ACT TWO

Act Two Scene One. The following afternoon.

The barn. SIMON is standing beside the trestle table, reading LEO’s story in its yellow ringbinder, turning the leaves rapidly. A soft Italian leather overnight bag lies on the floor at his feet. SIMON is in his early thirties, dressed in loose, trendy, all-black cotton clothes, and has an expensively styled haircut. He is good-looking in a slightly Mephistophelian way. As he reads, he takes a sip from a glass of whisky on the table beside him. The telephone rings and stops after two rings. SIMON locates the answerphone and turns up the volume.

HENRY’S VOICE

… it’s an awful bore, Maude, but it looks as if Suki is pregnant. I’ve no idea who the father might be, have you? But, er, don’t worry. Everything is under control. Goodbye.

There is an electronic beep signalling the end of the message. SIMON raises an eyebrow, shrugs, switches off monitor, and carries on reading. After a few moments he looks up and glances in the direction of the door as if he has heard something. He puts the ringbinder on the table, picks up his bag, and saunters to another part of the room. The outside door opens and MAUDE, wearing a light summer jacket or cardigan, comes in, taking off sunglasses as she does so.

MAUDE

Simon! You’re early.

SIMON

I decided to drive down. Steve Rimmer lent me his Porsche while he’s on tour in Japan.

MAUDE offers her cheek to be kissed.

MAUDE

Nice to have friends so rich, and so trusting.

SIMON

Oh, Steve and I go back a long way. I used to cover his gigs when he had a heavy-metal band called The Pain Threshold. And before that we were at Cambridge together. How are you, anyway?

MAUDE

Fine, thanks.

SIMON

How’s the course going?

MAUDE

Well … you know Maurice is ill and Leo Rafkin has come in his place?

SIMON

Yes. I have an awful feeling I wrote something rather uncomplimentary about him once.

MAUDE

You did.

SIMON

Perhaps he’s forgotten.

MAUDE

He hasn’t.

SIMON

Ah. Oh well. How are you getting on with him?

MAUDE goes to sink, fills kettle and switches it on.

MAUDE

It was difficult at first. I can’t say it’s been dull. Tea?

SIMON

Thanks. You know, originally Jeremy asked me to be the other tutor on this course.

MAUDE

Yes, I suggested it.

SIMON (surprised)

Did you?

MAUDE

Yes.

SIMON (unsure how to interpret this information)

I didn’t know. Otherwise I might have agreed.

MAUDE (giving nothing away)

What a pity.

SIMON

I did it once before, and vowed never again. So I settled for the visiting writer slot.

The door opens abruptly, and LEO comes in, at first seeing only MAUDE.

LEO

Maude! Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over – (He sees SIMON and stops. He looks displeased.)

MAUDE

Leo, I believe you’ve met Simon before.

SIMON

Once, ages ago. Michigan, wasn’t it?

LEO

Chicago. I promised myself the next time I met you, I’d punch you in the nose.

SIMON

Really? What did I do to deserve that?

LEO

You wrote a very offensive article about me, in a magazine.

SIMON

Did I? Most of my articles seem to offend somebody. I’m afraid I have a deep streak of offensiveness in me.

LEO

I’m not going to argue with that.

SIMON

Can I take it that you aren’t going to punch me on the nose, either?

LEO goes across to the sink unit without answering.

SIMON

I would like to know. Otherwise I shall spend the rest of the day in suspense.

LEO inspects the whisky bottle, which is almost empty.

SIMON

Yes, I did help myself to a drink. But don’t worry, I’ve got a full bottle of Johnnie Walker in the Porsche. (To MAUDE) It does a hundred and twenty without even trying. Six-speaker audio system. You’ve no idea how much better the Pet Shop Boys sound at a hundred and twenty miles per hour.

MAUDE

Who are the Pet Shop Boys?

SIMON

Really, Maude! Haven’t your children educated you at all?

MAUDE

Henry won’t let them play their records on his hi-fi. They have to listen in their bedrooms.

SIMON

With the volume turned down so low you can’t hear any bass. I know, I know. By the way, have you got a pet called Suki?

MAUDE

No, an au pair girl. Why?

SIMON

Ah. Well, she’s pregnant.

MAUDE

What?

SIMON

Somebody just left a message on the answerphone to that effect. Your husband, I presume.

MAUDE hastens to phone, and dials.

SIMON (to LEO)

How’s the course going, then?

LEO

It’s hard to tell when the students have no natural aptitude for it.

SIMON

Don’t be too sure about that. Some interesting writers have been started off by the Wheatcroft.

LEO

Who, for instance?

SIMON

Well, me for instance.

MAUDE (re-dialling)

I didn’t know you’d been a student here, Simon.

SIMON

Oh, yes. When I was eighteen. I wrote a complete novel in four days.

LEO whirls round to stare at SIMON.

MAUDE

Simon! You dreadful liar! You’ve heard Jeremy tell that story and you’ve stolen it.

SIMON

No, it was me. I was truanting from school. Enrolled under a false name.

MAUDE looks searchingly at him.

MAUDE

I just don’t know whether to believe you or not. You’re so horribly plausible.

MAUDE puts the phone down.

SIMON

That’s why I’m a writer, no doubt. Couldn’t you get through?

MAUDE

No, engaged.

SIMON

Are you worried about this girl?

MAUDE

Well of course I’m worried. If she is pregnant. We’ve had a false alarm with an au pair before.

SIMON

I see.

SIMON saunters over to the table on which LEO’s computer is set up and taps on the keyboard.

SIMON (to MAUDE)

Does this little gadget belong to you, Maude?

MAUDE

Good heavens, no. It’s Leo’s.

LEO

And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t touch it.

SIMON lifts his hands from the keyboard with an exaggerated gesture.

SIMON

Sorry! It wasn’t switched on.

MAUDE

Even so, you have to be careful with those things. One hears the most frightful stories of whole books being swallowed in a single gulp, because someone pressed the wrong key.

LEO

You’d have to be really dumb to do that.

MAUDE

Well, I can hardly work a pocket calculator, let alone a word processor. But I’m surprised you don’t have one, Simon. You’re usually so with it.

SIMON

No, I depend on the good old-fashioned fountain pen, for drafts anyway. See this small callus on my finger? (SIMON shows MAUDE his index finger) Writer’s corn. (He goes over to LEO) I don’t suppose you’ve seen one of these before, Leo. Most Americans never learn how to do joined-up writing, do they? (He holds his finger up at LEO) Writer’s corn. (LEO ignores the finger, looks SIMON in the eye as if he would like to hit him) Comes in handy for foreplay. (SIMON moves his finger suggestively in a rubbing movement.)

MAUDE

Simon, don’t be disgusting!

SIMON returns to the table. His hand hovers teasingly over the keyboard, fingers moving in the air.

SIMON

I daresay it’s only a matter of time before writing is fully automated in the States. (To LEO) Or can you already buy software that actually writes the stuff for you? Like a programme for writing the Great American Novel. What would it be called …? ‘MEGAWRITER,’ perhaps.

LEO

Very witty.

SIMON

‘WANKSTAR’ for Penthouse stories.

MAUDE

Shut up, Simon.

SIMON

And, of course, for the ever-popular story of Jewish hangups about sex and the Holocaust – ‘SOFTSOAP’.

LEO

You asshole! Have you been reading my manuscript …?

LEO moves threateningly towards SIMON, who retreats, raising his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. LEO picks up his yellow ringbinder from the table.

SIMON

Sorry! Is it not intended for publication?

LEO

I should have kept my promise to punch you in the nose as soon as I set eyes on you.

LEO pursues SIMON angrily. MAUDE steps between them.

MAUDE

For heaven’s sake, stop acting like children, both of you.

There is a knock on the door and JEREMY, looking slightly flustered, comes in.

JEREMY

Simon! How did you get here?

SIMON

By car.

JEREMY

You might have let me know. I’ve been to Wareham to meet the London train.

SIMON

Sorry, Jeremy! It completely slipped my mind.

MAUDE

Really, Simon, you are the limit.

JEREMY

Never mind, at least you’re here. I was beginning to fear this evening would be another fiasco.

SIMON

Oh? What’s been going on, then?

MAUDE

My reading was interrupted by a suicide scare, Leo’s by half the audience walking out.

SIMON

Sensational! Why did they walk out?

MAUDE

Oh … it’s a long story.

LEO (to SIMON)

You just read it, without my permission.

SIMON

I see. Well, I didn’t think it was that bad.

LEO glares at SIMON.

JEREMY (to SIMON)

Some of the students were a bit shocked. I hope you won’t do anything too controversial, Simon.

SIMON

You mean, I can’t read my harrowing story about bestiality among Dorset sheep-shearers?

JEREMY

No.

SIMON

Can I say ‘fuck’?

JEREMY

I’d rather you didn’t.

SIMON

Oh, come on, be reasonable, Jeremy!

JEREMY

English writers managed perfectly well without that word until 1961. I don’t understand why they’ve become so addicted to it since.

SIMON

As a concise description of the sexual act, I find I can’t improve upon it.

JEREMY

All I’m asking is that you exercise a little restraint. This course can’t afford another débâcle.

MAUDE

Oh dear, I detect a note of reproach.

JEREMY

Well, I must admit that things haven’t gone as well as I’d hoped … There have been some complaints from the students.

LEO

What complaints?

JEREMY

Well, that they can’t find you when they want you.

LEO

Jesus Christ! We gave tutorials all morning. What more do they want?

JEREMY

Several of them were wandering about after lunch looking for you.

MAUDE

I went for a walk with Mr and Mrs Baxter. The bank manager and his wife.

LEO looks at her in astonishment.

JEREMY

Well, that was very nice of you, Maude, I’m sure, but I’m afraid the other students tend to get jealous at the slightest hint of favouritism.

SIMON

You should have taken them to the pub at lunchtime, and got them all pissed. It’s the only way to get any peace here.

JEREMY

Simon, shall I show you your room? It’s in the farmhouse.

SIMON

Oh, can’t I sleep with the other professionals?

JEREMY

You know there are only two bedrooms here.

SIMON

I don’t mind sharing with Leo.

LEO

I mind. (He sees, too late, that SIMON is joking.)

JEREMY

They’re only single beds, anyway. You’ll be more comfortable in the farmhouse.

MAUDE

Yes, Simon, and you can make up for our delinquencies by being very matey with the students.

JEREMY goes to the outside door and holds it open. SIMON picks up his bag.

SIMON

That’s what worries me. They’ll keep me up all night with questions about narrative technique and how to get an agent.

JEREMY

You’ve got a room to yourself.

SIMON and JEREMY go out.

LEO

You seem to know St Clair pretty well.

MAUDE

We meet occasionally at publishers’ parties, literary festivals, that sort of thing. A few months ago we judged a book prize together.

MAUDE goes to the telephone, dials.

LEO

He’s even more obnoxious than I remember.

MAUDE

You mustn’t let him get under your skin. ‘He only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases.’ (Listens to phone) Damn, still engaged.

LEO

How come he’s the visiting writer on this course? I mean, what’s he written? Apart from journalism.

MAUDE re-dials.

MAUDE

He wrote a novel, when he was just down from Cambridge.

LEO

Was it any good?

MAUDE

Precocious. Outrageous. Poetic descriptions of nosepicking and masturbation figured prominently, I seem to remember. But undeniably amusing. (She puts down phone) Would you believe it, all weekend Henry’s been phoning me about trivia, and now I actually want to speak to him I can’t get through.

LEO

Has he published anything else?

MAUDE

A book of essays. No second novel, though he’s supposed to be working on one, has been for years. He does a lot of book reviews.

LEO

I know, I’ve read them. If he can’t write a book himself, he’s sure going to make life difficult for those who can.

MAUDE goes to window near the outside door and looks out.

MAUDE

I’m afraid Jeremy is disappointed with us.

LEO (approaches her)

Why should you care what Jeremy thinks? He’s lucky you set foot in this dump.

MAUDE

Well, I know, but … It’s probably sheer vanity, but I like to be liked.

LEO

Let me take care of that.

LEO places a hand possessively on MAUDE’s haunch. She glides away.

MAUDE.

I’m talking about moral approval. It’s a legacy of my schooldays. I don’t want Jeremy to give me a bad report.

LEO

Maude.

LEO follows her, takes her arm and turns her to face him. He kisses her. MAUDE quickly frees herself from his embrace.

MAUDE

Not now, Leo.

LEO

Why?

MAUDE

Students may come knocking on the door at any minute.

LEO

Let them knock.

MAUDE

Simon may come back. He won’t bother to knock.

LEO

Let’s go up to your room, then.

MAUDE

Don’t be ridiculous! It’s the middle of the afternoon.

MAUDE picks up a stack of manuscripts from a chair and carries them to the coffee table, where she begins sorting through them.

LEO

People have been known to make love in the middle of the afternoon.

MAUDE

In the privacy of their own homes, perhaps.

LEO

‘Privacy of their own homes’? What is this genteel crap, Maude? Come to bed.

MAUDE (protesting laugh)

No!

LEO

Last night was terrific, wasn’t it?

MAUDE

I’m not sure I want to discuss last night.

LEO

But you don’t regret it?

Beat.

MAUDE

No.

LEO

Well, then.

MAUDE

There’s a time and a place for everything. Now is the time for me to look at Mr and Mrs Baxter’s manuscripts.

MAUDE opens a file with the air of a teacher about to do some ‘marking’. LEO looks at her in bafflement.

LEO

Why the hell did you go walking with those creeps this afternoon?

MAUDE

They’re a very nice couple. Mrs Baxter has written a charming story about a little girl being evacuated in the War.

MAUDE holds up a sheaf of handwritten pages tied together with lilac ribbon. Then she examines a black ringbinder.

MAUDE

Mr Baxter’s work in progress is not quite so promising. Murder on the Eighteenth Green.

LEO

I don’t get you, Maude. Last night you were like an animal in heat.

MAUDE

I presume you mean to be complimentary?

LEO

A beautiful, desirable, naked animal. It was the most exciting sex I’ve had in years.

MAUDE (reading manuscript)

Good!

LEO

Today you’re back to the tight-assed English rose you seemed when you first arrived.

MAUDE

You certainly have a way with words, Leo. ‘Go lovely tight-assed English rose …’

There is a knock on the outside door.

MAUDE

Someone at the door.

LEO (intensely)

Look Maude, I’ve been going around all day rigid with desire. When are we going to do it again?

MAUDE

That depends.

Another knock on the door.

LEO (shouts)

Go away! (To MAUDE) On what?

MAUDE goes to door.

MAUDE

On lots of things. My mood. Your discretion. I wouldn’t count on it.

She opens the door, calls and beckons.

MAUDE

Lionel! Come back! (To LEO) It’s Mr Brigstock for you, Leo. He has a very big manuscript under his arm.

Blackout.

Act Two Scene Two. The evening of the same day.

SIMON, in loose white shirt and black trousers, is seated in spotlight, facing audience, like MAUDE in Act One Scene Four and LEO in Act One Scene Six, but with a glass of wine on the table beside him. He holds a stack of large index cards in his hand, on each of which is written one of the numbered sections of his text. After finishing each section he pauses and places the relevant card face down on the table.

SIMON

I’m going to read something I’ve been working on for some time, called Instead of a Novel.

He takes a sip of wine, then reads:

One. The Jacket.

The jacket is made of laminated paper printed in six colours. The front cover reproduces a painting in the style of Magritte, depicting a book held open by a pair of hands. The pages of the book are completely blank, and, mysteriously, the reader’s thumbs, which should be holding the leaves down, have disappeared into the white hole of the absent text. The title, Instead Of A Novel, runs across the top of the cover in inch-high lettering, and the name, ‘Simon St Clair’, across the bottom, in one-and-a-half inch lettering. Underneath the name, in smaller letters of the same typeface, is the legend, ‘By the Author of Wormcasts’. Printed on the inside flap of the cover is an enthusiastic description of the contents of the book, known in the trade as the blurb.

Two. The Blurb.

‘Instead of a Novel is, literally, indescribable. Is it an ingenious game? A shocking confession? A trap to catch the unwary reader? A dazzling display of literary virtuosity? All these things, perhaps, and more. Instead of a Novel fulfils the promise of Simon St Clair’s brilliant and acclaimed first novel, Wormcasts, and sets new standards for conceptual daring and technical innovation in contemporary writing.’

Three. The Photograph.

The photograph, in black and white, on the back of the jacket, is by Iain McKell, reproduced by permission of The Face, where it first appeared. It depicts the author in a loose ankle-length topcoat of creased grey cotton over matching baggy trousers, designed by Katherine Hamnett. He stares sulkily into the lens of the camera, leaning against a pile of damaged and obsolete juke boxes, video games, electric guitars and amplifiers, in some sordid corner of a North London junkyard.

Four. The Biographical Note.

Simon St Clair was born in 1957, and educated at Westminster School and King’s College Cambridge, where he gained a First in English, and edited an alternative student newspaper called Camshaft. While he was still an undergraduate he began his first novel, Wormcasts, which was published in 1980 to widespread acclaim. It won him a Somerset Maugham Award and the Whitbread First Novel Prize. After holding various editorial posts with Time Out, the New Musical Express and the Listener, he became a freelance writer, contributing reviews and articles to magazines and newspapers on both sides of the Atlantic on literature, rock music and other aspects of contemporary culture. A collection of his essays entitled Graffiti was published in 1985. Simon St Clair lives in London.

Five. From the reviews of ‘Wormcasts’

‘A new and exhilarating voice in contemporary British fiction (dot, dot, dot) scintillating wit and corrosive irony.’ – Observer.

‘Seldom have the pains – and pleasures – of adolescence been described with such devastating accuracy.’ – The Times.

‘The thinking man’s Sex Pistol.’ – Guardian.

‘Possibly the most brilliant fictional debut of the decade.’ – Time Out.

SIMON rolls his tongue in his cheek as if to suggest that he may have inspired this last tribute himself.

Six. The Title Page.

INSTEAD OF A NOVEL. A novel. By Simon St Clair.

Seven. Facing the Title Page.

Other books by Simon St Clair:

Wormcasts

Graffiti

Eight. The Dedication.

To Julian, for whom it was all too much.

Nine. Acknowledgements.

To Faber and Faber Ltd for quotations from The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot. To Methuen & Co for quotations from Winnie the Pooh, by A. A. Milne. To EMI for quotations from Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd. To the Cambridge Arts Cinema where I whiled away many pleasant afternoons as an undergraduate assimilating the repertoire of Godard, Fellini, Antonioni, and Hitchcock. To Amanda, Cheltenham Ladies’ College and Newnham, who let me go the whole way with her after our first May Ball, or would have done if I hadn’t been too drunk to perform. To Julian, who held my head as I puked into the baptismal font of the Catholic church in Hills Road on my way home, and recommended cocaine as a less bilious method of getting high. To Amanda, who gave me next Michaelmas term a second chance to have her, which I seized, and enjoyed sufficiently to repeat the exercise on many occasions, until one day she forgot to take her pill and got pregnant, and I wanted her to have an abortion, but she didn’t want to, but allowed herself to be persuaded. To Julian, who borrowed from his father the money that paid for Amanda to have a quick and discreet operation in St John’s Wood, after which she said she never wanted to see me again. To Julian, who nursed Amanda through her post-abortion depression so that she was able to sit Finals, and himself in consequence only got a middling Two One, instead of the First he was expected to get, and so lost his chance of a Fellowship. To Amanda, who sensibly married a lawyer from Trinity and had three children in four years. To the author of a Sunday Colour Supplement article entitled ‘New Contenders for the Glittering Prizes’, who featured me as an up-and-coming literary genius, and to the photographer who took such a ravishing picture of me reclining in a punt in a white suit that they had to put it on the front cover. To the literary editors of London newspapers and magazines who subsequently fell over themselves to offer me work. To Verity Blackwell, genius among editors, who accepted Wormcasts within days of my submitting it, and wisely persuaded me to cut the scene in which the hero is fellated by a strange nun in the London Planetarium on the grounds that one could have too much of a good thing. To all my friends and acquaintances in the media, who ensured huge publicity and enthusastic reviews for Wormcasts on publication. To Julian, who wrote the only unfavourable, and only honest, review, in a little magazine that nobody reads, for which I stopped seeing him. To Amanda, who came to the launch party for Graffiti, gushing thanks for the invitation, and whom I fucked afterwards for old times’ sake. To Julian who turned up at my flat one night, high as a kite on cocaine, and put his arms round me, and kissed me on the mouth, and told me I was the only person he had ever loved, and whom I promptly threw out, quivering with righteous indignation like an outraged Victorian maiden. To Julian, who died two years’ later, a heroin addict. To all the publishers, literary editors, agents, PR men, PR women, TV producers, radio producers, record-pushers, chat-show hosts, party-givers, lunch-givers, freebie-givers, whores of every sex and profession, who have given me so many excuses to put off writing this novel.

Ten. The Epigraph.

‘What draws the reader to the novel is the hope of warming his shivering life with a death he reads about.’

– Walter Benjamin

SIMON lays down the last card, looks up.

SIMON

The rest of the book consists of two hundred and fifty completely blank pages.

Blackout.

Act Two Scene Three. The same evening.

The barn. MAUDE, alone in the sitting-room, is speaking into the telephone.

MAUDE

… so I want you to take Suki immediately to Dr Walters, the number is on the kitchen noticeboard, and ask him to give her a test. There’s no point getting in a flap until we know whether she’s really pregnant or just panicking.

LEO comes in, stops just inside the threshold on realising MAUDE is on the phone.

MAUDE

Call me back as soon as you’ve seen Walters. Goodbye, Henry.

MAUDE puts down phone. LEO sits in armchair.

LEO

You finally reached him?

MAUDE

No, I had to leave a message on our answerphone. Henry is being annoyingly elusive.

MAUDE sits down on sofa. SIMON comes in carrying a full bottle of whisky.

SIMON

One bottle of Johnnie Walker. As promised.

SIMON breaks the seal, goes to the sink unit and pours two drinks.

SIMON

I must say I need this. I always feel the adrenalin seething through my arteries after a reading. (To MAUDE) Say when, Maude.

SIMON pours a little water into MAUDE’s glass.

MAUDE

When.

SIMON goes across to MAUDE with two glasses. He gives one to MAUDE and retains the other.

SIMON (with mock courtesy)

Leo – please help yourself.

LEO goes to sink unit to pour himself a drink. SIMON occupies his seat.

MAUDE

Well, you certainly gave the students something to think about, Simon. They were quite stunned.

SIMON

You didn’t like it.

MAUDE

Oh yes! It was very interesting.

SIMON

Ah, ‘interesting’. The adjective of last resort for the author’s friends.

MAUDE

No, really, it was terribly clever. Was it true?

SIMON

True?

MAUDE

I know it’s true about your going to Westminster and King’s and writing Wormcasts and so on, but the story of Julian and Amanda, and the abortion. Is that true?

SIMON

Really, Maude, what a very improper question to ask a novelist. I’m surprised at you.

MAUDE

Oh, come off it, Simon!

SIMON

It’s like asking a lady her age. Or whether she’s reached the menopause.

MAUDE (startled)

Have you been reading my manuscripts as well?

SIMON

One of the students, a Mr Brigstock, gave me an account of your reading at dinner.

MAUDE

Oh.

SIMON

But where did you get that amusing idea of waiting for a hot flush before walking the dog?

MAUDE

A friend of mine.

SIMON

How is she going to feel when she reads about it in your next novel?

MAUDE

Not half so bad as Amanda will feel when she reads yours.

SIMON

Ah, but I haven’t admitted that there was an Amanda.

SIMON goes to sink unit to fetch bottle. He refills his glass and takes bottle to MAUDE.

MAUDE

I bet there was … Come on, Simon, spill the beans. We’re all writers here.

SIMON

Isn’t the usual phrase, ‘we’re all friends here’?

MAUDE

I mean, we can trust each other.

SIMON

Can we? If I ever have children, which God forbid, I shall tell them: ‘Never speak to strange novelists, and be even more careful with ones you know.’

SIMON tops up MAUDE’s drink and takes bottle to LEO.

SIMON

You’re very quiet, Leo. What did you think of my story?

LEO drains his glass, snatches bottle from SIMON and pours himself a generous measure. He thrusts the bottle back into SIMON’s hand.

LEO

I thought it was horseshit.

SIMON

Ah. You wouldn’t be a teeny-weeny bit biased, would you?

LEO

I admit that it had a certain documentary interest.

SIMON

Yes?

LEO

As a glimpse of the rotting corpse of English literary life.

SIMON

A lurid image. How much do you know about English literary life?

LEO

You only have to go to a few publishers’ parties, read the book pages in the newspapers, to understand how it works. The log-rolling, the back-scratching, the back-biting.

SIMON (ironically)

Of course, you don’t get any of that sort of thing in New York, do you?

LEO

I don’t live in New York. It’s a bigger country – writers are more spread out. The trouble with England is that it’s too damned small. Everybody has his hand in someone else’s pocket and his nose in someone else’s asshole. And another –

SIMON (holds up his hand)

Just a moment! Let me think if that is anatomically possible.

LEO

Life is too easy for people like you, St Clair. You glide effortlessly from prep school to Cambridge, from Cambridge to London, without ever stubbing your toe on reality. Everybody knows everybody else in the charmed circle that runs the literary world. Nowhere is it so easy to get launched as a writer. But there’s a price to be paid.

Pause.

SIMON

I know you’re dying for us to ask you what it is.

MAUDE

What is it, Leo?

LEO

The dreadful thinness of contemporary British writing. It’s glib, lazy, self-satisfied prattle.

MAUDE

You can hardly call Simon’s story self-satisfied.

LEO

It is, it is! He luxuriates in his own obnoxiousness. He has orgasms of self-loathing. Don’t let the metafictional tricks fool you. That piece is nothing but bad faith jerking itself off.

SIMON

Oh, I like it! ‘Bad faith jerking itself off.’ I shouldn’t be surprised if I stole that from you one day, Leo.

MAUDE

What does ‘metafictional’ mean?

SIMON

It’s a bit of American academic jargon, Maude. Remember, Leo works in a university English Department. He can’t open his mouth to breathe without inhaling a lungful of words like metafiction, intertextuality, deconstruction. They dance like dustmotes in the air of American classrooms.

MAUDE

But what does it mean?

LEO

It means fiction which draws attention to its own status as a text.

MAUDE (bored recognition)

Oh, that.

Pause.

MAUDE

Could we do something other than talk shop for a bit?

SIMON

Like what, Maude? Do you want to play cards?

MAUDE

Of course not.

SIMON

Scrabble? Charades?

LEO

I thought you were already playing charades.

MAUDE

I mean talk about something other than writing.

SIMON

Ah. The trouble is that writing is the only conversational topic the three of us have got in common.

MAUDE

It would help if we had some music. I must speak to Jeremy about getting a radio or a gramophone in here.

SIMON

Music?

MAUDE

Not your kind of music, Simon.

SIMON

What kind?

MAUDE

At this time of night, with whisky … Frank Sinatra.

SIMON

Sinatra? You surprise me, Maude. I would have guessed baroque chamber music.

MAUDE smiles her Mona Lisa smile. The alcohol is beginning to work on her.

MAUDE

Ah, I’m a woman of many surprises. Aren’t I, Leo?

LEO doesn’t know how to react to this. SIMON glances quickly from one to the other, sensing some subtext. He goes across to the telephone and dials, without lifting the receiver.

MAUDE

What are you doing, Simon?

SIMON

I can’t guarantee Frank Sinatra, and it won’t be the highest of fi, but there is a London number you can call to hear the Golden Oldie of the week.

MAUDE gets up and goes over to phone to listen. SIMON turns up the volume of the answerphone. Sound of Phil Collins singing ‘One More Night’.

MAUDE

Simon! You’re a genius.

SIMON

Poor Phil Collins – a Golden Oldie already. He only recorded that in 1985.

MAUDE (sways her hips)

It’s nice. Smoochy night-club music.

LEO turns his back on the others as he refills his glass.

SIMON (to MAUDE)

Why not?

SIMON, with a gesture unobserved by LEO, invites MAUDE to dance. She slides into his arms.

LEO

I heard Sinatra in Vegas once.

MAUDE

Did you?

LEO

For a man with no voice he was a pretty good singer.

LEO turns, stares in astonishment and with jealousy at MAUDE and SIMON dancing almost cheek to cheek.

SIMON

You know, the reason Leo is so hysterically critical of the English literary world –

MAUDE

Leave Leo alone, Simon.

SIMON

No, listen. If we’re talking about bad faith, let’s consider the typical American writer. Nine out of ten work at a university. An entirely bogus academic subject, called creative writing, has been invented to provide jobs for them. Fat salaries, pensions, grants. My God, the grants! I bet he’s on one now.

LEO is silent.

MAUDE

You are, Leo, admit it. (To SIMON) He has a Guggenheim.

SIMON

Ah!

MAUDE

He’s writing a novel about the end of the Second World War.

SIMON

Still? (To LEO) You were working on that when I interviewed you, what, five years ago.

LEO visibly struggles to control his temper.

LEO

It’s a long book.

SIMON

The War and Peace of our time? Do you think that’s really your métier, Leo?

LEO strides across to the answerphone and turns off the music.

MAUDE (disappointed)

Oh!

LEO (to SIMON)

What d’you mean by that?

MAUDE and SIMON separate. MAUDE picks up her drink and takes up a position centre stage: in the struggle that follows she is spectator, umpire and prize.

SIMON

I’ve always thought of you as an essentially anecdotal writer, Leo. What do you know about war?

MAUDE

Leo was in the paratroops, Simon.

LEO (quickly)

I never said that.

MAUDE

Oh, I thought you did.

SIMON

No, he spent his military service teaching illiterate army cooks how to read, didn’t you, Leo?

LEO

Don’t push your luck, St Clair.

MAUDE (to SIMON)

How did you know that?

SIMON

I always do my homework before an interview. That’s why my subjects usually take offence afterwards.

LEO

What about you, St Clair? You win any combat medals?

SIMON

Oh, National Service was before my time, I’m glad to say.

LEO

But then you don’t need much experience to fill two hundred and fifty blank pages.

SIMON

No, only courage.

LEO (laughs scornfully)

Courage?

SIMON

Yes, courage to ditch all the obsolete machinery of traditional realist fiction. All that laboriously contrived suspense and dutifully disguised peripeteia.

MAUDE

What’s that?

SIMON

Reversal. Usually combined with anagnorisis, or discovery, as everyone who took the Cambridge Tragedy paper knows.

MAUDE

Well, I didn’t take it. Give me an example.

SIMON

For example, Zimmerman’s moment of truth at Auschwitz, in Leo’s story. Aristotle was very hot on reversal and discovery. But they’ve rather lost their cutting edge, now that every TV commercial has them.

LEO

So what’s the new literary technology? The do-it-yourself postmodernist novel? Two hundred and fifty blank pages for the reader to write his own book in?

SIMON

Why not?

LEO

Those cheap tricks only work once.

SIMON

Another reason why they require courage. Experimental fiction burns its bridges behind it, while the realistic novel goes trudging up and down the same safe, boring old highway.

MAUDE

Well, I’m a realistic novelist, and not ashamed to say so.

SIMON

Ah, there’s a special dispensation for women novelists of wit and sensibility, Maude. It comes down from the sainted Jane. (To LEO) Austen, not Fonda.

MAUDE

Oh, well, I do adore Jane Austen.

SIMON

You remember what Sir Walter Scott said about her? ‘The big Bow-wow strain I can do like any now going; but the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting, is denied to me.’ Now you, Maude, have the exquisite touch, but I greatly fear that Leo is going for the big Bow-wow strain in his war novel, about a hundred and fifty years too late.

LEO

What the fuck do you know about my novel, St Clair?

SIMON

Only that it’s taking you an awfully long time. You aren’t blocked, are you?

LEO

No, I’m not blocked.

SIMON

If you are, I’d advise putting in a few sex scenes. They seem to come easily to you. Or have you got too many already, for a novel that’s supposed to be about the Second World War?

LEO

You really are an asshole.

SIMON

Another little-known fact about Leo, Maude, is that he used to write jerk-off stories for skin magazines under another name.

LEO

Who the hell told you that?

SIMON

As I was saying, I do my homework.

LEO

I’m not ashamed of it. I was working my way through graduate school. I had a wife and a young kid to support.

SIMON

How touching. Like a Victorian mother going on the streets to feed her starving family.

LEO

I’m warning you, St Clair …

MAUDE

Simon, stop it.

SIMON

It left its mark, though, on your style, didn’t it, writing porn? How did that passage in your story go? ‘He felt her nipples spring to life under his fingers … she moaned with unsimulated pleasure …’ I mean, really!

LEO

That’s it.

Enraged, LEO strips off his jacket.

MAUDE (warningly)

Simon!

LEO squares up to SIMON, who makes no move to defend himself.

LEO

Fight, you sonofabitch!

SIMON

I wouldn’t dream of it.

MAUDE

For God’s sake, Leo!

LEO makes a sparring motion with his left fist and pokes SIMON in the face. SIMON gives a moan and crumples to his knees, covering his face with his hands. MAUDE hurries over to him.

MAUDE (to LEO)

I hope you’re proud of yourself.

LEO

I hardly touched him.

MAUDE

His nose is bleeding.

SIMON straightens up, holding a handkerchief to his nose. The handkerchief and his shirt are stained red. He gets slowly to his feet, helped by MAUDE.

MAUDE

Are you all right?

SIMON (indistinctly)

I bleed rather easily, I’m afraid. I was known as Bleeder St Clair at school.

MAUDE

Poor Simon. Come into the bathroom.

SIMON

No, I must lie down with my head back.

MAUDE guides SIMON to the sofa. He lies down with his feet up and his head back, one arm trailing to the floor, and the bloody handkerchief held to his face. There is a knock at the door. All freeze, uncertain what to do. The knock is repeated, and the door opens. PENNY appears on the threshold. She has a pink folder in her hand.

PENNY

Oh, excuse me. I just wanted to give something … (she sees SIMON, pauses) … to Leo.

MAUDE (hostess voice)

Do come in.

PENNY enters, looking between LEO, MAUDE and SIMON.

MAUDE

Simon has had a nosebleed.

PENNY

Oh dear … Is there anything I can do?

MAUDE

I don’t think so.

LEO

What did you want to give me, Penny?

PENNY

This. (Hands him the folder) It’s something I just finished writing.

LEO (does not look inside)

Oh, right.

PENNY

It’s something new. Not exactly what you suggested, but similar.

LEO

I’ll try and have a look at it. (He puts it down) Come by in the morning, okay?

PENNY

What time?

LEO

Oh, uh, ten-thirty.

PENNY

Right. See you at ten-thirty. Goodnight, then. (She looks in SIMON’S direction) I hope your nosebleed heals up, Mr St Clair.

SIMON grunts an acknowledgement. PENNY turns to leave.

LEO (to PENNY)

What did you think of Mr St Clair’s reading?

PENNY

Oh, it was very … interesting.

A groan from SIMON. PENNY goes out, closing the door behind her. SIMON slowly sits up, then stands up, feeling his nose in a gingerly fashion.

SIMON

It seems to have stopped. I need to wash.

MAUDE

I’ll come with you. You don’t want to start the bleeding off again.

MAUDE escorts SIMON to the bathroom. They go in, leaving the door ajar. LEO, looking unhappy, sits slumped in a chair with his drink. The door of the bathroom closes, softly, but with a perceptible click. LEO spins round, stares at the bathroom door. There is a knock on the outside door, and JEREMY, dressed in a corduroy jacket, enters hurriedly, carrying a first-aid box.

JEREMY (looking round)

Where’s Simon? Penny told me he had a frightful nosebleed.

LEO

He’s all right.

JEREMY

She said he was stretched out on the sofa like ‘The Death of Chatterton’. I wonder what caused it?

LEO

Picking his nose.

JEREMY

What?

LEO

He banged into something.

JEREMY

Oh dear, I do hope he doesn’t claim against the insurance. The premium is overdue. Where is he, anyway? I’ve got some gauze and cotton wool in here.

LEO

He’s in the bathroom, cleaning up.

JEREMY moves towards the bathroom.

LEO

Maude’s with him.

JEREMY stops in his tracks.

JEREMY

Oh, well, I’ll just leave the box, in case he needs it.

LEO

You can go in.

JEREMY

No, it’s all right. (He puts the box down on the table and moves towards the outside door) I won’t disturb them.

LEO

Wait!

LEO comes across to JEREMY.

LEO

‘Disturb them’? What the hell d’you think they’re doing?

JEREMY (titters)

I don’t know, I’m sure.

JEREMY moves towards the outside door. LEO, beside himself with jealous suspicion, grabs his arm and turns him round.

LEO

But you do have some idea?

JEREMY

Would you mind letting go of my sleeve? (LEO releases his grip) The material creases rather easily. (Smooths sleeve) If you must know, I think she fancies him.

LEO

Maude fancies that wimp?

JEREMY

She has a reputation for collecting young writers, you know.

LEO

No, I didn’t know.

JEREMY

Yes.

The bathroom door opens. JEREMY starts guiltily, and moves away from LEO. MAUDE comes out of the bathroom. There is a smear of blood on her bosom.

MAUDE

Oh, hallo, Jeremy.

JEREMY

I gather Simon’s been in the wars. I brought the first-aid box over.

MAUDE

Thanks, but he seems to be all right now.

JEREMY

Oh, good.

MAUDE

He’s just washing the blood out of his shirt.

LEO

Some of it seems to have rubbed off on you.

MAUDE (looks down at her bosom)

Oh, dear. Never mind, it’s an old dress. I thought the reading went rather well, didn’t you, Jeremy?

JEREMY

Yes, the students were intrigued. And the fact that Simon’s piece … what was it called?

LEO

Confessions of an Asshole.

MAUDE

Instead of a Novel.

JEREMY

Yes. I think the very fact that it was incomplete, a kind of conscious failure, as it were, made it reassuring to them.

LEO grunts derisively.

JEREMY

It’ll be interesting to see what they produce themselves, tomorrow evening. Well, goodnight.

MAUDE

Goodnight, Jeremy.

JEREMY goes out, shutting the door behind him.

LEO

I’m sorry, Maude.

MAUDE

Apologise to Simon, not me.

LEO

I hardly touched him. That wasn’t the punch I promised him.

MAUDE

You mean you’re going to have another try?

LEO

There’s no satisfaction in hitting a wimp who won’t fight back.

MAUDE

I thought Simon was remarkably brave, as a matter of fact.

LEO

Brave?

MAUDE

He didn’t even flinch when you rushed up to him like some great snorting bull.

LEO

Yes, I fell right into his trap.

MAUDE

What trap?

LEO

I made a fool of myself, and embarrassed you. I’m sorry.

SIMON comes out of the bathroom in time to hear this last phrase. He is stripped to the waist.

SIMON

If you’re really sorry, Leo, you could make amends by swapping rooms tonight.

LEO

Why?

SIMON

Maude thinks I might suffer some after-effects. She wants to be on hand if I need help.

LEO looks at MAUDE.

MAUDE

I think it would be best.

LEO

Jeremy can take care of him.

SIMON

I don’t think Leo is going to take a hint, Maude …

MAUDE (dissociating herself from the wrangle)

I’m going to bed.

MAUDE goes to the staircase and begins to ascend it, watched by LEO.

SIMON (to LEO)

It’s quite a nice little room in the main house. At the top of the second flight of stairs, on the left.

LEO watches MAUDE reach the landing and go into her bedroom. SIMON fetches the whisky bottle from the sink unit.

SIMON

A nightcap before you leave?

LEO

I’m not leaving.

SIMON

Actually, it’s not your room we need, Leo, or even your bed. It’s your mattress.

LEO

Go to hell.

SIMON (sighs)

Very well, we’ll just have to shift as best we can. I hope we don’t disturb your sleep. (Glances speculatively at door of MAUDE’s bedroom) It could be noisy. I’d heard that she rather fancied younger men, but I didn’t know she was quite so … ravenous.

Taking the whisky bottle with him, SIMON goes to the stairs, humming ‘One More Night’.

LEO

Not just younger men.

SIMON stops on the stairs, turns and looks down at LEO.

SIMON

Did you say something?

LEO

I said, not just younger men. I had her last night.

SIMON

Really?

LEO

You don’t believe me?

SIMON

Give me some details. Make it convincing.

LEO

In the shower. Covered with soap.

SIMON (shakes head sceptically)

Too derivative, I’m afraid.

SIMON proceeds up the stairs.

LEO

St Clair! I’m not bullshitting you!

SIMON

A little O.T.T., as we say in the trade. Goodnight, Leo.

SIMON goes into MAUDE’s bedroom and shuts the door behind him. LEO goes to the sink unit and leans against the counter, trembling, undecided what to do. The sound of low, erotic laughter from the room above. LEO goes quickly into his bedroom and snatches up pyjamas, dressing-gown, sponge bag. He comes out of his bedroom and strides towards the outside door. His eye falls on PENNY’s folder, and he checks and picks it up. He strides to the door, opens it, turns back and addresses the bust of Aubrey Wheatcroft.

LEO (to bust)

And up yours, too.

LEO goes out, slamming the door behind him.

Blackout.

Act Two Scene Four. The following morning.

The barn. The sitting-room is empty. The outside door opens and LEO comes in, carrying his pyjamas, dressing-gown, sponge bag and PENNY’s pink folder. He puts the folder on the table. He takes the rest of the stuff into his bedroom, pausing on the threshold to register surprise at the fact that his bed has been slept in, and the mattress is in place. He comes out of the bedroom and goes to the table to pack up his computer. The bathroom door opens and MAUDE, in dressing-gown and carrying her sponge bag, comes out.

MAUDE (demurely)

Good morning.

LEO does not reply. He takes the lead from the socket and begins to coil it.

MAUDE

No word processing today?

LEO

I’m leaving.

MAUDE

Oh? When?

LEO

As soon as possible.

MAUDE

The students will be disappointed if you’re not here for the last evening.

LEO

Too bad.

MAUDE

Simon’s gone.

Beat.

I’m afraid we all behaved rather badly last night.

LEO

All of us?

MAUDE

Well, you did hit Simon in a rather unchivalrous fashion.

LEO

And you?

MAUDE

And me? Oh, dear, yes. Well, I’m not normally as bad as that, you know. It was Simon I was interested in when I agreed to come on this course. Your standing in for Maurice Denton was an unexpected distraction.

LEO

What about Henry?

MAUDE

Henry?

LEO

Doesn’t he come into your calculations at all?

MAUDE

Oh, Henry has his adoring young women. He gives them special coaching in his college rooms.

LEO

And you have your adoring young men?

MAUDE

Why shouldn’t I?

LEO

It’s just … Your novels are full of such fine moral scruple.

MAUDE

That’s a rather nice phrase. I must remember to suggest it to my editor for the blurb of Dissuasion.

LEO

Dissuasion?

MAUDE

Yes, that’s what I’m going to call my new novel. Lying in bed this morning I suddenly thought of how to go on with it.

LEO

Is that why you’re so perky?

MAUDE

Am I? Then I expect it is. It’s going to be a novel about how young people are shocked if their parents claim the same freedoms as themselves. Marion falls for Hamish of course, but it turns out that he’s unhappily married to a Catholic who won’t divorce him, so they have to –

LEO (interrupting her)

Are your children shocked at the way you behave?

MAUDE

No, I’m very discreet. You do persist in reading fiction autobiographically, don’t you?

LEO

I have a naive, old-fashioned idea that there should be some moral consistency between the life and the work.

MAUDE

I’ll let you into a secret, Leo. I was a repressed, unfulfilled young woman, just like my heroines, the ‘sleeping beauties’ as you call them. Married to the first man I slept with, who happened to be my tutor. It was years before I realised I wasn’t the last of his special tutees. I didn’t have a lover till I was thirty-five.

LEO

You’ve been making up for lost time since then?

MAUDE

Perhaps. A few years ago I wrote a novel about a woman’s sexual awakening. It was quite explicit by my standards. Even had erections in it.

LEO

What’s it called?

MAUDE

It was never published. My editor advised me not to.

LEO

Why?

MAUDE

He said it didn’t work. I think really he was afraid it would upset my readership.

LEO

I’d like to read it.

MAUDE

I’m afraid I destroyed it. I went back to my sleeping beauties, which everybody admits I do rather well.

LEO (genuinely shocked)

You should never destroy anything you’ve written.

MAUDE (amused)

Why not?

LEO

It’s part of your life’s work. Critics in the future will have an incomplete picture.

MAUDE

Do you think people will be reading your books after you’re dead?

LEO

I wouldn’t go on writing otherwise.

MAUDE

Really? I think that’s rather noble. Personally I shall be content if they write on my grave, ‘She gave pleasure to her contemporaries.’ (Yawns) I must get dressed. You know, I’m rather sorry you’re leaving early, Leo. I’ve enjoyed these arguments we’ve had about writing and so on. So did Simon, I do believe.

LEO

That argument had nothing to do with ideas. It was just a literary version of the old Oedipal two-step: waste Dad and hump Mom.

MAUDE

If it’s any consolation to you, he was rather a disappointment in that department.

LEO

You mean he was impotent?

MAUDE

Oh no, not as consoling as that. But it was all over rather quickly.

LEO

That why he slept in my bed?

MAUDE (reflectively)

I’m not sure Simon really likes women. That’s really what his story was about.

LEO

Who’s reading autobiographically now?

MAUDE

Well, Simon did rather invite it, didn’t he? That was part of the game.

LEO

Ah, yes, the game. The writing game.

MAUDE

You must admit Simon’s rather clever at it. (She moves towards the stairs) You’re sure you won’t change your mind about leaving? Penny Sewell will be terribly disappointed.

LEO

You know that piece she gave me to read last night? It’s very good.

MAUDE

Really?

LEO

It restored my faith in what I do for a living.

MAUDE

Well, there’s an achievement for a little primary-school teacher.

LEO

It’s such an incredible advance on the first piece she showed me.

MAUDE

I think you owe it to her to stay for the reading tonight.

LEO broods on this. MAUDE begins to ascend the stairs.

MAUDE

Don’t misunderstand me. My concern is purely for a happy conclusion to the course.

MAUDE goes into her room. Almost at once there is a knock on the door. PENNY opens it and stands on the threshold.

LEO

Oh, hi Penny. Come in.

PENNY

I know it isn’t half-past ten yet, but somebody said you were leaving.

LEO

I wasn’t going to leave without giving you back your piece.

PENNY

What did you think of it.

LEO

Sit down.

PENNY sits. LEO picks up the pink folder, opens it and leafs through the contents.

LEO

I don’t know quite how to say this.

PENNY

It’s no good.

PENNY holds out her hand for the manuscript. LEO retains it.

LEO

It’s very good.

PENNY

Really?

LEO

It’s a terrific improvement on that other piece you showed me.

PENNY

Gosh. Thanks very much.

LEO

But.

PENNY

But what?

LEO

You’re not quite there yet. Nearly, but not quite. One day you could be a writer, a real writer. But probably not with this book. Probably in the end it will be a near miss. You’ll have to put it in a drawer and start another. And maybe another.

While LEO is speaking, MAUDE, now dressed, opens the door of her bedroom silently, and stands at the threshold, listening to the conversation, unobserved by LEO and PENNY.

LEO

If you can face that, you’ll get a book published eventually. And you’ll think that’s the summit of your ambition achieved. Publication! Wow! But maybe your book won’t be noticed much, or you’ll get some hostile reviews, and you’ll discover that just being published is not enough after all – you also want success. Acclaim. So it’s back to the desk and the typewriter again. It’s a hard, lonely road, Penny. You sure you want to go down it?

Pause. PENNY reflects.

PENNY

No.

LEO (disconcerted)

No?

PENNY

No. I don’t want to go down it.

LEO

But you’ve got talent, you know. I mean it. What I said to you just now, I don’t say to many students.

PENNY

Yes, I appreciate that, and I’m grateful. But coming on this course has sort of cured me of wanting to be a writer.

LEO

You make it sound like some kind of disease.

PENNY

Well, it is, isn’t it? A sort of fever. I see it in the other students. The way they look at you and Maude and Simon …

LEO

What way?

PENNY

A kind of mixture of awe and envy, because you’re all published. And their desperate yearning to be published themselves. It’s eating them away from inside, like cancer.

LEO

That’s because they haven’t got any talent. You have. You could be like us one day.

PENNY

I’m not sure I want to be.

Beat.

I’m sorry. That’s really rude of me.

LEO (waves the apology aside)

It’s all right. But tell me why.

PENNY

Well, you don’t seem to be very happy.

LEO

Happy?

PENNY

No. And there’s a sort of jealousy between you all the time. When Maude did her repeat reading, I was watching you, and during your reading I was watching Maude, and last night when Simon was reading I was watching both of you. I noticed that whenever the rest of us laughed at something in the reading, the other one or two of you looked unhappy. The most you could do was to force a thin smile. It was as if you begrudged each other the tiniest success. And then I heard you complimenting Maude on her reading …

LEO

The world is full of insincere compliments, Penny.

PENNY

The infants’ class isn’t.

Beat.

It seems to me that writers are a bit like sharks.

LEO

Sharks?

PENNY

Yes. I read somewhere that sharks never sleep and never stop moving. They have to keep swimming, and eating, otherwise they would get waterlogged and drown. It seems to me that writers are like that. They have to keep moving, devouring experience, turning it into writing, or they would cease to be recognised, praised, respected – and that would be death for them. They don’t write to live, they live to write. I don’t really want to be like that.

LEO (indicates folder)

Why did you write this, then?

PENNY

I suppose you wounded my pride, what you said about my Lights and Shadows piece. I’m used to getting good marks, you see. I thought to myself: ‘Dammit, I’ll show him.’

LEO

And you did. (Slaps folder) This is the real thing.

PENNY

And I see how easily I could get addicted to that kind of praise. So I’m going to stop now, while there’s still time.

PENNY gets up to go.

LEO

I’m sorry.

PENNY

No, I’m sorry – for having wasted your time. But I do appreciate the trouble you took, really I do.

LEO holds out the folder.

LEO

Here.

PENNY

Oh, keep it. Or throw it away.

LEO

You’re not going to read this tonight?

PENNY

No, I think I’ll slip away before this evening. Goodbye, and thanks.

LEO

Goodbye, Penny.

PENNY goes out. MAUDE steps forward on the landing and begins to descend the stairs.

MAUDE

I do hope she remembers to take her hat with her.

LEO

Were you listening to that?

MAUDE

Mrs Sewell has hidden depths. Somewhat sanctimonious ones, I’m bound to say.

LEO looks defeated, deflated.

MAUDE

Cheer up, Leo.

LEO

I don’t like to lose a potential writer.

MAUDE

You mean you don’t like to lose a protégée.

LEO

Is she right? Are we really such assholes?

MAUDE(considers)

I think she’s right about us devouring experience. Once you identify yourself as a writer, you can never just live, simply. It’s all potential material. I remember when my mother was dying, I was thinking all the time how I was going to write about it. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t feel genuine pity and grief. It’s the same with the rivalry. It’s inevitable between writers, between artists of any kind, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be friends as well.

The telephone rings twice and stops. MAUDE picks up the phone. LEO begins to unpack the computer and set it up again.

MAUDE

Hallo, Henry … Yes, it’s me, live. Where have you been? … Oh … She isn’t? Well, that’s a relief … Yes, I hope she will … Tomorrow, I should think about noon – it’s a three-hour drive … The course? Oh, quite well, I think. (MAUDE catches LEO’s eye) It’s been very … interesting … No, Maurice dropped out at the last moment … Somebody called Leo Rafkin … An American … Do you remember a book called The Wise Virgin?

LEO

Wise Virgins!

MAUDE

Yes, very nice. Rather serious. He thinks English writers prattle. I daresay he’s right. Goodbye, Henry.

MAUDE puts down the phone.

MAUDE

You’ve decided to stay, then?

LEO

I guess so.

MAUDE

Good.

LEO switches on computer.

MAUDE

Don’t you find it a nuisance, carrying that contraption around with you everywhere?

LEO

It’s okay. I don’t have to carry a bulky manuscript around any more. (He holds up a 3.5in floppy disc between his thumb and forefinger) My entire novel is on three of these discs. Eighty thousand words, to date.

MAUDE

Show me how it works.

LEO inserts disc, taps keyboard. MAUDE looks over his shoulder.

LEO

‘Get file. Name of file: Chap. One.’ There it is.

MAUDE

Goodness, just like magic.

LEO

You can scroll through it like this. (Taps key several times.)

MAUDE

What do you do now?

LEO

Well, I could revise it. Or I could dump it.

MAUDE

Dump it?

LEO (taps keyboard)

‘Delete all.’

MAUDE (laughs)

It says ‘Really?’

LEO (taps)

Y for ‘Yes.’

MAUDE

It’s all disappeared.

LEO

Yeah. (Taps) ‘Get Chap Two.’

MAUDE

Where’s it gone?

LEO

Down the tubes. (Taps) ‘Delete all. Really? Yes.’ (Taps) ‘Get Chap. Three. Delete all. Really? Yes.’ (Taps) ‘Get Chap. Four. Delete all. Really?’

MAUDE (alarmed)

What are you doing?

LEO

What does it look like? (Taps.)

MAUDE

You’re destroying your novel!

LEO (taps)

Yep.

MAUDE

But why?

LEO

I’ve lost faith in it.

MAUDE

You mean Simon …?

LEO

No, not that asshole. Well, maybe he has something to do with it. He was right about my being blocked.

MAUDE

You’ll get over it. I just have.

LEO

No, this is chronic. It came to me while Penny was talking: I’m writing this novel not because I have to, not because I really want to, but because I think my career needs a big book. That’s why it’s not working. I think I’ve known that for a long time, really. (Taps) ‘Chap. Five. Delete all.’

MAUDE

Don’t!

LEO

Why not?

MAUDE

You’ll regret it. You said you should never destroy anything. What about posterity? What about the critics of the future?

Pause, while LEO seems to give this appeal serious consideration.

LEO

I have backup files at home.

MAUDE laughs with relief.

LEO

Backup files and heaps of printout.

MAUDE goes to the coffee table and picks up some students’ files.

MAUDE

So it’s just a symbolic gesture. You really had me worried.

LEO (taps)

No, not just symbolic. I need the disc space for something new.

MAUDE settles herself to work.

MAUDE

Are you going back to writing short stories?

LEO

No. I thought I’d try a completely different form.

MAUDE (abstractedly)

Oh?

LEO

Yeah. (Slyly) I’ve just had a great idea for a play …

As the implications of this remark sink in, MAUDE slowly turns her head and stares at LEO.

Curtain.

The End.