The Girl On the Page, Page 2

  ‘I’ll do that,’ he said, placing the cups and saucers on the tray.

  Helen was left alone in the room. The train set needed to be put away. As she bent down to pick up the pieces, the phone rang. The handset was on the hall table.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Helen! I’ve been trying to get hold of Malcolm. He’s not answering his mobile.’

  ‘He’s misplaced it. What’s the matter, Trevor?’

  ‘He’s been longlisted for the Booker!’

  ‘For A Hundred Ways?’

  ‘Yes, Helen.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Helen covered the mouthpiece with her hand and called down the hallway towards the kitchen, ‘Malcolm. Malcolm!’

  He appeared at the end of the hall.

  ‘A Hundred Ways, by someone called Malcolm Taylor, has been longlisted for the Man Booker!’

  Chapter 2

  Past Engagement

  ‘I’m serious, Amy.’

  ‘You can’t be.’

  ‘I really am.’

  He placed a little black box on the table.

  ‘Oh, shit, you are serious.’

  We were at the Sound Bar and had been drinking since 2 pm. It was now 6 pm and I was hungry. The bar was filling with suits coming from work. It was getting noisier and noisier. We had a booth to ourselves, thank god, but we had to sit close to hear each other.

  Alan had won some big case, or something, I don’t know, and had invited me to celebrate with him. I’d been avoiding his calls for about three months but needed to see his face again, so I had accepted his invitation.

  You have to know that Alan is a candidate for the best-dressed man in London – he’s always immaculately and expensively attired. And though he isn’t strictly handsome, his self-confidence and his self-command go a long way to convincing you he is.

  But we have a unique relationship. I see an Alan no one else sees. He would do anything for me. Anything. As a result, I have always treated him poorly. He is like a good Christian, always turning his head so I can slap each cheek afresh. It has become a habit, and I never tire of it. We can go months without a word and then pick up where we left off. Me taking and him giving.

  And Alan had just proposed.

  There was that little black box on the table.

  ‘I am serious,’ he said.

  ‘Holy fuck.’ I sat up straight.

  I had been lounging in the curve of the booth with my leg draped over his knees. He moved the box closer towards me. His eyes were bright with fear and joy.

  ‘Open it.’

  ‘You’ve had this in your pocket all this time?’

  ‘Open it.’

  I picked up the shiny black box. It had weight. I tried to remember what we had been talking about before he had said, ‘Will you marry me?’

  I remember he had been stroking my bare thigh in the most chaste manner. It was nice. Virginal. The kind of thing he never, ever did. We were lifelong friends. It was the bravest he’d been. Most other men would have run their hand under my dress. But Alan was not like most other men.

  But what we’d been saying before? A blank.

  ‘There’s a ring in here?’ I asked, twisting the box in my fingers.

  Alan laughed.

  ‘Yes, I’m asking you to marry me. Open it.’

  ‘Did you get me here under false pretences? I thought we were celebrating some boring law thing.’

  ‘I’ve had this in my pocket for months, Amy.’

  ‘I need a drink.’

  I reached across the table and lifted the bottle of Bollinger out of the ice bucket. Instead of refilling my glass, I drank straight out of the bottle, but lifted it too high too fast and it flowed down my chin onto my dress.

  ‘Dammit!’

  ‘You’re drunk!’

  ‘You don’t know what a drunk me looks like if you think this is drunk. This is Functional Amy. This is how I go to the office.’

  ‘You go to the office covered in champagne?’

  I smiled at him and said, ‘Why are you doing this? Why now after all these years?’

  He lifted the bottle to his lips, drank deeply then dropped it in the ice bucket upside down.

  ‘Aren’t you even going to open it?’

  ‘A ring won’t change my answer.’

  ‘Just open it.’

  I lifted the lid.

  ‘Oh, god,’ I said, with a gasp. I looked up from the ring and added, ‘I was wrong. A ring can change my mind. It’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Put it on.’

  ‘No. Alan. No,’ I said, closing the lid.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘For one, you’re Alan. My friend, Alan. But more importantly, I couldn’t possibly marry someone called Alan, could I? And then . . .’

  I paused. I didn’t really have my reasons defined.

  He was unperturbed, and prompted, ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Look at the ring again. I want you to take your time. I’ll get us some more champagne.’

  Before I could stop him he was up and navigating his way through the suits to the bar.

  I opened the box and stared at his solitaire engagement ring. I even took it out and tried it on. He’d done well. I held up my hand to see how it looked. The band was platinum, but wasn’t too heavy. The large round brilliant cut did its best to sparkle in the dim light. It had to have cost him £50,000. It was a statement of his intentions, if ever one was needed.

  Though we’d been friends all our lives, he’d always had one peculiar quirk. He had always said that one day we’d get married. As a child he’d said it. As a teen he’d said it. At university he’d said it. And yet in all that time we had never dated. We’d never even kissed. He’d never even tried to kiss me. While other ‘friends’ were dry-humping my leg as we watched TV, Alan never pestered me. Never tried to hold my hand, never put his arm around my shoulders. We were best friends and that was that. Nothing unusual except for the absolute confidence he had that one day we’d be married.

  By the time he returned I had put the ring back in the box. I watched as he poured two more glasses of champagne.

  ‘I saw you looking at it,’ he said, as he handed me my glass. ‘And saw you put it on your finger.’

  ‘You were always so adamant we’d get married one day.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve known for years. But a few months ago I dreamt you were married. I woke up heartbroken. And though I realised it had been a dream, I felt sick, a kind of vertigo, at the thought my dream could come true at any time. So I finally decided I had to do something about it. I bought the ring, but since then you’ve been impossible to contact.’

  ‘You don’t expect me to say yes, do you?’

  ‘You have before.’

  These three words stopped me in my tracks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve asked you before.’

  ‘And I said yes?’

  He nodded.

  ‘We were engaged for three days,’ he said.

  He wasn’t someone who made up stories.

  ‘We were lovers for two of those days,’ he added.

  Lovers? Alan and me? This was madness. Mine, not his. He was as solid as a rock. I was the damaged one. But I never thought I was this damaged.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘It was five years ago, after Max.’

  After Max. After Max. After Max. ‘Don’t say another word. I don’t want to talk about that.’ I slid around the booth and stood up. ‘I need to go to the loo.’ I pushed my way through the suits, leaving Alan with his little black box.

  When Max threw me out of our flat I was a mess. No, that doesn’t quite describe it. I’m a mess now. That was far worse. I just wasn’t. I was a negative. I no longer existed.

  Max had been the guy. The One. We’d met at university. Nothing before, and nothing in the future, will ever be as good. And I had fucked it.

  After crying until dawn on the street in front of
the flat I’d shared with Max, I crawled into the forefront of Alan’s life, completely disrupting it. I can’t be more detailed, I don’t have much recollection of that time, but I know Alan’s girlfriend walked out on him not long after I moved onto their couch. So I suppose I progressed from couch to bed. Alan said I didn’t speak, barely ate. I quickly shed all my happy fat. He found it impossible to keep me from drinking. No matter how closely he monitored me I always found something. He used to lead me to the bath and bathe me. He washed my clothes, dressed me, brushed my hair and force-fed me when he could. He was soon exhausted. And I cried. He said I cried for hours each and every day. No one came for me. No one enquired. My phone didn’t ring or beep. I had betrayed Max, and thus, the world. The world would not forgive me, but Alan would.

  I had to line up in the corridor to get into the ladies’. There were three girls ahead of me before the line continued through the door. The girl in front of me was sobbing silently to herself, her shoulders shaking, while she typed messages rapidly into her phone. Loud shouting and laughter was echoing out from the men’s room, the door to which was held ajar by a lookout, who was turning away men who wanted to pee.

  So what if Alan had taken advantage of the situation? He had always loved me. He had been a good friend. A much better friend to me than I had ever been to him. So what if he had proposed? So what if he had fucked me when I was at my most vulnerable? I didn’t even remember it.

  I’d probably be dead were it not for Alan. It wasn’t that I was suicidal at the time; it was because I was numb. I was negligent. I could easily have drunk myself to death or drowned in the bath or stepped in front of a bus. The only hunger I had was for hunger. I was comforted by pain. All I wanted was to disappear. Alan’s presence alone inhibited me.

  So Alan told me later on. But you know, it all sounds plausible. I’ve been like that since. Not as bad, but I know how it goes. Especially the drinking. I’ve lost days to drink. Woken up beside people I’d never seen before. So it sounds like me.

  I had fucked up big time. I’d betrayed Max, the one person I loved most in the world, and I was utterly traumatised. No wonder I’m sketchy on the details. I still wear the scars.

  My phone vibrated.

  Did you leave?

  No, there’s a queue for the loo.

  But Alan and I had never lived together. I had stayed with him for a few weeks maximum. His declaration of love had probably helped me pull myself together. Like electric-shock therapy. No wonder I got the fuck out of there and didn’t look back. Thank god for repressed memories.

  Not that we didn’t keep in touch. We kept in touch, but as friends only. We barely spoke of my breakdown. Just enough to get an idea of how shit it was. And never once in all that time did he ever mention the engagement or that he’d fucked me.

  He knew it had been wrong.

  The more I thought about it the more it disturbed me. It was all pretty creepy and fucked up. Better left forgotten.

  When I returned Alan had an expectant air about him. The ring was still on the table. He looked up at me and smiled an old smile. One from years ago. When we were kids.

  Still standing at the end of the table, I downed my glass of champagne.

  Then I slid around the booth until I was right up against him.

  I had to end this.

  I leant in, my hand on his thigh, my mouth close to his ear, and, being a bitch, said, ‘I’m your big love, aren’t I?’

  Alan’s eyes narrowed a little. He thought he knew me well, but I could see he couldn’t get a handle on my present shift in mood. I could see him sizing up the situation.

  ‘You always have been.’

  He was sincere, I saw at once. He’d matured a lot in the last few years. Life had thrown him accolades and with them responsibilities. He’d made a lot of money. He was ready for love. He was ready to settle down.

  I slid back along the seat some distance from him, and looking him in the eye, said clearly, ‘You’re not my big love.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re happy with that?’ He took a sip of his sparkling water and then sighed. He said something I couldn’t hear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll never be happy with that.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  He slid around to me and said, ‘I’m worried about you.’

  ‘You have no right to be.’

  ‘You look terrible, Amy. I was shocked when you walked in. You’re so thin. And there are dark circles around your eyes. And those eyes have no life in them.’

  I didn’t look terrible. I looked spectacular. The lighting was bad.

  ‘I live hard. I don’t want to live any other way.’

  ‘I want to give you a home.’

  ‘I wreck those.’

  Alan smiled sadly.

  He leant in closer and said, ‘I’ve known you your whole life. I was there when your parents weren’t. I’ve been there when you’ve been blissfully happy and when you’ve been desperately sad, when your mind has been ablaze with new ideas and when you’ve cried in frustration at not getting published. You’re no angel. I know that. You’re more often than not a fucking bitch. You’ve hurt me too many times for me not to know what you’re capable of. I’m not an idealist. I’m no romantic. I’m much, much stronger than Max. I can take anything you dish out. I want you in my life and I will do anything to accommodate you.’

  ‘I’d despise myself more than I already do if I even considered what you’re offering.’

  ‘Please consider it. A home. A base. A centre. With a man who loves you.’

  This is what he had come to say.

  I moved away from him again. ‘You really know nothing about me. If you did, you’d know that what you’re offering is poison to me. If I lay down with you, I’d never rise again.’

  ‘You do talk a lot of crap, Amy,’ he said, leaning across the gap I’d made. ‘You’re a brilliant writer who has sold herself short. You’re brilliant, period. But you’ve taken the easy road, the coward’s path, and you know it.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘I blame your success. It came too easily, and too early. You haven’t had to work hard.’

  ‘I work fucking hard.’

  ‘Not just long hours. I mean difficult hours. Challenging hours. You should be exhausted at the end of the day. But you’re coasting. Yet I bet you can’t sleep. Am I right?’

  ‘You know nothing about me.’

  I moved. He followed.

  ‘I know you. A brain like yours will eat itself alive if it isn’t being fed properly. You’ll go fucking nuts or you’ll drink yourself to death. I’m probably the only person who will say all this to you, Amy. You aren’t happy and if you don’t change, you’re heading for disaster. It’s obvious to everyone but you. You can’t live as you do without something giving out.’

  It was a fucking intervention.

  I shuffled out of my side of the booth, grabbed my bag and stood up. Alan watched me with a pained expression. I knelt on the seat on my side of the booth and stretched across the space between us to kiss him on the lips, lingering a moment longer than friends would, then pushed my way through the crowd and out of the bar. He made no effort to stop me.

  I didn’t need to hear any more of that crap. He was wrong, people had been telling me that shit for years. I didn’t need to hear it from Alan.

  I’m not reckless. I’m not self-destructive. I’m not a fucking coward. I’m busy.

  Chapter 3

  #AHundredWays

  ‘Now we’re joined by literary giant Malcolm Taylor, who was among the Man Booker longlisters announced yesterday. Welcome to the show, Malcolm.’

  ‘Thank you for having me.’

  ‘Listeners may not be familiar with your latest work, your new novel, A Hundred Ways. Can you tell them a little bit about it?’

  ‘I’m not surprised they know nothing about it. Neither my agent nor my publisher wanted to publish it. It had a very
short print run and no marketing budget whatsoever. And subsequently, it’s only sold a few hundred copies. To quote Hume, it “fell dead-born from the press”.’

  ‘And yet you’re longlisted for the Man Booker.’

  ‘I’m as surprised as you are. My publisher must have submitted it as a joke. I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s the novel about?’

  ‘I wanted to write a book that, like Miller’s, was “a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty”.’

  ‘Miller?’

  ‘Henry Miller. Tropic of Cancer. That was a quote. I’m not a fan of Miller, but understand his disgust.’

  ‘And your novel? What’s that about?’

  ‘A Hundred Ways isn’t about anything. That’s why no one wanted to publish it. It’s just a tiny blood clot. That’s all it is. And it’s travelling along an artery towards our collective brain – culture. Now I just want to live long enough to see the surprise in the eye of mankind as the aneurysm strikes.’

  ‘That’s dark. What does the title mean? What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know. It’s certainly not something I recommend anyone read. Especially if they think they’re happy. “A Hundred Ways to Disappoint a Reader”? And keeping in mind A Hundred Ways was written before Trump, “A Hundred Ways This World is Stuffed”.’

  ‘That’s a hashtag for our Twitter followers: hashtag “ahundredways”, what?’

  ‘Twitter?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Malcolm. So you’d agree with the bookies then that you’ve an outside chance of winning.’

  ‘No chance. The Booker judges have it all wrong. My wife’s a far greater writer than I am but hasn’t been longlisted since the seventies. Her last novel was one of the finest pieces of writing ever published. Sold fairly well but was ignored by the critics – they get bored of excellence. Generally, I’m not a fan of awards. Except when my wife is the recipient. Then I love them.’

  ‘To sum up, your wife, Helen Owen, is the real writer in the family and your novel, A Hundred Ways, is a blood clot, a gob of spit and an outside chance of winning the Man Booker Prize? You’ve sold me, Malcolm. Where do I get a copy?’

  ‘There’s probably a pirated copy of the ebook you can download for free.’