At the weekend, I catch the bus to Notting Hill to visit Cricket. She left a message a few days ago saying she wanted to speak to me about something and inviting me for Sunday lunch. When I called her back she refused to tell me over the phone. ‘Much better to talk about it over moules frîtes,’ she explained, which of course led my overactive imagination and obsession with Rightmove to conclude she was moving to a farmhouse in the South of France.
‘And do what? Rattle around with chickens and miss London?’ she scoffs, when I mention it to her as she serves up lunch. Ladling out steaming hot mussels from the large pot on her kitchen stove, Cricket gives a little shudder.
‘Mmm, this smells delicious.’ She passes me a bowl and I inhale the aroma of garlic, white wine and shallots.
‘Oh, I forgot the parsley.’ No sooner has she sat down than she promptly stands up again to coarsely chop a large bunch, before returning to the table and scattering a handful of leaves onto the shiny black shells.
‘Oh, and the fries—’
‘Sit down,’ I insist as she goes to get up again. ‘I’ll get them.’
‘They’re in the oven,’ she instructs. ‘If I can give you one bit of advice, it’s never to make your own fries. Buy frozen. Life is too short to be peeling potatoes.’
I smile and sit back down at the table with the tray of fries, which we both reach for even though they’re too hot and burn our mouths. Cricket pours the bottle of wine I’ve brought and we say cheers, then break open the shells and scoop up the delicious garlicky broth.
‘These are amazing.’
‘Aren’t they,’ she nods, without false modesty. ‘I haven’t had them for a while. There doesn’t seem much point cooking them just for myself.’
I nod, understanding. Since Ethan and I broke up, I’ve lost count of the number of ready meals I’ve consumed. Cooking has never been my strong point, but there seemed even less reason to make the effort when there was no one to share (or commiserate) with.
But recently, with Edward living at home full-time, we’ve cooked for each other on a few occasions. It makes more sense – especially for me, as he’s actually a great cook, whereas I can only do two recipes, despite buying all the cookbooks: stir fry and an omelette. But still, it’s a really good omelette.
‘So, what did you want to tell me about?’
Twenty minutes later, all that’s left is a pile of empty shells. I clear the bowls as Cricket refills our glasses.
She reaches over to the chair next to her, tucked under the table, and retrieves a large, brown A4 envelope. She pulls out its contents and places them in the middle of the table. It’s a sheaf of papers, tied together with a piece of string.
‘That looks like a manuscript. An old one,’ I observe, taking in its yellowing edges. ‘I’ve seen enough in my time as an editor.’
‘It is. An unfinished one.’
I wait for her to explain.
‘It came in the post this week. From Barcelona.’
I frown. ‘Pablo?’
Cricket nods. ‘In his note he says he wanted to give it to me when we met in Spain, but there was no time to go back to his apartment and collect it. After getting my message, he came straight from the gallery . . .’ Her eyes fall to the pages. ‘He’s had it for years. It’s a play Monty wrote when they were together.’
I listen, what she’s telling me sinking in.
‘He worked on it for over a year, apparently, when he lived in Paris, but when he moved out of his studio he threw it away. Pablo discovered it later in the bin and rescued it.’
‘And Pablo never told Monty he’d kept it?’
‘Once, years later when they got back in touch, but Monty just laughed and told him to make a fire with it. He was his own harshest critic.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes.’ She nods and there’s a pause.
For a moment I forget to breathe.
‘I think it’s his best work.’
A hush falls as we both gaze upon the typewritten pages sitting on the table. It feels monumental somehow. An undiscovered play by the award-winning playwright Monty Williamson. Since meeting Cricket I’ve read several of Monty’s plays. No wonder he won so many awards. He was a skilled writer.
‘May I?’ I gesture towards it.
‘Of course.’
I carefully slide it over the polished wood towards me. Untying the string, I pick up the title page. I can see the indentations from the typewriter keys. I trace them with my fingertips, then lay the page down and pick up the next. ‘Act One.’ My eyes flick over the text, which is covered in pencil scribbles. I can see the wine stain where he’s rested his glass; a smudge from where the ink wasn’t dry. I imagine him in Paris as a young man, hunched over his typewriter, smoking Gauloises, drinking red wine, the clacking sound of the typewriter keys, his fervent imagination . . . I flick to the last page. The type stops and instead there are handwritten scribbles.
‘I need someone to finish it.’
Cricket’s voice brings me back from the 1950s and the Parisian garret. I raise my eyes and see her studying me.
‘Gosh, well, I haven’t worked in publishing for a few years but I could try to find someone for you . . . I could get in touch with some old editor colleagues, ask for recommendations. I’m sure they know some good writers—’
‘I already know a good writer.’
All of a sudden it registers.
‘Oh God, no!’ I throw back my head and almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it. ‘You’re not suggesting—’
‘I’m not suggesting, I’m asking.’
‘No, that’s just crazy.’ I’m leaning back in my chair and shaking my head in protest at the sheer preposterousness of such an idea. ‘I write obituaries. I’m not a real writer.’
‘Yes, you are – you wrote a wonderful piece about Monty.’
Momentarily I fall silent, remembering. Her gaze meets mine. It doesn’t flinch.
‘Look, I’m really more of an editor.’
‘Well, that’s fortunate, as it needs a good editor too – in fact it’s mostly editing, apart from the ending, which needs a bit of work.’
My chest tightens. I start chewing the inside of my lip. I want to protest, but deep down I can feel the faint tingle of something. A pulse beating.
‘No one knows Monty as well as you do now.’
‘What about you?’
Now she’s the one to laugh and throw back her head. ‘Monty would turn in his grave if I tried, considering how hopeless I was at editing him when he was alive. So to speak.’ She smiles. ‘And anyway, I’m too close to the narrative.’
There’s a pause as a battle rages inside me. Neither of us speaks.
‘I’ll pay you.’
‘No, you will not!’
‘Of course I will. I’m not asking you out of the goodness of my heart, Nell. I’m asking you to do a job, because I think you’re the best person for the job. Because there’s no one I trust more with my husband’s words than you.’ She looks at me, her jaw set firm, then sighs. ‘Will you just think about it?’
The excitement is palpable.
‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘I’ll think about it.’ But even as I’m saying that, both of us know I don’t have to think about it. Because the answer, of course, is yes.
I’m grateful for: