The Writer (3 page)

Max considered some of
Jill’s friends to be the worst example of human life ever known,
and he was happy to tell her that. When Jill claimed the same for
Max’s few friends, people he visited only once in a blue moon, he
agreed with her. They were all old drinking buddies, and at least
two of them he hadn’t heard from for about a year, and he suspected
that one had died of alcohol poisoning or some such related
illness. Max himself had kept away from the booze for nearly two
years, not because he had a problem, but more that he wanted show
that giving it up was no hard thing. Perhaps that was why they
didn’t want to talk to him lately. He shrugged off any thought of
being snubbed, since he assumed that being a famous writer would
eventually cause him to be surrounded by new friends.

“I’ve finished the first
chapter,” he announced from the apartment’s small spare bedroom
that he used for his writing room. It was full of stacks of papers
and one needed to watch their step. It was the first words he had
uttered in two hours.

“What?” Jill asked from the
laundry where she had been loading the dryer for the last hour. She
had been taking her time since she was also talking on the phone;
with a stylish and light headset. Five minutes later she finished
her call and went to see what he wanted.

“I think I’ve finished the
first chapter,” he said again.

“You mean you’ve finally
started it? What’s this again? An article?”

“The novel I’ve been telling
you about.”

“The one about the
chimpanzees?”

“I was never writing
anything about chimpanzees.”

“Perhaps you
should?”

“Don’t you remember, I told
you?”

“Remind me.”

“A young woman goes to stay
with her grandmother for a week or so. She wants to write a novel,
get away from the big city, meet some interesting members of town.
Of course, they’re wacky, small-town types who don’t get out much
and get enough sun.”

“What town’s
this?”

“Gendry.”

“Gendry? Why that boring
place? What if there aren’t any interesting people in Gendry for
her to meet?”

“Why would you say
that?”

“Just saying. There must be
some towns around with no interesting people in them. They can’t
always be wacky. It’s such a cliché. Your readers will expect them
to be wacky, so unless you make them like virtual aliens, they’re
just going to be let down.”

“I have been to Gendry, for
your information, and I happen to have met some of the locals and
they’re interesting enough for me to want to put them into my book,
I will have you know. I have a whole bunch of them.”

“You’re telling me you’re
putting real people into your book? Can you do that? Don’t they
need to sign a waiver or something?”

“I can easily change their
names. Although I do like their real names. One guy called Elbow
…”

“Who’s your main
character?”

“The young woman,
Sophie.”

“You’re writing a novel with
a girl in lead? Can you do that?”

“Why can’t I?”

“No reason,” she said as she
gave a dismissive laugh. “I have no idea what kind of a clue you’d
have about what goes on in the mind of a young woman, that’s
all.”

“A writer should be able to
write everyone in a realistic manner.”

“What happens to her in
Gendry? Could anything interesting ever happen to anyone who lives
in Gendry?”

“That’s why I want it there.
It’s a small out-of-the-way town, where everyone knows everyone
else, seemingly harmless. Seemingly safe.”

“But not really harmless or
safe? Tell me again, what happens to this girl? What was her name
again?”

“Sophie. She’s there for
relaxation. A holiday, away from the big city.”

“What motivation does she
have for her relaxation? Does she have a believable back story? Can
the reader relate to her? You know the reader must be able to
relate to the main character or they aren’t going to read any
further than the first page or so. Maybe if the reader is feeling
sorry for the writer going to all the trouble of writing this
story, they might give it a few chapters, depending on their
generosity.”

“What’s this I’m hearing?
Suddenly you’re an expert in writing?”

“What happens to her in
Gendry?”

“I haven’t got to that part
yet.”

“You haven’t written it, you
mean? Or you don’t know yourself? Don’t tell me you’re just making
it up as you go? That’s the worst kind of book. You’re not, are
you? Did you want anyone to pay for it, or will it be one of those
free things sitting in the bins in shadowy parts of bookstores,
underneath books so bad they don’t even stack up next to the usual
trash? The kind of books you see and have no idea why it was
published in the first place.”

“There’s nothing wrong with
doing that, writing as you go. You never know what might happen, so
it’s like real life. Set up the characters, see where they go. It’s
just like what happens in real life; unpredictable, and surprising,
and realistic.”

“That’s how the worst books
are written. No, really, they are. You can tell the author is
making it all up as they go. You must have some kind of plan,
surely, on what your story’s about?”

“I have a plan.”

Jill looked at him expecting
him to tell her. “Well?” she asked when he didn’t.

“You’ll just have to wait
until it’s done.”

“Can hardly wait for that,”
she said sarcastically. She then went back to the laundry and
thought she’d call up another of her friends.

Max sat back in his chair
and grimaced. He had not expected a harsh reaction. He had managed
to start writing again and then she just about finished off any
hope of continuing. She had changed so much from when they were
first married, and it seemed to be getting worse. She had once been
supportive of his writing, and encouraged him to take time off to
write his first book. She disliked what the first book became, but
she told him so gently, and helped him through the struggles with
his second. When the third book was actually published she was
hopeful of making money. The more it looked like that wasn’t going
to happen, the more reserved she became, and her words sarcastic
and cutting. Her faith in him seemed to die.

“
Entrée!” Simona announced
with her high-pitched warble.

The family’s elderly maid
had been paid the same wage for the last twenty years and that was
still more than she should have been getting. She pushed a wobbly
cart into the large dining room and got one of the wheels stuck on
a rug, as she seemed to do at least once a week. No one was allowed
to help her free the wheel and sometimes she became so flustered
that she would start swearing at it, with obscure phrases that made
little sense. She said she was from Romania but never gave a
straight answer when asked exactly what part.

The first course of the
evening was a light milky soup that Simona liked to call Crab
Surprise, mostly no one had ever been able to detect any kind of
fish in it. Sophie remembered that it was far better than the
Oyster Surprise, where the oysters were actually dumplings drowned
in Soya sauce, and Simona would fight anyone who questioned
it.

“Splendid,” said Susan in
her typically regal manner, sitting at her customary place at the
head of the table. She liked to talk in a formal way, but only when
guests were present for the family dinner, and she expected all the
dinner guests to display equally perfect manners. “And well timed,
Simona.”

“Sophie, we have a friend,”
said Kerry or Jerry. “Taylor is his name, and it’s his
birthday.”

“Tomorrow, he means,” added
the other twin.

“How nice for him,” Sophie
said to them, wondering why they were telling her about their
friend. She did not know what was worse, that they were telling her
about a boy their age for no reason, or that he was her age and
they wanted to hook her up.

“Kerry, be polite and wait
for Simona to finish serving,” Susan instructed and they all
watched in silence as the maid placed a small bowl in front of
them, filled to the brim, with her weak and shaky hands, each time
letting some of it spill out.

“We’re planning a surprise
party for him,” Kerry or Jerry continued when Simona finished and
began to wheel the cart back to the kitchen.

“We need as many people as
we can get,” said the other.

“We were wondering if you
would like to attend,” said the first.

“I take it you will also be
inviting your sister, Jerry?” Susan asked.

Sophie detected a sigh from
Rebecca that she guessed was more that they could now identify
which twin was which.

“We have already invited
Rebecca,” said Jerry.

“Did you accept?” Susan
asked her daughter.

“I have accepted, mother,”
she answered.

“The new boarder will be
there too,” said Kerry.

“Are you sure?” Sophie asked
him, surprised that they would ask a grown man to attend a child’s
birthday party.

“He has known about it for
weeks,” he said.

“Has he been here for
weeks?” Sophie asked Susan. “I thought he was a recent
tenant.”

“Yes, I thought he was still
a newbie too,” Susan admitted. “Days can so easily turn into weeks,
and before you know it months have gone by. I’m not sure when he
arrived. I will have to check the signing-in book. Which I shall
not be doing during the course of the family meal.”

“Is he a friend of your
friend Taylor?” Sophie asked Jerry.

“He has never met Taylor, as
far as we know,” he said. “It would be weird if he has.”

“He’s there because we told
him the whole town will be there,” said Kerry.

“And he’d look out of place
not being there,” said Jerry. “That’s what we told him.”

“He sounds an intriguing
person, from what I’ve heard of him,” said Sophie.

“And you would be right,
dear,” said Susan.

“Don’t listen to them,
Sophie,” Rebecca said as she rolled her eyes. “You aren’t missing a
thing. He’s dull
as
.”

“Oh, no, Rebecca,” said
Susan, now slightly losing her formality, “I think Sophie will find
him a very interesting character. And Jerry, you did exaggerate too
much in saying the entire town will be present at your friend’s
party. I for one will not be in attendance, and I know others who
have not the slightest inclination of any party being staged in our
midst.”

“What my brother means,”
Jerry explained to Sophie, “is it’ll seem like the whole town is
there. Not that the whole town will be there. Just seem it
is.”

“And Kerry is wrong about
why our boarder’s going,” added Rebecca.

“We’re not wrong,” Jerry
said in defence of his brother.

“It’s because you will be
there, Sophie,” Rebecca said like she was defying a secret truce by
announcing it. “Mother has talked to him about you non-stop, before
you got here. Told him all about you.”

Sophie looked at her
grandmother horrified that she could do such a thing.

“I might have mentioned you
once or twice,” Susan said like it wasn’t anything important.
“Nothing to be concerned over, dear. You know how a grandmother
likes to talk up her children. I only told him about your writing.
And he was very interested, actually, so it may not be such a big
waste of time after all.”

“No dumb hobby?” Kerry asked
with a glance at his brother.

“No unreachable dream?”
added Jerry, gaining an approving glance from Kerry.

“Boys, don’t be rude like
that to your niece,” Susan chided. “We’re polite here to one
another during the family meal. Always remember that.”

Sophie tried to hide that
she was perturbed at openly being called their niece. “I thought we
weren’t going to say that word,” she said.

“Our niece!” reacted Kerry,
gaining a glare from Susan.

“You can’t deny that,
Sophie,” Rebecca said with a grin.

“I don’t wish to discuss
it,” she replied.

“Enough of this subject,”
Susan announced. “Kerry, tell us about your new school project,
please.”

Sophie felt her checks burn
as she realised that she had overreacted to what was nothing more
than playfulness. Like the three children, she did not have a
father, but unlike them, she had never known who he was. To make it
worse, Susan seemed to have decided that she would never
know.

There was one part of town
where the street became so narrow that it should have been one lane
but it wasn’t. Any experienced driver knew to be careful and
courteous, and not go too fast, as any normal driver would have.
But the speeding car went down there as fast as the driver could
get it. He had been doing laps for a good hour, faster and faster,
seeing no one except a car with two old people. They were given a
good scare and he had a good laugh. The driver still laughed at
that memory and went to have another shot of whiskey. He was nearly
finished with the bottle and he needed to kick his head right back
to get a good mouthful. Then he dropped the bottle onto his lap. In
reaching for it too fast he bumped it further down, to his feet.
Cursing, he fumbled a hand around under his legs, now and then
touching it with his fingers but losing it again, like it was
playing a game with him. With each turn of the wheel the bottle
slid more, first under his seat and then up against the pedals.
When he finally managed to grab it, he was leaning so much that he
couldn’t see the road. There was a massive crunching noise that
made the car shudder so violently that he left his seat and bumped
his head on the roof.