and looked over at Sam, who was casually dipping crispy squid into what looked like a spicy mayonnaise.

  ‘There is one other thing,’ he said around a mouthful of squid.

  Okay, here it is. He wants money… or something else.

  ‘Whatever we discuss, I would hope that it would stay between us. My agent would expect me to ask you to sign a non-disclosure agreement, especially since you may be privy to certain details of my new project that cannot find their way into the public domain prematurely. However, I find all that confidentiality nonsense distasteful at best and would prefer to ask you for your word that you will remain discreet. I’m sure you understand. Confidentiality is a writer’s creative security blanket.’

  I didn’t see any harm in discretion – goodness knows, I kept my own writing and history private as it was. Besides, denying him would be a deal-breaker. And who did I have to tell anyway? No one I knew would understand.

  ‘I think that’s reasonable. You have my word,’ I replied.

  ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘I think this arrangement will work out beautifully. And, if nothing else, we will have forged a friendship from it.’ He raised his wineglass. ‘Here’s to a fruitful relationship for both of us.’

  I raised my own glass, which was almost devoid of wine now, and tapped it lightly against his.

  Lowering the glass after taking a sip, he said, ‘So how old are your children?’

  ‘Jack is eight and Lily is ten.’

  ‘Do you work as well?’

  ‘No, I haven’t worked since before they were born. My husband is an accountant in the city and I look after the kids and the house. It means that I have time now to write though, so I can’t complain.’ I paused as he refilled my wineglass. Two glasses in the mid-afternoon. I was being quite the lush today. I was itching to ask about the wife Shelley had mentioned and the wine emboldened me. ‘You mention your agent. I believe that’s your wife, isn’t it? What are her thoughts on me taking up so much of your writing time in the near future?’

  It was his turn to lower his fork. He narrowed his eyes and I could’ve sworn a shroud passed over his gaze. But it was gone just as quickly. ‘She understands that mentoring is very important to me. And if it helps my creative juices to flow, then she can only be supportive.’

  ‘I’d like to meet her sometime. She sounds a formidable woman from what I’ve read.’ I blushed, realising I had just openly admitted to a bit of online stalking. I had indeed done a bit of background reading on Sam and his wife since Shelley’s comments, but there was very little in the public domain. They were very private people and I appreciated that.

  ‘That she is. She is the business head between us. I’m the dreamer.’

  ‘Sounds like Paul and I.’

  Sam resumed eating, not offering anything else on the topic. I finished my own starter and resisted the urge to lick the plate. I placed my cutlery together like a well-mannered child.

  ‘Can I ask what your writing project is about?’ I said to fill the void that was threatening to become awkward.

  He pushed his plate away decisively. ‘It’s early days. You know how it is – you don’t want to reveal too much and I’m very much in favour of the story exposing itself bit by bit rather than the other way around.’

  I could feel myself hanging on every word, fascinated by the way his lips tasted the syllables, desperate to hear how the real writers did it, but the waiter approached then and cleared our plates.

  My attention was diverted by two women sitting at a table over Sam’s shoulder. They appeared to be watching us and whispering animatedly, tittering behind their hands, their eyes repeatedly darting towards our table. I could feel myself getting wound up. Was it me they had recognised? Surely not. They had espresso martinis in front of them and the remains of their main course. One of the pair then began to shove her friend enthusiastically, urging her into something. The friend took a healthy slug of her martini before standing up and purposefully striding over to us.

  I braced myself as she hovered over Sam’s shoulder. He hadn’t noticed her, but then she wasn’t the kind of woman who would stand out in a crowd.

  She coughed discreetly.

  ‘Um, I hope you don’t mind me interrupting your lunch,’ the woman said in a quiet but gid
dy voice, her eyes now firmly on Sam. Her friend had remained in her seat but was watching with interest.

  Sam plastered a smile on his face and swivelled to face her. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I… er… are you by any chance Samuel Morton?’

  He rose to his feet, the chair scraping on the terracotta tiled floor. ‘I am. And you are?’ He held out his hand to her, ever the gentleman.

  I could almost feel the heat from the woman’s excited cheeks.

  She giggled. ‘I’m Lorraine. Lorraine Munroe. I am such a huge fan. I just adored Muses and Starlings – the way you write is just so gripping.’ She clutched a hand to her chest.

  I shuffled in my chair, trying not to roll my eyes as Lorraine gushed and fawned over Sam. He lapped up every word, with the grin still in place on his lopsided lips.

  ‘You are too kind. That is just what we writers like to hear. It’s not very often we get recognised. Ours is an anonymous celebrity status.’

  ‘Terribly sorry, but would you allow my friend to take a photo of us and perhaps you could sign something for me?’

  ‘Of course, it would be my pleasure.’

  The friend took her cue and rushed over, smartphone at the ready. Sam and Lorraine posed in front of me and I ducked down out of the line of the camera. Lorraine then grabbed from her friend’s proffered hand what looked to be tickets for something and a Sharpie she had magicked from somewhere.

  ‘Please sign it to Lorraine, your biggest fan.’

  ‘Just like in Misery,’ I said brightly across the table. All eyes swung across to me. ‘You know, that Stephen King novel… Kathy Bates… I’m your biggest fan?’ I mumbled, then grabbed my glass and concentrated on draining the remaining wine.

  Sam scribbled a message and signed it with a flourish.

  ‘There you go, Lorraine. I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon. Is this what you are off to see?’ He indicated the Hamilton tickets. ‘I saw it myself last week. It’s a work of genius.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we’ve heard so much about it! It’s a cheeky birthday treat.’ Her hand flittered across her ample bosom and she looked fit to burst.

  ‘Well, enjoy yourselves and it was lovely to meet you, Lorraine – and happy birthday,’ Sam said, signalling the end of their conversation by returning to his seat.

  Lorraine wasn’t quite finished yet though. ‘Is this your wife? I must apologise again for interrupting.’

  ‘No, no, not my wife. A student of mine actually.’

  ‘Oh, you are so lucky!’ she said to me. ‘Spending time with such a master of his craft!’

  I smiled thinly and could feel the wine bubbling in my still relatively empty stomach. The waiter was hovering nearby loaded with plates.

  We all considered each other for an awkward moment, with Lorraine clearly hoping to be asked to join us. It took the waiter coughing discreetly over her shoulder for her to back away reluctantly.

  ‘Well, thank you so much for being so gracious and allowing us to interrupt. It was lovely to meet you.’

  ‘And you, Lorraine. And you.’ Sam turned back to face me as the waiter set the plates down.

  Sam didn’t seem irked in the slightest at the interruption, but I wasn’t sure how to feel about the whole episode. Part of me was strangely envious – I wanted to have people tell me that my writing had inspired or moved them; another part of me knew that much of it was blowing smoke up Sam’s arse and chasing fame so that they had something interesting to post on their Facebook feed the next day. I could imagine Lorraine excitedly tagging herself in the post with numerous emojis involving smiley faces with heart-struck eyes.

  There was also relief that it hadn’t been me that was recognised. I’d already had my fair share of people talking behind their hands, judging me from afar. I still encountered it on the school run most days, was almost anaesthetised to it after all these years. But how had Sam described a writer’s fame? Anonymous celebrity? They know you, but can’t see you. Perfect.

  Yet another part of me was buzzing with expectation at seeing how much admiration he demanded and how in control he seemed. My chest hummed as I witnessed the power he had projected over the quivering mess that was Lorraine. I had had a similar feeling during the course as he commanded the room, exuded confidence in every word and preached his writing gospel according to Samuel Morton.

  Lorraine had returned to her seat with a last lingering glance over her shoulder and I knew the two ladies would be keeping tabs on us for the rest of our meal.

  ‘That was interesting,’ I said.

  ‘That? Well, the thing with being a writer is that many people don’t know what you look like, but they do know your name. So when someone does recognise you, I think it is common courtesy to acknowledge them, make them feel special, show them some love and they will go on to tell their friends how lovely you are and how they should be buying your next book.’

  ‘So it’s a callous form of self-promotion then?’

  ‘There’s nothing callous about it. I’m merely being polite and if I can secure my reputation by doing so, then no harm done.’

  ‘True. It seems bizarre though – the idea that someone thinks they know you so well without ever having met you. I would never dream of interrupting someone’s dinner like that, no matter who they were.’ The wine was making me unusually bold and I made a mental note to rein it in before I repelled him completely. I had the good grace to blush a little. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound harsh. And that is the social media world we live in now, isn’t it? Every detail of our lives photographed and documented.’ I thought about all the judgements that had been passed on me by strangers over the years, how quick people were to think they knew someone better than they knew themselves, just because a newspaper or social media site had informed them accordingly.

  He smiled, then picked up his fork. ‘Not at all. This smells amazing, doesn’t it? Shall we get more wine? One more bottle won’t hurt. Please, start.’ He indicated the empty wine bottle to the waiter, then tucked into his food with gusto.

  I looked at the shapes and textures on the plate in front of me and felt less enthusiastic now. I actually wasn’t much of a fish fan and wondered why the hell I had chosen it. Just because he had recommended it? The pressure of the moment?

  Oh God, it came on the bone. The milky fish eye peering up at me swallowed my appetite whole. I prodded at the flesh and speared a small piece. It tasted as I expected – salty and like it had been swimming half an hour ago. As subtly as possible, I extracted a bone from my mouth, laid it on the side of the plate and moved onto the accompaniments instead.

  Sam was chatting in between bites about writing and how his first success had driven the rest of his career, apparently unfazed by the fish corpse on my plate.

  ‘I could’ve stopped after Muses and Starlings. It was successful enough that I didn’t need to write another book and many other writers would’ve stopped there. But not me.’

  ‘But weren’t you contracted for another book?’ I said as the waiter appeared with the fresh bottle of wine.

  ‘Well, yes, but what I’m saying is that it’s the process that fills me with passion, not the royalty cheques.’

  ‘Surely you’re only saying that because you’ve never been truly destitute. Did you have to struggle to get it published at all? You know, do the whole I’m getting by on bread and water while I write thing? I think I read that your wife’s family had connections and that’s how you got your break? Her father was the historian Gilbert Matthews, wasn’t he? In such circumstances, surely it’s easy to say the royalties aren’t important.’ There was that wine-induced false bravado again. You could take the gobby Geordie out of Newcastle, but…

  He eyed me closely with the ghost of a smile playing on his thin lips. He put down his fork and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘There’s not much gets past you, is there? Most women in your position would be happily telling me what I want to hear, taking my word as gospel, but not you. I like that. I
think we will make a great team.’ He picked up his fork again and continued with his lunch without answering my question. ‘How is your seabass?’

  ‘Lovely, thank you.’ I resumed pushing the fish and its bones around my plate, feeling a bit like Jack when I force him to eat his Brussels sprouts.

  *

  The rest of the meal passed with Sam dropping literary names into the conversation and me being a bit more careful in what I was saying. I didn’t need to blow this opportunity by being a wise-ass. I felt like I was a different person in front of him.

  The waiter removed our plates and replaced them with menus for dessert. I felt cavernous after having played with my main meal rather than eaten it, but Sam opted out of dessert and instead ordered a coffee. I declined the dessert too, rather than come across as greedy, and settled for a camomile tea instead. I didn’t need caffeine to add to the alcohol already twisting through me.

  As I sipped on the tea, I checked my watch.

  Sam noticed. ‘You need to be getting back?’

  ‘Yes, school pick-up and I may be cutting it fine to catch my train. There were delays earlier.’

  ‘Whereabouts in London are you? I’ll arrange a cab for you,’ he offered.

  ‘That’s very kind, but I’m all the way out in suburbia. Hampton Hill in the south-west.’

  ‘At least let me get you a cab to Waterloo. That should take some pressure off. I insist.’ He called over the waiter and discreetly settled the bill.

  ‘Thank you so much for this, Sam. And I apologise if I was rather… forthright in my opinions earlier. I have very little knowledge of the machinations of the publishing world, so I’ll be picking your brains going forward, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course, all part of the mentoring service.’ He got to his feet and came around to pull out my chair for me.

  I gathered my handbag and followed him as he led the way, weaving through the tables to the door, saying hello as he went to various acquaintances. The waiter appeared and helped me into my coat, before bidding us farewell – or rather Sam.