CHAPTER 17

 

Grose sat back in his chair and tried to keep a polite smile on his face as Vicki Callas continued to drone on in her dull monotone voice. It was the second time she’d read from her work in progress and he knew from experience that she didn’t take criticism well. She was in her mid-fifties but looked older, her hair graying and her breasts sagging and her skin damaged by too much time in the sun. Callas was a former prostitute turned madam turned wannabe writer though Grose doubted that anyone in his right mind would ever have paid her for sex. Frankly he doubted that anyone would ever pay for a book of hers either.

Callas had been quite open about her former profession, and even had a website which she used to offer advice to women who wanted to work in the escort business. And when she had offered to do the first reading she had spent the first five minutes explaining that she was writing from the heart because her novel about a call girl working in Fort Lauderdale was based on her own experiences.

Grose didn’t know what the woman had been like as a prostitute, but her writing was dull, flat and tedious, with an undercurrent of bitterness towards men. He figured she probably exhibited the same characteristics in bed.

After the first reading he had suggested that she tone down her protagonist’s hatred of men so that she’d become a more sympathetic character but she had launched a tirade of accusations: that he was a typical male, that he had no understanding of what it was like to be a downtrodden woman in a male-dominated world, that it was because of men that she had been forced to sell her body, that all men were abusers and rapists and that as far as she was concerned to attack her work was to attack her as a female. Grose had managed to calm her down but he’d learned his lesson. Callas was unhinged and would benefit from a course of Prozac but he couldn’t take the risk of her bursting into the Dean’s office and accusing him of sexism so he just sat and smiled and nodded.

“The man opened his wallet and pulled out a handful of bills. He held them out to Debbie, his trembling hand bathed in sweat. ”On the dresser,” she said. “Don’t you know that you never hand over the money. And put it in an envelope. The man frowned. She could see that he was nervous. Nervous and stupid. He’d been wearing a wedding ring but he’d taken it off and she could see the pale skin at the base of the finger. Why did he think that she’d care about whether or not he was married?

“The man swallowed nervously. “I don’t have an envelope,” he said. She pointed at the desk by the door. “Use the hotel stationery.” The man waddled over to the desk and picked up the envelope. “Two hundred and fifty, right?” Debbie glared at the man with cold eyes. “If you mention money again I’m out of here,” she said. “We don’t discuss money. You don’t hand me the money. Those are the rules.” The man apologized like the wimp he was, put the bills in the envelope and put the envelope on the dresser. “Now what?” he said.

“Debbie pointed at the bathroom. “You shower. Everywhere. And clean your teeth.” The man nodded enthusiastically, like a little boy about to enter a sweet shop. “Will you kiss me?” he asked. “On the mouth?” Debbie sighed. “Of course not.” She pointed at the bathroom door. “The clock’s ticking.” The man waddled into the bathroom and after a few seconds Debbie heard the shower kick into life. She took off her coat. She wasn’t wearing a dress, just a matching red bra and panties, black stockings and suspenders. She lay down on the bed and looked at her watch. Ten minutes gone, fifty to go. Then she had to get to Rite-Aid to pick up her Zivorax and then get home in time to meet her daughter off the school bus. The babysitter was coming at seven and she had her third appointment of the day at the Marriott Hotel at eight. Three hours. He was a regular, flying in from Chicago, and he was a good payer. The agreed fee was a thousand but he always gave her a tip on top. He was one of her best-looking clients, tall and well-groomed and he knew not to take liberties, like trying to kiss her on the lips or trying to get her to screw without a condom. Debbie never kissed. Ever. And she never let the client go bareback, even a guy like the Chicago client who was married and had never had an STD in his entire life. The shower stopped running and Debbie took a deep breath, preparing herself for what was to come.”

Callas looked up from her laptop. “That’s as far as I’ve got,” she said.

“Well done, Vicki,” said Grose. “It’s really coming along well.” He looked around the lecture hall, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Jenny. “What does everyone else think?”

Half a dozen of the students raised their hands and Grose went to them from left to right. All six were complimentary and none expressed any reservations about the subject matter. Grose knew that they were scared of retaliation down the line, that if they criticized Callas she’d be gunning for them with both barrels when it was their turn to read. The longer the course went on the more Grose realized that what he was doing was basically pointless. He wasn’t allowed to make the course competitive and there was no real attempt made to criticize bad and mediocre work. How was anyone expected to improve their craft if all they ever heard was how wonderful their work was?

Grose was a big fan of the ten thousand hours theory, that no matter what the skill or the craft that was how long it took to acquire it. It went for mastering a musical instrument, learning a foreign language, painting, even learning a trade like plumbing or carpentry. To master the skill you had to put in the hours, you had to pay your dues. And that went for writing, too. You could pretty much throw away everything you wrote during those first ten thousand hours, it was a rite of passage that every writer had to go through, in the way that artists made dozens of sketches before finally picking up a paintbrush and starting work on their masterpiece. Grose had certainly put in the hours while he was in his twenties. He’d written six novels all of which had been rejected by every agent in the country. It was only when he’d written the fifth that he had won a publishing deal and it was his seventh book that had been the big one, that one had almost won the Pulitzer. It had been a long hard road, hours and hours of work followed by brutal rejection, but Grose had never given up, never stopped trying. But the students on his course had no sense that writing was craft that had to be honed. All they cared about was getting published and making millions. They wanted to be the next Patterson or Grisham or King or Rowling, they wanted their names on the bestseller lists and their faces on the cover of US magazine and they wanted it right now. The last thing they wanted was to be told that their work was lacking, that they needed to master the basics of storytelling before they could even think about a publishing deal. And because they were themselves too sensitive to criticism they were reluctant to criticize others, so everyone just sat around nodding and smiling and saying how wonderful they all were.

The door to the lecture hall opened and Adrian Slater strode in, his long black coat flapping behind him. He was wearing his impenetrable shades and holding his backpack in his right hand and his motorcycle helmet in his left. “Sorry I’m late, the traffic was a nightmare,” he said as headed to the back of the class.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Grose.

Slater stopped and turned to look at him. “I’m taking my place in class,” he said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your flow.”

“Flow? This isn’t about flow. You’re off this course.”

Slater tilted his head to the side. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“I can assure you that after your performance yesterday I won’t be teaching you again.”

Slater tilted his chin up. “I don’t think you’re in a position to make that call,” he said. “With respect.”

“With respect?” repeated Grose, getting to his feet. “You’ve shown me not one iota of respect, nor have you shown any respect to the members of this class.” He pointed at the door. “I want you to leave, now.”

Slater stared at Grose for several seconds and then turned his back on him and walked up to his seat. He sat down, placed his motorcycle helmet and backpack on the floor and folded his arms.

“Mr Slater, I am ordering you to leave the premises. You are off this course.”

Slater said nothing.

Grose felt his heart pounding in his chest. Part of him wanted to march up to Slater, grab him by the scruff of the neck and throw him out of the lecture hall, but he knew that in any physical confrontation he’d come off worst. Slater was younger and fitter, and if he refused to go there was nothing that Grose could do about it. “You are in big trouble, Slater,” Grose shouted, but even as the words had left his mouth he knew how weak he sounded. He grabbed his briefcase and stormed out, cursing under his breath.