Amy had been asleep when the doorbell rang. She took a moment to realise it was the middle of the afternoon and she was in Helen and Malcolm’s front room. On her lap was Malcolm’s novel A Hundred Ways. Amy had removed the cover to protect it, but now it was creased. It was pristine before her unscheduled nap. One of twenty copies in a box in Malcolm’s office. She tossed it and the book aside. The doorbell rang again. She stood and went to the window to see if she could see who was at the front door. She recognised the man standing there.
By the time Amy opened the front door, the visitor was returning to the front gate.
‘Daniel?’ she asked.
He turned, looked her up and down – she was standing there in a pair of tight low-cut blue jeans and white singlet, her feet, but for dark nail polish, bare – and asked, ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Amy. Helen and Malcolm have gone to Waitrose. They won’t be long. Come in.’
‘Were you sleeping?’ Daniel said as he walked up to the front door.
‘I may have nodded off,’ said Amy, smiling. She spun around and walked back into the house rubbing her eyes.
Daniel stopped to watch her walk down the hall. He scratched his near-hairless head, looked back over his shoulder at the street, shrugged and walked in.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ asked Amy as he reached the kitchen.
‘I’d rather something stronger.’
Daniel took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair.
Looking at him as he fussed with his jacket, Amy realised none of the pictures around the house were recent. The man before her was middle-aged. His belly strained against his shirt and hung over his belt slightly. He had far less hair than in the photos.
‘Espresso, beer, wine, G&T, whisky?’
‘Beer. Thanks.’
Daniel couldn’t take his eyes off her. His gaze fell on her behind as she opened the fridge and extracted a Beck’s. She then took out a bottle of wine and spun quickly around. He turned his head, perched casually on the edge of the kitchen table and asked, ‘So, Amy, who are you?’
Opening the cupboard that contained the wine glasses, she answered, ‘I’m editing your mum’s new book.’
‘You’re Helen’s editor?’
‘Yes. Does that surprise you?’
‘You don’t look like an editor.’
‘I wonder if I should feel insulted,’ she said, not smiling. She poured wine into her glass, took more than a sip then poured more in.
‘Not if you don’t feel it. You know what I mean, anyway. Have you met Clarissa?’
‘No, but I read her book at uni.’
‘That’s what I mean. She’s venerable.’
Amy handed him the Beck’s and said, ‘Let’s go into the front room to wait. It catches the last sun of the afternoon.’
*
Daniel was seated on the couch where Amy had been napping. On his lap was the copy of A Hundred Ways and on the coffee table was an empty beer bottle. Amy was opposite him, reclining on the other couch. She was holding a near-empty glass of white wine. The sun was setting behind the row of houses across the street and Amy was coated in a warm yellow.
‘They’re saying horrible things about Helen on social media,’ said Daniel.
‘I was there in the audience. Everyone was stunned. And she just left the building after the speech. I moved in here the next day expecting her to be, I don’t know, rattled or remorseful, I suppose, but she was fine. She hadn’t seen any of the horrible things people said on social media. I suppose that’s one benefit of being older. Neither of them has any online presence. When a journalist did get through on the phone, Helen wouldn’t speak to her. You know Malcolm had already said publicly he wouldn’t do any more interviews – just when the world finds him more interesting than ever!’
‘It serves them both right. They’re out of touch. I bet they both voted for Brexit.’
‘I doubt that. Helen was wrong to say what she said, but she wasn’t saying anything new. A lot of women her age feel as she does.’
‘It wasn’t what was said, it was who said it. The organisers invited her expecting her to condone the whole thing. People don’t like to be schooled. Especially those who think they’re doing the right thing.’
‘They both deserve better.’
‘Do they? You know, the last time I was in this room I said things to them I regret. But I would never admit as much to them. Or take the words back.’
‘What happened between you guys? They evidently love you, this place is like a shrine. There’s a photo of you in nearly every room. That’s why I recognised you at the door.’
‘Nothing happened. And that’s probably the problem. They were absent. Even when they were present. You must know what writers are like.’
‘No two are the same.’
‘Helen and Malcolm are. They’re almost identical twins.’
‘Not the Helen and Malcolm I know.’
‘They work to the same schedules, they never leave each other’s side, they think the same, hold the same opinions, read the same books and newspapers.’
‘Not anymore. Neither is writing consistently. They argue. Malcolm watches more TV than he reads. Helen goes out for hours without him. When she’s out he might go up to his office. But at other times he might sit at that window or in the park and watch the world go by. Other than meals they live fairly separate lives.’
‘Are you living here?’
‘Downstairs. For now.’
He glanced around the room. ‘Did you ever visit them in Brixton?’
Amy shook her head.
‘I can’t believe this place.’
‘Neither can Malcolm. I don’t get the feeling he’s happy here.’
‘Because she sold out.’
‘Yes, that’s what Malcolm thinks, too.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘I think writers like Helen and Malcolm should be better rewarded for their work.’
‘Work like this?’ he said, holding up Malcolm’s book.
‘You’ve read it?’
‘It’s a bitter book.’
‘No, it isn’t! I really hope it wins.’
‘The Booker? No chance. There’s always a commercial aspect to these awards. There’s no money in old writers. I doubt he’ll even be shortlisted. Anyway, it’s an ugly little book.’
‘I think it’s dark, wise and funny,’ she said, sitting up.
‘They’re always teasing horrible things out of the poor people in their books. Not that they know what life is really like. They’ve never lived it.’
‘It’s like we’re talking about different people and different books.’
‘Didn’t you say they were going to Waitrose? Shouldn’t they be back by now?’
‘That’s what they said they were doing.’
‘I can’t wait around.’ He picked up the empty beer bottle and rose.
‘You can’t go without seeing them,’ she said, standing. In the back of her mind she was trying to remember if Helen and Malcolm had said they were doing anything else while they were out. She wondered what the time was.
‘I’ll come round again tomorrow. I’m in London for a few days.’
He left the room and made his way down the hall to the kitchen. She followed him and watched him put his jacket back on.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At the Hunter Hotel in Earl’s Court. I’m here for a conference.’
‘Shall I get them to call you? I’m sure they’d love to see you.’
He held up his phone. ‘They have my number.’
*
After Daniel had gone, Amy ran over in her mind the last moments of his stay. It had happened so fast. Without saying anything, Daniel had taken a sudden, rapid step towards her. She was between him and the hall door, so he might have expected her to move aside. But his hand was extended, as if to take hold of her hip, wrist or waist. He might have intended giving her a goodbye peck on the cheek. But at the time, she had flinched. It was entirely instinctive. She flinched and she lifted her hands as if to fend off a blow.
Daniel’s face went white, then reddened. He took a step back and then walked quickly around her and, moving very swiftly, left the house without another word.
As the minutes passed, Amy’s original instinctive conviction returned. She poured herself another drink. He was going to kiss her. He was going to grab her. He had misread the signals, or had ignored them. Perhaps he was just an opportunist. He was alone with her, after all. She ran through their short time together. The only marginally provocative thing she had done was lie across the couch. But she was relaxed because she was with the married son of her hosts. The balding, soft-around-the-middle son of her hosts. She had considered him family. Safe. Entirely sexless. He reminded her of someone from a film.
Amy took another sip of white wine and fell onto the kitchen stool. She was uneasy and unsettled. He had left in anger. She felt it now. He was angry at her for rejecting him. But they had just met. How could he think . . . ? Where do men get their sense of entitlement from?
Amy opened the fridge, took the bottle of wine and went downstairs. She wanted to be out of the way when Helen and Malcolm returned.