Helen was seated by her desk in her office, an empty cup of tea by her elbow. Though it wasn’t cold, she was wearing a black cotton cardigan over her white blouse. Her writing chair was turned so that she could face Amy, who was sitting on the two-seater sofa by the door. Over Helen’s shoulder through the open windows Amy could see the evening sun catching the tops of the trees. Children were playing in a nearby garden. But neither woman was paying much attention to their squeals of delight as they were immersed in conversation.
Helen was shaking her head, saying, ‘He won’t speak to me about any of this. I don’t know why. Well, I do know why. He was utterly opposed to me signing the deal with Morris and Robbins. He thought the advance obscene and questioned their intent. But the money enabled us to get out of that horrid little flat in Brixton. Something else he was unhappy about. I would have thought that after a lifetime of scrimping and saving he might like to enjoy the spoils of success. But I misjudged him on this. He thinks I’ve sold out. He’s been absolutely miserable since we moved here.’
‘But it’s a lovely house.’
‘It is. And as it was. I didn’t want one of those modern renovations. But I don’t know. Perhaps it is too late for all this.’
Helen twisted around and turned the desk lamp on. The room had been growing steadily dimmer.
‘May I ask, has Malcolm read the novel you’ve been working on?’
‘Yes. Well, at least part of version one, around the time I was offered the advance. He put it down then. He hasn’t given me his opinion. I think he’s disgusted by the whole thing. Suspicious, too. Only terrible novels are offered huge advances. I’m suspicious, too. That’s why I’ve rewritten it twice since then.’
‘Have you kept all of the drafts?’
‘I have everything. I print out everything and also save every version in endless sub-folders on my laptop. It’s my way. All three final versions are complete, more or less. No one has read version two or three. Both are very different from each other and version one. Version three almost killed me. I think it’s good. I think. But Malcolm won’t talk to me about any of this. I’d be happy to publish version three.’
‘Version one, version two, version three. Do they have working titles?’
‘No. None of them does. I feel completely dry. Like I’ve written the last book I’ll ever write.’
‘So M&R don’t know about version two or three?’
‘No, and they won’t want them. They’re not commercial. Like version one.’
‘Version one is complete?’
‘After reading version one Clarissa said I was in two minds and that the novel wouldn’t be complete until I’d made my mind up.’
‘Clarissa Munten?’
‘Yes, my editor. We’ve been friends for years. She rejected version one. Told me to start afresh. Angry at this, and out of contract, I sent the manuscript on to my agent, Ted Johnson. He loved it. Thought it was the best thing I’d done in years. He’d been campaigning for me to leave my long-time publisher, Sandersons. He thought they’d become complacent. He was so convinced the book was a winner he started an auction. He played three of them off against each other until the team at Morris and Robbins made him the offer he couldn’t refuse. He was so happy. He considered it his crowning achievement. But he died of a massive heart attack while playing tennis soon after. It was awful. Awful. His partner in life and business, Jeffrey Hutton, was inconsolable. He closed up the agency and moved to Spain. I’ve had no representation since.’
‘And the deal?’
‘It was done. Clarissa was furious. She said the book wasn’t good enough to carry the name Helen Owen. We haven’t spoken since.’
‘There were people at M&R who thought version one was good enough to make a huge offer. Who were they? I believe you met Maxine Snedden? She was the publishing director then.’
‘I think so. I’d have to look at my emails.’
‘But you met with the team who backed the book, presumably.’
‘Yes, but we didn’t get along. Clarissa’s comments had tarnished the whole thing for me. I told them I wanted to take it in a new direction. They weren’t happy with that idea. But they relented and gave me more time. Then M&R bought Sandersons and I thought I’d get Clarissa back but she promptly retired. She was so angry with me. It was awful, too. It didn’t matter because soon after Seelenlos bought out M&R and fired everyone I’d met, and all I’ve had from M&R since is threatening legal letters.’
‘M&R is a different place since Seelenlos bought us.’
‘I just want the whole thing to go away.’
‘So why don’t we just spruce up version one and give them that?’
‘Clarissa was right. It isn’t good.’
‘But it’s what they wanted. It’s what they paid for. If they don’t know the difference, why not just deliver it and move on to the next thing?’
Helen opened her mouth to answer, but reconsidered and looked thoughtful. A moment later, she turned her head towards the door.
‘Here’s Malcolm.’
They were both quiet and listened to the approaching footsteps.
Amy had been sitting with her right leg crossed over her left, with her leather flip-flop dangling loosely from her raised foot. Initially, she had been anxious about her first meeting with Helen. She had worn her black fitted shift dress because it was plain and businesslike, especially with the belt, and she had wanted to look professional. But as the meeting went on her anxiety had dissipated and she relaxed. Probably too much. With Malcolm coming she was suddenly conscious of how short the dress was. She shifted her bottom to the edge of the sofa, making sure her dress came with her. Then she brought her knees together, and her feet, and drew them in. To finish off the pose, she placed her hands demurely in her lap.
Helen watched this unexpected change with interest.
The door to Helen’s office opened.
‘I thought I heard voices. Hello, I’m Malcolm.’
Malcolm said this with a smile he hoped would sufficiently mask the surprise he felt on finding Helen with such a young woman. He almost stuck out his hand to shake hers, but thought better of it. He didn’t know how young people wished to be greeted.
‘Amy. I’m from M&R,’ she replied, noting that Malcolm obviously hadn’t updated his author photo for some years. He was not just older, but less severe. Like he had mellowed. He was certainly rounder than the images she’d found via Google. And his remaining hair was white where it had been sandy in some of the photos.
‘Would you like a drink? It’s almost seven. I came up to see if Helen wanted to join me.’
‘I’d kill for a drink. But before we go down, may I ask what you thought of the first version of Helen’s new novel? The one M&R signed?’
Helen shook her head and looked agitated.
Malcolm straightened, and looked Amy in the eye. His whole demeanour had changed in an instant. He’d gone from genial aged husband to titan. He was all intelligence and will.
‘I thought it had been written by someone else.’
‘But was it good?’
‘I don’t know what you mean by that word. We’ve just met. I know what I mean by it.’
‘They offered her two million pounds for the book.’
‘They did. I didn’t. You might want to ask them why they did.’
‘I know why they did. They have a fairly simple equation to work out the value of any work. They expected the book to be a huge success. Huge.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘No.’
‘I think we should go down for our drink then. We can’t really discuss the book if you haven’t read it.’
He walked out of the room. A moment later he popped his head back in. ‘Have you read Helen’s other work?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Brilliant.’ And he was gone.
Amy and Helen didn’t speak but both stood. Whether Helen was standing to lead Amy down to the lounge room and a glass of champagne, or whether she was standing to escort her out of the house was unclear to Amy.
‘You’re a very beautiful woman,’ Helen said, catching Amy by surprise.
Amy wrinkled her nose.
‘I had to say something. I feel I’ve been examining you since you arrived. Extraordinarily beautiful. Exceptional. May I look at your hands?’
Helen took Amy’s hands in her own. ‘How old they make my own look.’ She turned them over and then let them go. She then stepped closer to Amy and looked more intently at her face.
‘Julie Christie. Catherine Deneuve. That kind of beauty. Though you’re a brunette. Lovely skin. Radiant. Beauty fascinates me, never having had it. It’s beyond reason. You’re compelling. You probably get this all the time.’
‘No, never. You exaggerate.’
‘Do I? I don’t think so. You’re conscious of it, too. It informs everything you do. There’s an easy grace, a consciousness of perfection.’
‘Please don’t say anything more.’
‘How else could you be as you are? I’ve spent my life studying people. You’re entirely fearless and this must come from a place of unquestioned superiority. You have nothing to gain from anybody. What can Malcolm or I give you? You’re not like us in any way. The way you spoke to him just then. Most people would lie. They’d say they’d read some of my previous novels. At university, or something. You didn’t. And the consequence of this admission didn’t concern you in the least. Malcolm will come around to you, as everyone eventually does. Your beauty convinces you of it.’
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ said Amy, because she was conscious of the effect her beauty had on others. But here, in Helen’s office, suddenly it wasn’t a pleasant consciousness. Here, in Helen’s office, beauty wasn’t beautiful.
‘I didn’t know anything about you, but now I do. You haven’t needed to learn the art of deception. Your face speaks only the truth.’
‘Stop it.’
‘Okay, then. I’ve gone too far. M&R have sent you. You tell me you’re their “fix-it” girl. How are you going to help me?’
‘I can help you deliver what they want. That’s the world I know.’
‘And yet you haven’t read my work. Very presumptuous. I think we should talk again after you’ve read something of mine.’
‘I’ve been assigned this task. I didn’t request it. I don’t need it. I came out of curiosity. But I see clearly now that even if I succeed, I fail.’
‘There you go again. Why say such a thing? But I am reassured that you’re capable of curiosity.’
‘Will you email me the three versions of your novel?’
‘That would be a good start. But I don’t email my work. Digital copies proliferate. I like to keep a track of all copies of my dirty laundry. Can you work with printed manuscripts?’
‘I tend to lose things.’
‘I’m not emailing my work. Clarissa always worked with printed manuscripts.’
‘I’ll leave them in the back of a cab or on the tube. Let me log on to your laptop and I’ll save them to the cloud. No email. They’ll only be accessible to me.’
‘No.’
‘I can’t take the manuscripts.’
‘You’ll have to work here then.’
‘I don’t keep regular hours.’
‘It doesn’t have to be this difficult.’
‘Let me save them to the cloud. That’s how I work with everyone.’
‘No. Here or not at all.’
‘I don’t do nine to five.’
‘Are you coming down?’ shouted Malcolm from the bottom of the stairs.
Helen went to the door. ‘Yes, we’re on our way.’
*
In the kitchen Malcolm handed them gin and tonics.
‘I was just telling Amy that she’s the most beautiful woman I have ever met.’
‘Don’t start that again,’ said Amy, taking the tall glass handed to her. She was perched on a high kitchen stool. Her legs were crossed, her flip-flop dangling again. ‘Congrats on the Booker longlisting, Malcolm.’
‘Thanks. She’s right, though. You’re very beautiful. But I won’t mention it again. I can see it isn’t something you want discussed.’
Malcolm had thought they would go into the front room, but Helen made no move so he sat down at the kitchen table opposite his wife and leant against the wall so he could look up and across at Amy.
‘We’ve reached an impasse, Malcolm. Amy won’t take my printed manuscripts with her and I won’t let her have digital copies.’
‘Then she can work here.’
‘That’s what I said but she keeps unconventional hours, apparently.’
‘The solution is very simple. Let me save the manuscripts to the cloud and I’ll have them all back to you in a couple of weeks at the latest. Malcolm, help me out. You can see how simple that is?’
‘Malcolm doesn’t know what the cloud is, Amy. He’s never owned a computer.’
Amy smiled.
‘Where do you live, Amy?’ asked Malcolm. ‘Will it be difficult to get here every day?’
‘I have a studio in Chelsea, but I rarely see it. I spend most nights with friends. I could be in the West End one night, Docklands the next. I was in Wimbledon last night.’
‘And that’s how you live?’ asked Helen.
‘I don’t like being alone, but I can’t commit. It’s quite the dilemma.’
‘How do you get anything done?’ asked Malcolm.
‘I don’t sleep.’
‘So you go from bed to bed? I don’t understand,’ asked Helen.
‘Fuck buddies, mainly,’ said Amy, unable to stop herself from smiling.
‘Fuck buddies?’ said Malcolm slowly, as if testing out the phrase.
‘And strangers. I meet and go home with a lot of strangers.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ asked Helen.
‘You’d think so, but it isn’t. I’ve never had a problem I couldn’t handle. Touch wood,’ she said, tapping the wooden bench. ‘It isn’t all sex. I stay with friends and some of my authors, too. I have a couple of girlfriends who are very generous with their spare rooms.’
‘Extraordinary,’ said Helen. ‘And this life suits you?’
‘For now.’
Malcolm and Helen were silent. They stared at the beautiful woman sitting at their kitchen bench, trying to comprehend all that had been said in the last few moments. She was utterly, utterly foreign to them. Helen felt old and out of touch. Malcolm couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing.
‘It’s not a good way to live. I don’t recommend it. But it works for me,’ she added, seeing the look of confusion on their faces. They would never understand. She barely understood it herself.
‘And why have M&R sent you? I don’t follow,’ said Malcolm, utterly confused.
‘Do you know Jack Cade?’
‘No,’ said Malcolm.
‘Yes, he does,’ interjected Helen. ‘The thriller writer.’
‘I made that happen. I work with the writer Liam Smith to put together two Jack Cade thrillers a year. They have been extraordinarily successful. We’ve sold millions of copies.’
‘And you want to put together a book with Helen?’
‘I don’t, my boss does. It’s only a request. If I don’t think I can help, then I’ll move on.’
‘So presumably, you’ve made a lot of money out of all this. Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why live as you do?’
‘I don’t have an answer for that.’
Amy had finished her drink a while ago and wanted another. But both Malcolm and Helen had barely started theirs. She got up.
‘Do you mind if I fix myself another G&T?’
Malcolm started to move, but she said, ‘No, no. I can manage. You sit tight.’
She made herself a strong one.
Malcolm noted she didn’t put the tonic water back in the refrigerator.
‘As you don’t mind where you sleep, why not stay in the empty flat downstairs for a few days. You can read the manuscripts and we can go from there,’ said Helen.
Malcolm shot her a look. He was finding the whole thing difficult. That Helen would even countenance this young woman advising her on anything hurt him. He studied his wife. Gone was the surety of past years. How old and fragile she looked as she sat staring longingly at this stranger, as if Amy held the answer to a long-unanswered question. It was absurd.
‘Yes, read them,’ he said, pushing his chair back. ‘Then you’ll know what you’re up against.’ He stood up and, passing between Helen and Amy, crossed to the bottle of tonic water. ‘Or better still, read her recent novels, The Uninvited Guest or More Than I Can Say. Sublime. Or any of the older books for that matter. I can lend them to you.’
He lifted the tonic water and opened the fridge.
Helen turned her head to see what he was doing.
Speaking into the fridge as he put the bottle back in the appropriate place in the door, he said, ‘Helen’s work isn’t for everyone. But it has its audience.’ Then, closing the fridge, he turned to face Amy. ‘As time has shown. Some of her books are still in print. And The Uninvited Guest was included in a collection of modern classics.’
Amy didn’t know what to say to this. Was he implying that she wasn’t bright enough to appreciate Helen’s work? Or was he just defending his wife against the outstretched grasp of commercialism?
‘I’m sure they’re very good,’ she said, trying to absorb and silence Malcolm’s comments, whatever his agenda.
Malcolm took three steps towards Amy. He was kept from getting any closer by Amy’s extended foot with its dangling flip-flop. He placed his hand on the edge of the kitchen bench.
‘I do hope you’re not an idiot,’ he said, using the same tone he’d used when asking her if she’d like a drink – friendly, upbeat.
‘Malcolm!’ said Helen, twisting around in her seat.
‘I couldn’t bear it if you were,’ he continued in the same tone. ‘I’ve met too many idiots in publishing lately. Over the years Helen and I have been privileged to work with the best editors and publishers. People with a vocation. But with all this merging, with the sackings and the redundancies, the writing world has lost its best people and its soul and direction and purpose. When I meet any ambitious young person willingly entering into the business as it is now, I have to wonder. And what you’ve told us about putting together a bestselling book, I have to be suspicious of you, don’t I?’
‘No, you don’t,’ said Helen. ‘Amy will be working with me, not you!’
She was quite upset, Malcolm saw.
They were all silent. Amy was stunned by Malcolm’s words. So he thought she was an idiot. She couldn’t speak. She uncrossed her legs and placed one foot on the floor.
‘You know better than that, Malcolm,’ said Helen, with great self-control. ‘When they cut the head off publishing, it grows another. We just have to weather the headless beast. It never lasts. Remember the eighties?’
‘And what are you then, Amy?’
Amy stood up straight and tall, and said, ‘What am I? I’m successful. What I do pays the bills. How do you think publishers can afford to indulge in publishing books like yours?’
She had wanted to jab him in the chest with her index finger on the last word, yours, but held back. Her body had moved forward, though, and in response, half expecting the jab, Malcolm had moved very slightly back.
‘Good,’ said Malcolm smiling, ‘there is hope. The only reason an opportunist gets upset at being called an opportunist is because they once had ideals.’
But the smile only angered Amy further. She was as tall as Malcolm and she leant in, bringing her face close to his, and asked, ‘What good are ideals in the world we live in?’
Malcolm looked back into Amy’s angry eyes, and asked in return, with great composure, ‘What good is life without them?’
Amy and Malcolm remained in close proximity for only a moment, but his question lingered. And she saw the calm assuredness in his eyes even as she turned away leaving the question unanswered.
Amy couldn’t look at Helen, so she turned back to find her drink and held it a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. Then she took a tiny sip. And then breathed.
‘Look,’ Amy said, turning around, ‘Malcolm, be as worthy as you like, I don’t care. I’m here to help Helen get out of her hole. Helen, you know what’s at stake. We need to get this done and quickly otherwise they’ll send in the lawyers. I can help you deliver what they want. It might not fit in with your legacy, or whatever, but it will stop you from losing all you have. You have to make a decision and quickly. Send me the manuscripts and I’ll look over them.’
‘I can’t send them.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! What does it matter? They’re not state secrets. They’re just novels. And you don’t like any of them anyway. Besides, who do you think is going to get hold of them? Let’s be honest, who the hell would want them?’
‘Get out!’ spat Malcolm, with restrained fire.
‘No. You don’t understand what’s at stake. Tell him, Helen. Tell him what Julia told you.’
Helen was silent. Her head was lowered. She was shaking her head slightly.
‘M&R want their advance back. Helen hasn’t kept to the deadlines. The contract has been broken. They’ve been very patient, but the jig is up. They don’t give a fuck who you are or what you’ve done. They just want their money back or a return on their investment. You’re done for if we don’t come up with something fast that sells a fuck load of copies.’
‘So let them. Good. We don’t need any of this,’ said Malcolm. ‘I always expected to end up freezing to death in a council flat. I was looking forward to cans of cat food for dinner.’
‘Shut up, Malcolm,’ said Helen. ‘I need this. They’re not taking it back. This is my house. I won’t let them.’
‘Then send me the manuscripts. And I swear I’ll fix it.’
‘I can’t send them. I won’t send them.’
Amy sat back down, elbow on the counter, and rested her head in her hand. ‘Then you’re fucked.’
‘Stay here. Just for a few days,’ pleaded Helen.
Amy sighed. It was a big sigh. She tried to imagine what the next few days might look like if she stayed. She couldn’t imagine it, living here, with old people. What she could imagine was returning to tattoo boy’s place and hiding out for another week. That was an attractive option. He was an attractive option. And she hadn’t finished War and Peace.
‘Will you be a turd, Malcolm?’ Amy asked.
‘Probably.’
‘No, he won’t be,’ said Helen.
‘Okay, then. I’ll stay. But I warn you, I don’t sleep, I’m very messy, I will bring home strangers, and it will be noisy. Oh, and I will drink all the alcohol you have. Are you happy with that?’
‘No,’ said Malcolm.
‘Yes,’ said Helen.