There was a loud knock on the connecting door.
Amy used her phone to turn down the music, and called out, ‘Come in!’
The door opened and Malcolm, while remaining at the top of the stairs and thus out of sight, called down to Amy, ‘Will you be joining us for dinner?’
‘No, thank you. I’m going out for dinner. Sorry, I let Helen know earlier.’
The connecting door closed.
He was abrupt, Amy thought. But lovely in his way.
Malcolm probably knew that Amy had promised to give Helen some feedback today. It wasn’t going to happen. She’d have to go upstairs before she left to let Helen know she still wasn’t ready.
Amy poured herself a drink. And undressed.
She didn’t want to go to dinner. Liam had organised it. Gail would be there, as well as the scriptwriter who kept telling Liam he wanted to turn Mark Harden into a Netflix series. They had been clever until now, and had kept the film rights. Liam had tried writing his own screenplays, but none were successful. Now, as the sales of the books escalated, and their dominance of the New York Times Best Sellers lists was impossible to ignore, the opportunists were circling.
Amy cautioned against acting in haste. She cited Jack Reacher with Tom Cruise. He came back with Game of Thrones, Harry Potter and Outlander. She returned with James Patterson’s Alex Cross. He with Gone Girl.
Liam was growing impatient. He needed a big name to back the project. The truth was he was annoyed that Idris Elba was considering playing James Bond, when Mark Harden was a perfect fit. He’d sent Elba his treatment but so far no interest had been shown. Which hurt. Liam had Elba in mind as he wrote the books, he said. Amy always had Liam in her mind. Liam was Mark Harden in many ways. That’s how Amy wrote him. Elba’s eyes were too kind. Mark Harden wouldn’t get far with kind eyes. Besides, she had read that Elba was tied up with filming Stephen King’s Dark Tower. That could drag on for years.
She’d go to the dinner. It was unavoidable. She couldn’t have a screenwriter whispering sweet nothings into Liam’s ear. He was susceptible to flattery. He was an enthusiast when it came to film. He could easily waste weeks rewriting or co-writing scripts that went nowhere. She needed him to keep to their tight writing schedule if they were going to meet their deadlines.
Besides, Gail was going. She couldn’t stand her up. She’d been the one who had insisted Amy come.
*
Amy was in the shower when there was another knock at the inner door. She turned off the water and listened. Helen was calling down to her from the top of the stairs.
‘I’m in the shower,’ she called out.
‘I’ll come down later,’ replied Helen.
She turned the water back on. She loved the showerhead Helen had chosen for the flat. It was generous. Large and round, like in shampoo adverts. That was one thing her lifestyle failed to deliver. Good showering experiences. Josh’s shower, for instance, dribbled lukewarm water over her.
Josh. Try as she might to stop herself, her thoughts kept drifting back to Josh. He was a disturbance in the force. He had no right to be in her life. Or at least, no right to her thoughts as well as her body. Just last night, she’d waited at the bar for hours like a pathetic groupie until he had finished work. He couldn’t keep his hands off her in the cab back to his place. As soon as they were through the door he undressed her roughly and pushed her onto the bed. He stood above her and undressed, rubbing his cock until she couldn’t stand it anymore and took him in her mouth.
Afterwards, he fell asleep immediately. Distant is a strange word to use considering the nature of their relationship. They weren’t emotionally connected; it was still largely physical. But there had been a connection of their natures the first and second time around. His nature had been open and accepting, hers had been hungry and demanding. This time he was evasive and uncommunicative. Or was it she who had changed?
He woke when she was leaving, but instead of stopping her, he let her go.
The tables had turned. He had grown complacent. Expected her to return. She had handed him control without realising it.
He was supposed to be her plaything. Her fuck buddy.
But it no longer felt like that.
Where had her self-confidence gone?
The best way out, the best way to retain her dignity, was to not see him again. To go cold turkey. No more Josh cock.
But even after thinking this, if she went to dinner, she knew she’d have to stop herself from going around to his place afterwards. She knew she would find this difficult. She could feel the pull of him even now. But it wasn’t his cock that she wanted. The way she was feeling, a fake boyfriend was better than no boyfriend.
Ten minutes later Amy was standing in briefs and bra at the bathroom mirror applying her makeup, when there was another knock on the inner door.
‘Come down,’ she called out, in response.
Expecting to see Helen, Amy continued at the mirror applying her mascara, and said, ‘I was going to come up before I left. Would you like a drink?’
There was a pause.
‘Yes,’ came the delayed reply. It was a male voice. Amy glanced at the mirrored reflection of the doorway. She could see Daniel standing at the bottom of the stairs from where he had a good view of her near-naked form. The look on his face was enough for her to hiss, ‘Get out!’ and kick the door shut with her foot.
‘Helen asked me to invite you up for a drink before you left,’ he said through the door.
‘Go away, Daniel. I’ll come up before I go.’
She leant against the door. She was so angry. Where did this guy get his confidence?
And now she would have to go upstairs and sit with him while she had a drink with his parents. She stepped into her dress. It was too short and the neckline plunged too deep for dinner with Gail or a drink with Daniel. But it was gorgeous. She felt gorgeous in it.
She opened the door and found Daniel seated on the bottom step. She turned her gaze away from him too quickly to note his apathetic slouch.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ she said, giving him a wide berth. She sat on the edge of her bed, casting anxious glances over her shoulder in case he moved, and slipped her heels on quickly. ‘Do you have any idea how repulsive you are? How out of line this behaviour is?’ She stood up.
He just shook his head wordlessly.
‘Get out of my way, I’m going up.’
Daniel stood slowly and walked up the stairs. Amy left him in the kitchen.
She found Helen and Malcolm in the front room. The television was on and they were watching the BBC news. Malcolm switched it off as Amy entered.
‘You look stunning, Amy,’ said Helen. ‘Stunning.’
‘And tall,’ added Malcolm as Daniel came into the room behind her. In her heels, she was noticeably taller than their son, who looked tired and frumpy beside her.
‘Where are you going for dinner?’ asked Helen.
‘The Dorchester, I think. Not sure which. I know Liam likes the Grill but he’s not paying, this time. A scriptwriter from LA is taking us out. I can’t remember his name. So it’s probably Alain Ducasse. Americans always choose it. The Michelin stars blind them.’
‘Daniel, would you mind getting Amy a drink?’ said Malcolm.
Daniel departed promptly.
‘I’m sorry, Helen, but I’m still not done,’ said Amy, sitting on the edge of the couch, her knees together.
‘What has M&R said?’ asked Helen, her face revealing her anxieties.
‘I’ve put them off for another week. They have confidence in me. More than I have in myself, I must admit. And I blame Malcolm for this.’
‘Me? What have I done?’
‘You gave me good advice.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for it. I’ll try to offer poor advice in future.’
‘What did you tell her?’ asked Helen.
‘You were there, Helen. He told me to read your other books. Fatal. I’m ruined.’
‘Told you so,’ said Malcolm.
Amy laughed. ‘You did.’
‘So, you have a foot in both camps now,’ said Malcolm. It wasn’t a question.
Daniel returned with a glass of white for Amy and a beer for himself.
‘I won’t stay if it’s going to be book talk. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.’
Amy took the glass and downed half the wine in one sip.
‘What would you like to discuss, Daniel?’ asked Helen.
Daniel smiled and then laughed, weirdly. He looked at the carpet, then said, ‘That’s put me on the spot.’ His face reddened and a sob escaped him.
Amy, Helen and Malcolm all exchanged glances.
‘Geraldine’s leaving me,’ Daniel said, raising his face to them. His eyes were wet. ‘She’s met someone else. It’s been going on for some time. A client. Fucking him while the boys were in the house. But she says she’s been unhappy for a while.’
‘Oh, Daniel,’ said Helen.
Amy drank the rest of her wine. She needed to get out of this family crisis immediately.
‘Is that why you’re down here?’ asked Malcolm.
‘I’ve been looking for a job in London. I can’t stay up there.’
‘What about the boys?’ asked Helen.
Amy stood up. She didn’t want to know about the boys. She didn’t want to feel any sympathy for the man. She was definitely on Team Geraldine, whoever she was.
Daniel looked at her. ‘Are you going?’
‘I have to. Anyway, I’m in the way here. We’ll talk more tomorrow, Helen. Bye, Malcolm.’
With that she exited. Moving quickly through the house, making her way downstairs, locking the inner door behind her. If she came back to the flat that night, which she hoped she wouldn’t have to, she didn’t want a grieving loser breaking in and molesting her in the middle of the night.
She grabbed her coat and her handbag and left, walked down to the high street and took a cab to Park Lane. The night air did nothing to clear her head. There was way too much going on in her life. She had to rid herself of the Helen problem as soon as possible. Move out and get back to living the life she was good at.
In the cab Amy checked her phone. Liam had sent through the screenplay the American had written. She googled the guy’s name. Goran Kovac. He’d done nothing she recognised. She opened the attachment and read the opening scenes of the pilot. They were better than anything Liam had written himself. But she couldn’t see Hollywood getting excited. Not that she knew anything about that world. It was a hunch.
Malcolm’s assessment of her predicament returned to her – a foot in both camps. It was true. Here she was going to dine with one of the UK’s bestselling authors and discuss turning his books into a Hollywood blockbuster or TV series, while all that day she had been thinking about version one of Helen’s novel, the one Maxine Snedden had paid a fortune for, deciding, along with Helen’s previous editor, Clarissa Munten, that it wasn’t worthy of the great Helen Owen and should be shelved.
A foot in both camps.
But she couldn’t give Helen that advice, because Julia and M&R would move to take back the advance and Helen and Malcolm would be ruined. The advice she’d have to give Helen was – give them what they want.
The first manuscript is the one the publisher paid for.
Amy told the driver to let her out at Marble Arch. She was half an hour early. She’d walk down Park Lane. It would kill ten minutes. But as soon as she was out of the cab she knew she had been an idiot. It wasn’t a pleasant evening. The traffic was atrocious, a slow procession of tail-lights. The exhaust fumes were overwhelming. And her shoes were new. She cast her gaze down Park Lane. The road curved to the left. She couldn’t tell how far she had to walk. It had been years since she’d walked here. She could cross over into Hyde Park but she wasn’t sure if she could cross back at the Dorchester. She remembered having fallen for that trick years ago. Besides, the park looked dark and menacing from where she stood. At least Park Lane was well lit.
Resigned to her fate, she wrapped her Burberry trench coat more tightly around her and started to walk. Her high heels were strappy and her long legs were bare. She felt underdressed and wished her coat were longer. She felt naked under it and probably appeared to be. More naked with every passing sweaty tourist. Men and women each stared boldly at her like she was an exhibit. What had she been thinking getting out of the cab? She could have waited at the bar. Liam and Gail were probably there now.
This Helen thing was getting to her. Making her do stupid things.
Why had she taken Malcolm’s advice? Because of him, she’d been with them more than a month – a month! For the first time in her career she’d neglected her work. She’d just kept up with the Jack Cade edits, but hadn’t made any of their Thursday sessions. Liam wasn’t happy. And she’d only been in the M&R office at odd hours. She’d been consumed by Malcolm and Helen’s work. There were emails gathering unread in her inbox. Her cubicle buddy, Valerie, was fielding calls from concerned authors, and she was compiling a stack of sticky notes. Kathy Lette’s agent had left word for her not to worry getting back to her as she’d found another editor. Valerie said her absence was being noticed. Even though she didn’t need the work at M&R, she’d be sad to lose it. She had loved M&R under Maxine’s leadership. And leaving would mean Julia would rule unopposed, and she couldn’t stomach that.
A whole month had gone by and she’d read all the versions of Helen’s new novel, some of her previous novels and some of Malcolm’s novels, including his latest, A Hundred Ways.
And what had she achieved? Nothing practical. Not a thing of use to anybody. It was as though she was on holiday with friends. She was wasting everyone’s time. More hindrance than help. And, as Malcolm had originally suggested, she was in over her head. She had entered another tier of publishing and of writing, a higher one, where her qualifications weren’t required. She was reading these books as thousands of others had, as a reader, as an admirer. Helen’s and Malcolm’s books didn’t invite her professional persona in. They had no need of her skills as an editor. They were complete. They were books she wished she could discuss with Max.
Version one was different, of course. Malcolm had known that Amy would come to recognise this in time.
Last week she had re-read version one quickly, and was filled with doubts. She could no longer see it as she had first seen it – rich, compelling, romantic and heartbreaking. Now it was slow, ponderous and obvious.
Malcolm’s prophecy had indeed come true.
Julia had wanted Amy to turn Helen Owen into Jojo Moyes. But now Amy saw that the task at hand was the complete reverse. If she was going to do anything to the manuscript, it would be to make it more Helen Owen, not less. She thought she might be able to do that without losing too much of its commercial appeal. And that way, she hoped, she might be able to ease Helen’s concerns and even, if she did a good enough job, get Malcolm’s blessing for the project.
But working with the printed manuscript wasn’t possible. She’d never worked that way. And this task was outside her comfort zone as it was.
So she had picked up her laptop and had begun typing out version one of the novel. She wanted to get inside Helen’s head. Typing it out manually was definitely the slow option, when she might have scanned it in, or been more devious and logged in to Helen’s computer when she wasn’t around. The password was probably ‘Daniel’ or ‘Malcolm’. But typing books out had always helped her understand a writer better. She would become immersed in a work, reconstructing it line by line according to the writer’s vision.
This time she marked up the novel as she worked. So by the end of the long process she had a file called Version Helen and a file called Version Amy. Amy’s version was tighter and more focused. She’d cut at least a third of it as she went. She thought it flowed better because it was less explanatory. And though she was pleased with what she had done, because now she felt she had contributed by strengthening its commercial appeal, she wasn’t satisfied. The ‘something’ that was missing in Version Helen was missing in Version Amy, too.
But did that matter?
Back when Amy had first read version one, she now recalled, she had been convinced of its commercial potential. That Amy had come straight from the real world and wasn’t yet influenced by Helen and Malcolm’s world. She should now just trust old Amy’s opinion on this. Helen wouldn’t be the first literary author to offer the world a gripping story to pay the rent. Granted, most had been catastrophic failures, but Helen’s worked as commercial fiction. Helen’s would succeed.
But now she wasn’t sure. This afternoon, on re-reading the opening chapters of Version Amy, she had become convinced it had no commercial potential. She was more confused than ever.
The one person she thought might be able to help was Liam. They’d come to share a sense of what worked, what the general reader wanted from a novel. And he was free of the atmosphere of Helen and Malcolm’s literary world.
Now she had a digital copy, it would be so easy to send.
*
Dinner was a disaster.
Amy arrived early regardless of her efforts. She found herself a place at the bar and ordered a glass of champagne. She never minded waiting in a bar. Bars were her natural environment. With access to endless alcohol and nuts, accompanied by the easy chatter of a handsome, attentive and well-mannered barman, she was content.
By the time Goran Kovac turned up, three-quarters of an hour late, she had read his screenplay, read everything on the net about him and scrolled through his social media. She decided not to introduce herself. He was clearly drunk. He walked up to the bar like he owned the place, greeting the barman as he would a brother. He sounded Russian, but Google had told her he was Hungarian. He had been living in LA for ten years.
He was a large man, with a heavy beard, a mad mop for hair, a barrel chest and strong shoulders, though he was not particularly tall. He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt open at the neck. Amy noticed his shoes when he first walked in. They were blood-red, cap-toe Oxfords. Which were matched by a splash of the same red in his suit pocket. He was no shrinking violet.
A drink in hand, Kovac looked at Amy for a long time while she pretended to be busy with her phone. In fact she was typing Don’t come near me over and over again. There were other lone women in the place. She was really hoping one of them would attract his eye.
Then he said loudly, to the barman, to the bar, to whoever was in earshot, ‘I’m here to meet with the author Jack Cade. Is he here yet?’
The barman looked at him as though he were speaking another language. Amy was in an awkward position. If she didn’t speak now, he would soon find out she had consciously avoided introducing herself.
‘You don’t know who Jack Cade is?’ he asked. The barman shook his head.
Kovac downed his scotch.
‘You know Jack Cade, don’t you?’ he said to Amy.
‘I should, I’m his editor.’
Kovac had been so loud that everyone in the bar was watching him. Now all eyes were on Amy. It seemed that the only person who didn’t know Jack Cade was the barman.
Liam was now almost an hour late. He would normally message to let her know. But she had nothing.
‘You’re his editor!’ shouted Kovac, and slapped his forehead. Then moved towards her. He motioned for the barman to give him another drink, lifted the bottle of Bollinger from the ice bucket next to Amy and refilled her glass. ‘I have heard about you.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Yes, yes. I have a friend in publishing. When she heard what I was doing she said that you were the brains behind Jack Cade. That’s what she said!’
‘Don’t let Liam hear you say that.’
‘But that’s what she said. And she said everyone knew. But I didn’t know it. She said that you would have the final word on my script.’
‘Who said?’
‘I cannot say. But is it true?’
‘You won’t have to ask once you’ve met Liam.’
Kovac scrutinised Amy for a moment.
‘Here he is.’ Amy stood up and took a few steps towards Liam and Gail, who had just entered the bar.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ said Liam. He looked exhausted.
Amy gave a frosty Gail a kiss and a hug.
‘So this is Jack Cade!’ boomed Kovac from behind Amy. She moved out of the way and dragged Gail with her.
Kovac introduced himself and gave Liam a bear hug.
Amy asked Gail what was wrong. But Gail shook off her enquiries.
Liam looked across at them. There was definitely something wrong, Amy saw. Something had spooked him.
Gail wanted champagne. Liam wanted a lager. But before the drinks arrived they discovered they had lost their reservation due to their lateness. The maître d’ was being difficult, so Liam suggested eating at another place. Within minutes they were all in Liam’s Aston Martin racing through the London streets, Amy and Kovac in the back. Liam was on the phone speaking to a friend he knew would pull a few strings for him. He wanted somewhere private.
‘I did not know Aston Martins came in four-door,’ Kovac revealed. He was like a child, touching all the buttons and running a hand along the finishes.
‘Not quite Bond. But Gail insisted. Didn’t you, babe,’ said Liam, putting his hand on her knee.
No answer came. Gail was staring through the window at the passing streets.
After fifteen minutes of driving and with no callback from the trusted friend, Liam did an illegal U-turn and sped off south, crossing the Vauxhall Bridge and racing towards Clapham. The mood in the car was tense. Amy could only see the side of Liam’s face, but his jaw was clenched, as it was when she criticised his work.
Amy had no idea where they were. There had been slow traffic on the A3 so Liam had turned off and was racing through residential streets. The muted roar of the Aston was exhilarating from within the car, deafening without. Liam had been raised in Brixton; these streets were well known to him.
Sharp turns, left then right. Roaring acceleration, hard braking. His passengers gripping the handles above their doors.
Amy saw that Liam had made a miscalculation. He approached a one-way bridge blocked to traffic from his direction. Liam swore and caught Amy’s eye in the rear-view mirror. He looked ready to explode. He put his foot down and sped through the no entry signs and onto the narrow bridge, made narrower by the addition of a wide bike path. Gail gasped and Kovac wooted.
As soon as he was on the bridge and over the rise, it was clear a car was approaching the bridge from the other side. A little Renault, it swerved and braked, honking its horn and flashing its lights as Liam came through. The Aston swerved, and honked in return before roaring past them. Almost as an afterthought, Liam slammed the brakes and took a hard left. He straightened and accelerated rapidly to eighty miles per hour down the narrow side street.
Kovac laughed loudly and exclaimed, ‘It’s what Mark Harden would do. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?’
‘You’re a fucking child, Liam,’ said Gail. ‘Slow down.’
Liam sped up. The phone rang and Liam answered.
‘Too fucking late,’ said Liam, before the friend could answer, and hung up.
He came to a sudden stop.
‘We’re here.’
Amy looked out of her window and couldn’t work out where here was. Liam got out. A laughing Kovac did, too.
Amy was about to open her door when Gail turned in her seat and said, ‘I’m leaving him.’
Before Amy could say anything in reply, Gail got out.
Amy exhaled, relieved. She’d been apprehensive about the cause of their dispute, but as Gail’s tone was friendly, Amy knew she wasn’t the cause. She opened the door and climbed out.
The night certainly wasn’t going as she had imagined. She wondered if she might get an Uber back to her studio. She certainly didn’t want to go back to Helen and Malcolm’s, not with miserable Daniel lurking about.
Then tattoo boy entered her mind. She didn’t care that she was now his bitch. As soon as she could, she would excuse herself and find him.
As she crossed the street to join them, she messaged Josh: Do you have the energy?
Walking around a rubbish skip, she looked up and read the sign above the door Liam had entered – ‘The Manor’.
‘Where the fuck are we?’ she asked no one, glancing down the street and vaguely recognising the high street at its end. She followed the others in.
The woman behind the counter knew Liam, kissed him on the cheek and led them to the back. Amy smiled at the self-conscious grunge of the place. Pure hipster. They were given a corner table and Kovac asked to see the wine list. They had a drinks list, the woman replied. Did they have champagne? Yes. French? All champagne is French. Then bring two bottles on ice.
While Kovac was negotiating drinks Gail hovered around the table but didn’t sit. Liam studiously ignored her. She walked off to the bathroom. Amy gave Liam a look that said What the fuck have you done?, stood up quickly and followed.
The bathroom wasn’t large. Black walls, dimly lit. Gail was standing in front of the mirror staring at herself when Amy walked in.
‘Tell me what’s happened,’ Amy said rather forcefully.
‘I’m tired of it all. He’s so driven, so busy. I never see him. And when I do, he treats me like he treated his mother. I’m someone he loves and cherishes. He’s all cuddles and affection. He buys me gifts. He sends me off to day spas. He organises shopping trips to Paris. But I want to be his lover, not his mother. And he lies to me just as he lied to his mum. And his lies are so transparent.’
‘And you’ve said all this to him?’
‘In part, but he doesn’t listen to me. The way he talks to you and listens to you, he never does with me. He listens to your advice. He respects what you have to say. He hasn’t heard a word I’ve said for years.’
‘But I only talk to him about our work. There’s more to the world than books.’
‘Not to him. He can barely keep his eyes open if I talk about my day, or what I’ve been thinking or doing. We’re going to renovate the house, but I can’t get him to sit still and approve the architect’s plans. We’re going to tour South America, as we’ve never been, but when I try to get him to confirm dates, he won’t. The only thing he wants to talk to me about is babies. He’s obsessed with the idea of starting a family. That’s what started all of this. He thought we were trying for a baby, he thought we’d agreed, but I hadn’t agreed. He never listens to me. He ignored my concerns. He’s ready, so I must be. Then he found my pill. I hadn’t been hiding it. It was in my bedside table drawer. He was so angry. So upset.’
‘Do you want a family?’
‘Do you?’
‘Not yet!’
‘Same. I’m in my early thirties; I have plenty of time for all that. I’m still hot, aren’t I?’ said Gail, glancing at herself in the mirror. She was a beautiful woman who always dressed well and as a former beautician knew how to accentuate her qualities. She had put on weight in the last few years but no one could say she wasn’t attractive. Amy thought the weight suited her.
‘I’d fuck you.’
‘That’s what I thought, but he’s marked me out as the mother of his children. I don’t want that role. I certainly don’t want to get stuck down in Surrey raising kids while he’s living it up in London and New York fucking everything in a skirt.’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Of course I fucking do!’ There was real fire in her eyes. ‘And he loves me. You should have seen his face when I told him I was leaving. He was distraught. He loves me and only me. I’m certain of it. But right now I’d rather not be loved by him. I’d much rather be his lover than his wife. I’d rather be you, Amy.’
‘Why me?’ asked Amy, her heart missing a beat.
‘Because you get his respect and his cock.’
Amy blanched. Her mouth went dry.
‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t mess with what you have. Without you, where would we be?’
‘But . . .’ Amy’s mind was racing to find a neat exit.
‘I’ve always known. A wife knows. The man is a terrible liar. You’re good. I’d never have known if you were my only source of information. You can lie to my face without a trace of it anywhere. You amaze me. Totally amoral. But he can’t. He gave you away in the first few days. For a time he was infatuated with you. He was like a teenager. I knew something was wrong because he was fucking me all the time. Like when we were young. But watching you together, I realised you didn’t love him. That was important. You were all business. You knew how to get the best out of him and you milked it, literally.’
Amy felt the full force of Gail’s assessment of her. Totally amoral, she’d said. Amy’s hasty attempts to rationalise her behaviour stalled. All exits vanished. This was Liam’s wife speaking. Flesh and blood. Not some idea of her. The pain visible now on Gail’s face had been there all along, if only Amy had bothered to notice.
‘I’m so sorry, Gail,’ she said, resting her hands on the bench and looking at Gail’s reflection in the mirror. She felt nauseous. The shame she had felt all those years ago with Max, the shame she had tried to drown in being shameless, returned.
Gail held her gaze for a moment. She resented the note of understanding in Amy’s tone.
‘There’s no sorry for what you’ve done,’ said Gail. ‘Back then I hated you. I might have stabbed you. You were always so beautiful, so privileged, so smart, so friendly, so white. But I’m done with all that. I am. I’ve had years to get used to you and Liam. It’s just business. You’re collaborators. Without him, you’re nothing and without you, he’s nothing. Of course he was going to fuck you. And you him. He’s gorgeous and brilliant, like you. And the money you two have made. It’s extraordinary. Growing up we never dreamed of having so much money.’ Gail was repeating the story she had told herself every day. The story that kept her upright. ‘But he loves me. Always has and always will. I’m under his skin. I’m home to him. The only one he has. But I won’t be the fat cow looking after the fucking kids. I won’t.’
There were tears in Gail’s eyes, but none fell.
‘I’ve caught you by surprise,’ said Gail, touching Amy’s arm maternally.
Amy took a deep breath but said nothing. She stood up straight again and caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked as stunned as she felt.
A young woman entered the small bathroom. She stopped dead on finding Gail and Amy deep in conversation. Then, seeing the empty stall, entered and closed the door.
Gail leant close to Amy’s ear and whispered, ‘You must have known this would happen. One day. You must have.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ This was all too real for her. She was for flight. She had no fight in her. To fight would be to acknowledge the wrong she had done Gail. To own up to it fully. But she wasn’t that strong. She just wanted to say the words Gail wanted to hear so she could get out of this night in one piece.
Gail’s voice was trembling when she next spoke. ‘I didn’t mean to say anything tonight. I promised myself I never would. This isn’t about . . .’ Her voice failed her. She paused to breathe in deeply. ‘I’m not jealous anymore. I’m not.’
Amy wanted so much to believe this. She took Gail’s hand in her own.
The loo flushed and the woman left as quickly as she had come, making no attempt to get to the sink to wash her hands.
‘The strange thing is,’ Gail continued, having recovered herself slightly, ‘even though you’re fucking my husband, you’re one of my closest friends. Really. You shouldn’t be, but you are. I admire you. What you’ve achieved. And I trust you more than almost anyone. Even now. Can you believe that?’
Amy dropped Gail’s hand and turned her face away. These words stung. She had only ever played at friendship with Gail, in order to mask her deceit. She liked her, but had never considered her a friend.
How ugly everything is, Amy thought. How ugly I am.
‘I just wish . . .’ started Gail, before being unable to speak. She caught her breath and tried to hold back the tears, but they fell regardless.
Amy took her hand again. She felt useless.
‘This isn’t about you, Amy. It isn’t. I promise,’ Gail said, losing her fight and sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I don’t hate you,’ she said, between breaths. ‘But it’s hard. I want his children, I do, but I want him to be true to me. I love him so much it hurts. I said to him . . . I said . . . Be true and I will have your babies. Be true.’
Gail was overcome and turned away.
Amy walked around and, kissing her wet cheek, hugged her tightly.
How could it not be about me? Amy thought. I’m the one fucking her husband. Of course it’s about me. I’m a fucking bitch. A fucking bitch.
*
When they returned to the table, Liam and Kovac welcomed them back as though they had been gone a few minutes. But the table told another story. The men had ordered a selection of starters and had demolished most of them.
Amy went to sit beside Liam, but Gail touched her arm gently. As soon as Gail sat down, Liam put his arm around her. Amy poured Gail and herself champagne. They held each other’s gaze as they downed their glass in one. They followed it with another.
Amy noticed that Gail’s hand was shaking slightly, then noticed the tremor in her own. How many nights had Amy shared with Gail like this assuming her secret was safe? How much pain had she inflicted on her? Day after day, night after night? Liam out with his wife and lover. It was awful. Everything was awful.
Now she was exposed, the future was a blur. She couldn’t see how the night would end.
‘I’m so happy to be sitting with two of London’s most beautiful women,’ said Kovac, in a good-humoured attempt to resurrect the night. Amy wanted to stab him.
Gail smiled politely, but all light had gone out of her eyes.
‘I read your script, Mr Kovac,’ said Amy, in a bid to lead the conversation away from the rocks.
‘Call me Goran.’
‘I read your script, Goran. It’s good. I’m impressed,’ she lied.
Kovac couldn’t hide his pleasure. He clapped his hands.
‘I am so pleased. I am such a fan of the novels. I have read them all a number of times now. Jack, I mean Liam, was just telling me about the one you’re both writing now.’
‘I’m writing. Amy is my editor.’
‘Right,’ said Kovac, glancing at Liam and turning back to Amy who sat beside him. ‘It sounds complicated.’
‘We’re having difficulty with it,’ said Amy, ‘It’s unusual for Mark Harden to be in love. He’s such a loner. We haven’t really tried romantic elements in the past. Sex, of course, always a bit of sex to break up the endless fighting. But no love.’
‘We consciously avoided it until now,’ said Liam. ‘I never liked it when James Bond fell in love. Love weakens a hero. Makes him vulnerable. He shouldn’t be vulnerable.’
‘But the story led Liam there. Mark Harden sometimes does his own thing. We’re just spectators,’ Amy heard herself saying, making it up as she went. She was always in control.
‘Goran was just extolling the virtues of HBO. He’s convinced that if they pick up the series it will be done right.’
‘The violence of the books must be converted to screen as is,’ said Kovac, passionately. ‘No censorship. The sex as it is – raw, brutal and erotic. It has to be unadulterated Jack Cade.’
‘It’s what viewers expect these days,’ said Liam.
‘How tame does Game of Thrones look now?’ asked Kovac. ‘We have become immune to its sex and violence. It looks like a cartoon now. But how shocking was the red wedding when it aired? We need Mark Harden to be grittier and more realistic than True Detective, more perverse than Hannibal, more erotic than Versailles. Have you seen Bosch?’
‘Books are always better than the film or series. It’s a fact,’ said Amy, reaching out under the table and taking Gail’s hand.
‘Doesn’t have to be so,’ said Liam. ‘Goran was thinking of doing an eight-part series for each novel. Be true to the books. As far as is possible.’
Amy smiled indulgently. Liam was kidding himself. Their novels didn’t have enough to them for an eight-part series.
‘Did you see what they did to Jack Reacher?’ asked Goran. ‘Not just the Tom Cruise thing. But the story. Lee Child had the story – why not start with Killing Floor? Millions of people had loved that book. Why not make a film of Killing Floor instead of taking elements from a few books?’
So the night filled up with words. A couple of hours went by. Food came and went, bottles were opened and emptied. Gail sat silent throughout. When at last it was time to go, Liam paid and then led the way out to the car, his arm around Gail’s waist.
Liam was too drunk to drive, but hopped into the driver’s seat, anyway. They were only going to the flat, not back to Surrey.
Gail hugged Amy, holding her a little tighter and longer than she would normally.
Amy felt compelled to say something. She had done so much damage to this woman over the years. When Gail ended the hug, Amy took her hand and whispered a promise into her ear. Gail replied by kissing her then opened the door and sat in the passenger seat beside Liam.
Kovac, seeing an opportunity, grabbed Amy and gave her a bear hug. With some difficulty she managed to force him into the car. He had wanted to see Amy home, but she was having none of that. She was getting an Uber.
Josh hadn’t replied to her message. But she would go past his place anyway. It was only midnight. The Aston roared off. She was alone in the street. She had drunk a lot as the men talked and talked. She felt unsteady on her feet. She was looking forward to being manhandled by Josh. Her phone told her the driver was only a few streets away, but it was cold, so she stood rubbing her arms. Her feet were frozen.
The Uber arrived. Fifteen minutes later she was standing outside Josh’s place. Her confidence had plummeted in the back seat of the car. He hadn’t answered her original message, so she’d messaged again. No answer. She made the Uber wait. She buzzed repeatedly. Again she could hear the buzzer in Josh’s room from the street. She took a few steps back and looked up. His lights were on.
She buzzed again. And again. She was getting annoyed.
Finally a woman answered, ‘Go away. He’s not here.’
In the Uber on her way back to Helen and Malcolm’s place, Amy stared out at the passing streets. Josh’s rejection had sobered her. It reminded her of Max and the tears and the stupor. Josh wasn’t Max. Josh meant nothing. Fuck Josh. She needed a drink. She made the driver stop at an off-licence. She bought a small bottle of vodka and got back in the car. She hated vodka but it warmed her up. It fuelled her anger and her disgust.
She drank half the bottle. She was grotesque. Gail knew it. Fuck Gail. Liam relied on it. Fuck Liam. Josh was clear about it. Fuck Josh. Both Helen and Malcolm suspected it. Fuck them, too. But it was Max who had first discovered it. The award should go to him. Fucker.
She messaged Max: Where want to meet? She would see him. She owed it to him. Whatever he wanted she would give him. She read what she had sent. She grimaced. And sent a second: Drunk. :-) Where DO YOU want to meet?
The car lurched around a corner and Amy’s vision blurred. She felt awful. She was exhausted. Her eyes were heavy. She rested her head against the glass. The movement beyond the window was hypnotic and nauseating.
‘We’re here. Hey, we’re here,’ said the driver, reaching around. He had his hand on her knee and was shaking her.
Amy woke. She’d slumped in the seat. Her dress and coat were lifted. Legs exposed to the hip. The radio was on, the volume down low. ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ was playing. It sounded weird. She sat up.
The driver’s eyes were gentle. He was speaking softly. ‘Don’t leave anything behind. Have you got everything?’
She collected her handbag, found her phone and the bottle then paid the driver. She gave him a big tip. A fifty. He had touched her knee. She could still feel the warmth of his hand. He could have taken her anywhere, done anything to her.
‘You’re a nice man,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She took a photo of him with her phone and thanked him again. She was leaning against the car. Unsure if she could walk the ten feet to the door. She slipped off her heels.
‘Miss, I have to go.’
She steered herself towards the steps down to her flat. The Uber drove off. The street was very quiet after the sound of the Uber died away. The soft growl of traffic on a distant motorway the only sound. The pavement was freezing underfoot. Amy negotiated the stairs. Clutching her shoes, phone, bottle and handbag to herself, she gripped the rail tightly with her free hand. The key went in but try as she might she couldn’t get the door open. She shoved it, tried other keys, swore at it. Nothing. She sat on the step and tried to stop her head from spinning. She might have been at the wrong door. That could be it. She picked up her things, stood up and climbed the stairs unsteadily.
On the pavement she looked at the houses. They all looked identical.
‘Amy!’ came a voice in the night. A whispered shout. She spun around. It was coming from the other side of the street. ‘Amy, over here.’
She walked towards the noise.
Daniel was standing in the doorway of a house on the opposite side of the street.
‘Daniel!’ said Amy, in her normal voice. It sounded very loud.
‘Shhh! Come on. What were you doing?’ he asked. He was opening the gate for her.
‘Going to bed.’ She passed him and entered Helen and Malcolm’s house.
‘That was the wrong house,’ he whispered, closing the door behind them.
‘How do you know?’
‘We’re standing in the right house.’
‘I want to go to bed.’
‘I’ll take you down. Have you drunk any water?’
‘I don’t like water.’
Amy wandered into the front room where the TV was on and sat on the couch.
‘You can’t sleep here.’ He took her hand and lifted her onto her feet. He picked up her bag, shoes and the bottle. She held her phone.
‘Sleep.’
He used her key to unlock the door and led her downstairs. There she got her bearings. The main lights were on and everything was very bright. She looked back at Daniel. He was dressed differently. He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
‘You’re in pyjamas,’ she said and laughed.
‘I was getting ready for bed. It’s late.’
‘Did you wait up for me?’
‘No.’
She examined his face. It was blotchy. Like he’d been crying.
‘You’re funny-looking,’ she said, as she made her way into the bathroom. She didn’t close the door.
‘Thank you,’ he replied.
She pulled down her knickers and sat on the loo. He turned abruptly away as he heard the stream of pee hit the toilet water and began to climb the stairs.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, from the loo.
‘I was watching a film.’
‘Jack Reacher?’
‘No, Ben-Hur. It’s been going for hours.’
‘I liked Jack Reacher,’ continued Amy, from the loo. ‘I’ve told people I didn’t like it, but I did.’ Amy came out of the bathroom, lifting her dress over her head. She strode past him in her bra and knickers, saying, ‘I’m so fucking tired.’
‘Get into bed then,’ he said, staring at her as she pulled back the covers. He switched off the main lights. The bathroom light was still on. He turned on the light at the top of the stairs so he could find his way out, then crossed to turn the bathroom light off. When he turned back, he expected to find her under the covers but Amy was standing by the bed naked.
‘I thought I was repulsive.’
‘You are. You’re fat, old, bald and lecherous. You look like Bernard from Four Weddings and a Funeral minus the moustache. But you’re a man with a cock and that’s what I want right now.’
He took a step forward.
‘Turn off the light.’
‘I want to keep it on,’ he said.
‘Your view is better than mine, turn it off.’
*
Amy woke at 5 am. She switched on the bedside lamp. She was alone. She remembered what she had done and did not repent. She deserved degradation. She was an awful person. She discovered the bottle of vodka on the bedside table and took a swig. It burned. She took another. She kicked the bedsheets from her and looked down at her naked body.
He was all over her skin. Saliva, sweat and cum. He had worshipped her. Praised her with extravagant words. Thanked her as he touched her. Kissed her everywhere. It was like being the centrepiece of a religious ceremony. His breath was in her breath. She had given herself to him. To his lusts. He had taken her again and again, insatiably. She was disgusted by it all. His touch revolted her. His cock revolted her. His tongue revolted her. And yet she acquiesced to it all. She welcomed him again and again. Encouraged him, even. She had sucked his cock back to life so he could go again. Her body felt broken, beaten, diseased.
She rolled out of bed and pulled on her dirty underwear and then her jeans and a T-shirt from yesterday. She wouldn’t wash yet. She would keep him with her. Disgusting man. Disgusting woman. Grotesque man. Grotesque woman. There was no escape from the plain facts. She was an awful person. She had done awful things.
She started to cry, but made nothing of it. She wouldn’t give herself sympathy she didn’t deserve. The tears fell and she ignored them. She took another swig of vodka. The bottle was now empty.
After a pee, she opened her laptop. Helen’s manuscript. She had promised to give Helen her advice today. Stupid tears fell again. Everything she did was hateful. She didn’t want to be herself any longer. She didn’t have any advice. She only had what Julia wanted.
She wrote a short email to Liam. All business, no mention of personal matters.
Subject line: Urgent.
Read this and tell me if you think it has legs. It’s by a friend. I’m too close to it to tell. Don’t show anyone else. Delete when done. Get back to me today please. Urgent.
Amy attached the Word document of Version Helen then paused. Helen had expressly told her not to share the manuscript. She had been staying with Helen and Malcolm because of that rule. No digital copies were to leave the building.
Wiping away her tears, Amy pressed ‘Send’. There was no other way. She could never be trusted. She was an awful person.
She lay back on the bed. Her life had taken a wrong turn when she agreed to meet Helen. Everything was fine until then. Or at least she thought it had been fine. No, she corrected, it had been fine. Now it was shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Everywhere she turned there was judgement. Everything she did was judged. Helen and Malcolm judged. They looked down on Amy from on high and judged.
And they were harsh judges. They made her see.
She didn’t want to see.
She pictured Daniel and Gail and Alan and Josh and Julia and Liam and Max.
Painful tears fell. Her chest hurt. Her breath was short.
She tried to fight back. She tore the sheets off her bed and threw them into the corner of the room. But she couldn’t stop crying, so she took herself off to the shower and washed. Daniel was everywhere. Nothing would come off. No soap could clean her. Her tears fell, mingling with the hot water. She got out and dried herself. The tears would not dry.
She found her phone. Max had messaged back in the night.
There was no escape. The past was never gone.
She sent a reply: Yes.