by Laura Briggs
For all I knew, Sidney's sense of not belonging had come from a childhood spent traveling in a caravan, without room for too many extra possessions. Or an impoverished council neighborhood where castoff books would have been a luxury. He never gave me enough clues to piece it together, not even giving me the full scope of his reading tastes.
"Seldom, I'm afraid. Excepting some rubbishy poet by the name of Poe," he answered, wickedly. "Writing nonsense about talking birds and undying love."
"My ex-boyfriend would inform you that crows have been known to learn basic human words in special cases," I said, loftily. "So maybe a talking raven isn't so ridiculous, is it?" Thoughts of Ronnie had popped up now and then after his recent email.
"The amateur ornithologist would know," Sidney replied. "I suppose he would have been able to answer all your technical questions about the behavior of ravens on a bloody battlefield, whereas I was fairly useless on the subject."
"I think imaginary ravens wouldn't interest him all that much," I said, kicking aside a small pebble at the pavement's end. Ronnie had tried to take an interest in my ambition or my interests, but he had really done a better job of caring about them after we became 'friends only.'
"Do you wish sometimes that being with him hadn't faded?" Sidney asked. He wasn't being altogether teasing this time.
"No," I said. "Truthfully, I don't think of him and me as a couple in any context now, so you don't have to be jealous of him."
"Did I say I was jealous? Curious, yes. Jealous, no. But, speaking of the green-eyed monster, if it should turn out you're still thinking about that other American bloke, I might be a bit envious of his memory." A hint of red appeared in Sidney's cheeks. I knew full well he had been jealous of Gavin, the hotel's attractive business guest, and it wasn't entirely without reason.
"You shouldn't be jealous of someone I clearly turned down for you," I answered.
"Did you?"
"Deep down, I would say that's the true reason," I said. "I told him I wasn't seeking a serious connection while I was figuring out what I wanted and where my life and my novel were both going ... but ... it was the promise I made you that was behind those words. It was a kind of 'fail safe' to keep me holding out for you."
The look on Sidney's face had softened. I could see he hadn't realized this before. Maybe he didn't ask about Gavin because he wasn't a relationship for me the way Ronnie was ... or because it was safer to ask about my ex, given his poor track record with me.
"Under our new honesty policy, that's as honest as it gets," I said. "Now hold up your end of the bargain and believe me."
He laughed. "That's all you ask for?" he answered. "Not a confession in return?"
"You can confess something if you want," I said, trying not to sound too hopeful. "Like your childhood circumstances, or why you can't be serious for most questions I ask. You could tell me where your passions truly lie." Dean knew what goals or gifts expressed Sidney's 'truest self' because he had planned to paint Sidney that way, once upon a time. "Dean is still the only one who deals in specifics when telling me something."
"This is where my passion lies," answered Sidney. "Here. This place, what I do whilst living in it. You," he added, but simply, not in a way that would cut my breath short with tenderness.
"Is that the deepest, truest version of you?" I asked, softly.
Sidney let the bicycle lean against the rails of the bridge, the fast-flowing stream below carrying away a bird's feather like a Viking long boat. He tucked his hands in his pockets and looked at me. "I can't change your mind if you don't believe me," he answered. "But there came a time when it was people and their experiences that mattered to me above the rest. Maybe it was because I had too little of it in the past, and was hungry for a chance that felt real. A real difference, a true means of touching a life. That life can change everything else, change every other gift someone possesses and give it real value."
"That's the side of you that would have been immortalized on a canvas?"
He smiled, faintly. "Some version of it, apparently," he answered. "Dean sees it as more about what gave me sanity and gave me a way to grapple with the world when I was still coming to terms with the vast differences between myself and all the rest. It's only one part of me, and those parts don't always fit as they should. You understand that as best anybody can."
I looked into his eyes, and there wasn't anything shielding me from seeing his emotions. That's what made me feel that I knew him, even after vague words like these about himself.
"There's nothing concrete about you, is there?" I said. "Nothing you'll let me hold onto as the whole truth."
"I'd be a very dull person if there was," he answered, and now I knew I was being teased. "But you want something cold and factual, you say? Very well. I grew up mostly in London, but my father's family was from the country. I had a friend named Dean, and a wild imagination with a lot of strange notions, which almost nobody else understood. And I threw my building blocks into the ocean once in a fit of pique when someone informed me it was impossible to build a working Big Ben from them. Sadly, I cried for an hour after I realized what I'd done."
"Stop being ridiculous," I said, giving him a push. I was going to laugh if he kept on.
"I swear it's true," he answered.
"Sidney, honestly." This wasn't the sort of seriousness I hoped for when he had a moment of confession.
"You have to know all of me if we're to build something together, don't you?" he asked. "The good and the bad. The part of me that loves you, and the part that struggles to love others sometimes. Even the part of me that can go a bit mad, or a bit bad, depending on circumstances."
"I've never seen that part up close," I said. "But I think I've glimpsed it a time or two, when you didn't mean for it to show itself." My hand took his own, feeling it close softly around my fingers. Something trapped deep inside him would take over for a brief instant, and I sensed it had the power to transform itself into the passion behind any number of emotions, from the best to the darkest.
"The worst part of me," remarked Sidney. "I sometimes think it's what truly colors the part you see." The sadness in his smile was unexpected. He pushed the bicycle along the bridge, but kept hold of my hand.
"Who would we be as a couple?" he asked me.
"What do you mean?" I replied.
"The dynamics of who we are. Two different people are the parts behind the working whole, so we each play a part in it — the yin to each other's yang," he explained. "Theoretically, we should have opposite traits that compliment each other."
"You're impulsive, reckless, and heedless, and so am I," I pointed out.
"True," he said. "And we're both stubborn, unless I don't know you as well as I think."
"You're the more stubborn of the two of us," I pointed out.
"One of us should be a responsible type, the mature realist of the two," Sidney mused. "I hope it's you, because I would be rather rotten at it."
He grinned and dodged as I tried to give his shoulder a hard push. "Certainly you're the most wicked of the two of us," I answered.
"And you're the most trusting of us," said Sidney. "I'm much better at being suspicious. But that trust is quite beautiful and remarkable, especially to a rotten rogue like myself."
I liked that smile, which was one of the gentle, true smiles that comes when Sidney is at his most honest. It laid his feelings open like a book for all to read, but for me in particular, to prove that not all of this conversation was a joking one. What we shared meant as much to him as to me, even if we didn't know just yet how 'we' would take shape. I didn't have the words for this moment and didn't need them, if he could read my response in my eyes.
"Since we can't both be unrealistic dreamers all the time, I suppose we'll have to take turns being responsible," he said. He glanced at me with this conclusion.
We exchanged smiles, and walked on without breaking the hold between us. Our fingers laced, and I leaned against Sidney's shoulder a
s the bicycle rustled through the stray leaves across the road.
I pondered the things Sidney told me, the innocuous, factual ones that fit somewhere in his complicated past. The picture always eluded formation, but that's because some pieces were ones that he and I had avoided, involving the broken-hearted woman from his Oxford days. I always told myself that the most valuable ones were already in place, which was true.
One thing I hadn't told Sidney yet, that I was going to London to face my manuscript's first trial by fire. I didn't want him to worry. I wanted my stomach to be the only one filled with butterflies for what was going to come.
That was wrong in a relationship, keeping something that big from someone else, even if I intended Sidney to be the first to know. Maybe the fact Sidney and I were anything but conventional would help.
Behind my back, I crossed my free hand's fingers. Maybe I would have good news to share next time.
____________________
Helen was waiting at a window table at the back of the Green Tree tea shop. After a deep breath, I had asked the seating hostess if the acquisitions editor had arrived already, spotting that person at the same time. I put on my bravest smile.
"How nice to see you again," said Helen, with her polite — and inscrutable — smile. "Please, sit down. Bring a fresh pot of Earl Gray tea and some biscuits, if you will," she asked the waitress.
I took a seat and folded my hands as I glanced out the window, where the street was a small, quiet one, flowers blooming in decorative urns outside of a quaint-looking tavern. "I didn't see this part of the city when I was here before," I said.
"I thought someplace quiet would be a nice change of pace," said Helen. "When entertaining Alli, I always choose someplace a bit more elegant, but I thought you would prefer a little history and a little privacy."
"Alli's taste is as dramatic as she is," I admitted. "But she might surprise you if you met her in a place like this one." Her humble beginnings had not been completely forgotten, I had learned.
"I'll remember," said Helen. "Thank you," she said to the waitress, who set our tray on the table. Then Helen poured a cup of tea and stirred in a lump of sugar.
"I don't want to keep you in suspense," she said. "I know you came to hear my opinion and idle chitchat will only prolong it. So I think we'll cut to the chase, as they say, if you're ready."
I took another deep breath. "Of course I am," I said. "It was nice of you to meet me in person for this, because I know it's not something you do for everyone."
"No. But I wanted to do it for you, because I admired the fact that you didn't accept Alli's help," she said. "I offered you one chance at an honest evaluation, and you rose to the challenge."
"So how did you feel about it?" Here came the moment for honesty. I braced myself, as the butterflies inside began slipping out of their cage.
She opened her satchel and took out a stack of pages bound together. A manuscript — my manuscript, I knew.
"I said once before that I admired your originality, Maisie," she said. "When Alli told me that she believed you were a strong candidate for the young adult field, I had my doubts, but then I met you, and I heard more about your work. And when I read your manuscript, I saw the reasons why Alli believed in you."
"And?"
"Your story is complex. It is interesting, it has human pathos and adventure. I was somewhat impressed that it was a first effort, given the bold concept. There was a certain freshness to its structure. Innovation is the word I'm seeking, perhaps. It's certainly different from any others submitted to the publisher that have crossed my desk."
I waited.
"That being said, I'm afraid that it isn't right for Saxx and Brighton," she said. "Therefore, as much potential as I read in it, I have to decline it."
The butterflies dissolved. The lump of ash that replaced them had the bitter taste of disappointment when it reached my mouth. "I see," I said. "I understand."
"It's the type of novel that we publish very few of," she said. "There are aspects of the story and its style which I simply couldn't let stand, to be perfectly honest. That's my professional opinion on behalf of the company."
My eyes burned slightly, but tears didn't come, thankfully, as I accepted these words. "Of course," I said. "I knew it was a long shot. But I wanted to take the chance, now that I finished it the best my talent can."
She laid the manuscript in front of me. "That's my opinion for my company," she said. "My opinion as an editor alone is that you should try again. Another editor and another company may be willing, and that's what counts in this business. New as you are, I think you understand that already."
I nodded. "It's a business of trial and error," I said. "I can't give up with one try, can I?" I knew several more blows were yet to come, from editors less sympathetic than Helen.
"My notes inside will explain it in better detail," she said. "I wanted you to have them. You may not need them or use them, but I thought you would prefer to understand the reasons why we declined your manuscript professionally."
I opened it past its cover page, and saw handwriting in the margins. The number of notes wasn't significant, but I could tell Helen was thorough when she did choose to write.
I closed it again. "Thank you for your honesty," I said, softly.
"You're welcome," she answered. "And best of luck. I do mean it."
This wasn't how I hoped it would be, but I had known it was the reality of being a writer. Nobody survived the first time without criticism, and more than a fair number didn't survive to the end. If I wanted to make it, I had to accept that this was the first of many moments of its kind, and concentrate on getting up again.
My tea was only half finished, but I didn't think I wanted the rest. "I should be going," I said. "But I really appreciate this gesture, and that you gave me this time. Again, I know you don't do this for everyone. To do it for an author whose work you're not accepting is more generous than I expected."
I put the manuscript in my bag and put on the best smile I could manage.
"As a friend, Maisie, I still feel this is a good story. I still believe you have promise as a novelist. I hope you will take that with you as well as the rest." Helen smiled back. "Please remember it." She rose and shook my hand. "I hope we'll meet again when you find your place."
A professional had delivered my novel's first verdict. I had time to think about this as I rode the train to the East end of the city. I knew I should expect more of the same in the future, only without special consideration, when the other publishers began to email their replies to me.
I could doubt my manuscript's quality if I wanted, and ask myself a hundred questions about style and story. But if I followed that path, I knew it would leave myself hopelessly stranded at its end. At this point I could either hold onto my instincts or fall into doubt all over again. Helen was encouraging me to hold on in part, but doing it was harder than I imagined.
It would cheer me up to see Arnold again at the end of my ride. The bookstore at the exit of the next station reminded me of the last time we crossed paths, for Arnold was the junior literary agent whom I had introduced to a promising talent from my writer's class. The vintage copy of the Old Man and the Sea always conjured the memory of teatime in Michael's parlor and his raw, beautiful scribbling that promised to be one of the next great British novels.
Two girls were sharing a smiley-face umbrella beneath the drizzle of rain as they hurried into the station, while a homeless man with a little dog ducked into a wide doorway for shelter. I walked on from the bookstore window, in the direction of the address Arnold had asked to meet me after I called and told him I was stopping in London for the day.
Unlike Helen with Saxx and Brighton's budget for entertaining clients, Arnold was still working on success after quitting his job at Alli's — Alistair Davies' — literary agency to try on his own. He was working hard to find a home for Michael's manuscript, and it would probably only be a matter of time before he became an o
fficial literary agent and not a part-time P-R agency employee with three clients and a lot of innovative notions yet untried.
He was waiting for me at the central table in a crowded low-budget Spanish restaurant. Waiters were carrying big trays of paella and the smell of steamed rice and turmeric flavored the atmosphere. I inched between tables where customers were filling up on yellow rice studded with chunks of shrimp and grilled chicken, to where Arnold was texting across from an empty chair, his eyeglasses fogging as one of the waiters placed an enormous steaming dish of the paella in the middle of the table.
He saw me and waved. "Maisie," he called, as he removed his glasses and cleaned them, giving me an eager smile when he slipped them on again. "It's so good to see you."
I remembered Arnold's near confession that he liked me, and was glad to see that his blush hadn't returned. "You, too," I answered.
"Do you like Spanish food? I forgot to ask before — this place is close by the agency where I work, and I've grown rather accustomed to bringing potential clients here. I haven't the funds for places which require reservations." He grinned rather sheepishly with this confession. He had begun dishing the rice stew, but had paused when he asked me this question, as if not certain I wouldn't turn it down.
"This is fine," I said. "It looks delicious." I accepted a plate from him. The busy atmosphere of this spot landed somewhere between a train station and a pizza delivery place back home on Super Bowl Sunday. But Arnold, despite seeming as earnest and eager as before, had a quiet confidence that had been lacking last time I met him.
I tasted the food, discovering it was spicy and hot. "How are things with Michael?" I asked, after the second forkful.
"Quite good, actually," said Arnold. "I've managed to persuade one of the big five to read it, after weeks of persistence. It took more of it than I hoped, but at least it will be on the desk of an acquisitions editor. Well, junior editor," he amended.
