Dead In The Water - Chapter Six

Chapter 6

          Phoning Owen at home late in the evening is one thing; phoning him at his new girlfriend’s house late in the evening, when I don’t even know her name, just seems plain wrong. Besides, I feel awkward at the thought of having to explain to him how I got hold of the number without causing further rifts between him and Mel. And also, I think, almost angry now, why the hell didn’t he tell me?

         I decide to send him a text message from the cafeteria (hiding my phone inside my handbag so no one notices this blatant break of house rules, explaining that I am in Weston with my dying Aunt but will do my best to be in London at the agreed time. I cross my fingers and pray that he understands.

         I turn the corner and fetch a cup of coffee and an egg salad sandwich from the cafeteria and return to Aunty’s room. A machine is beeping as I walk in and I am followed quickly by another nurse, who presses a few buttons on the monitor, checks the drip and gives me a sad smile before mouthing “She’s ok”, and leaving me in the company of my laptop.

         With a dying relative – your last, in fact – in the same room, it is hard to feel inspired or not to be distracted and I am overwhelmed with a feeling of anger towards my Aunt; of all the days she could have picked to die, did she have to pick today? You may think I am sounding harsh and uncaring, however, the sad truth is that it is difficult to change the habits of a lifetime. Aunty and I never got along, we’ve not spoken for almost years and even before that, contact was sporadic, often ending in arguments. I am no hypocrite and am not about to sit here, weeping, at her bedside when I have such an important job on my hands. The fact that Aunty never approved of my choice of career somehow makes it all the more poignant, all the more important that I do a good job tomorrow. Please be done with it, I think silently, before returning to my laptop.

         Sometime, many hours later, I am awakened again by the sound of an alarm from another piece of equipment that has arrived since I have fallen asleep; I am unsure of its exact purpose. The noise is followed by a stampede of nurses and a doctor rushing into the room. The doctor takes Aunty’s pulse, talks to the nurses while I stand back, trying to take in the scene.
          “It is time”, the doctor says, stretching a hand towards me as in invitation to come closer. “She is taking her last breaths.” I stand by the bed, holding her fragile hand and just as the noise turns from frantic beeping to a continuous tone, I look up at the flat line on the monitor, stroke her hair and, for the first time in my life, kiss her forehead. “Sweet dreams”, I whisper.

~~~*~~~

         The nurses are very understanding when I ask them to run off a copy of my notes from a floppy disc and explain that, sadly, I am going to have to go to London for an important meeting. Sister Norah runs a copy for me, hands me a highlighter pen and I do a few last minute corrections after which she runs me another copy and places it inside a folder for me.
          “There really is no need for you to be here anymore now that she is gone. We will take care of all the necessary paper work for you to ensure the release of her body, and you can start making funeral arrangements after your meeting. A day’s delay really is no big deal”, the nurse kindly reassures me and I blush inwardly because funeral arrangements really are the last thing on my mind. It is strange because in an odd way, I always expected that my feelings for Aunty would soften once she passed away, that I would mellow and start recalling the few more pleasant moments we had together. Perhaps that is still to come, it is probably too early for her death to have sunk in and for the feelings of loathing to be replaced at something resembling affection. Give it time, I say to myself. Perhaps once the funeral is over, I will see things in a different light.

         As I am about to leave the Hospital, one of the nurses who was present in Aunty Mildred’s dying moments approaches me with a copy of my novel ‘Once in a dying winter’ in her hand, asking for an autograph. I smile and oblige, feeling a mixture of thrill and honour, as it’s been a rather long while since anybody has asked me for my autograph.
          “She was so proud of you”, says the young nurse as I am turning to leave, which strikes me as rather odd.

         Outside, the air is crisp and cold, with the first dusting of ground frost covering the parking lot and its grass verges. I walk to my car with great care, not wanting to make a complete tit of myself by slipping on the icy tarmac. I pull my coat closer to me and try to creep into the furry collar, quickening my step to get to the relative warmth of the car.

         I drive the short distance into the town centre where I book a hotel room for the night – or at least, what remains of it. It is now almost three a.m. and I have to get up even earlier than I would have had to at home, as there are no direct trains into London. I am also determined to make a good impression and for once in my life, to not be late, or drunk, when turning up for one of these meetings. After calling reception to set up a wakeup call, I also set the alarm on my mobile phone, just in case. Soon I am in a deep, dreamless sleep.

         I wake up to the sound of the telephone ringing next to my bed. Disoriented at first, I pick it up and thank the receptionist for the call. I rub my eyes as I regain my bearings and recall the long hours spent at Aunty’s bedside, and my eyes fall upon the plastic folder on the floor next to me, containing my lifeline, as it were. Within a few seconds, the alarm on my mobile also goes off.

          “Okay, all right, I am awake”, I say, throw back the covers and head for the shower. I am one of the first guests in the downstairs restaurant and help myself to a bowl of cereal, a croissant and a small portion of fruit salad, accompanied by a large pot of Earl Grey tea. I try to relax with the morning paper, but am so anxious not to miss my train that I am constantly checking the time, eating my breakfast much too quickly and, before nine a.m. I am back in my room, brushing my teeth and getting ready for the walk to the train station.

         I explain to the young chap at the reception desk that I will be spending this evening in London but may return the following night as I have funeral arrangements to take care of locally.
          “Sure no problem. You have a very nice day now, Madam”, he says in a broad and heavy American brogue.

~~~*~~~

         As my train rolls into Euston Station an hour before I am due to meet Owen, I call him at the office to see if he wants to share a cab. He, however, has already left the building and so I make my own way to the Mayfair Hotel.

         Upon arrival, I am tempted to order a whiskey to steady my nerves, instead I spend forty minutes in the small smoker’s section, drinking cups of camomile tea, smoke several cigarettes while doing a final, last minute check of my notes, making slight amendments and notes in the margins. I am not sure exactly what is going to happen today but imagine it will involve me having to do a great deal of talking, leaving Owen to handle the hideous task of explaining my sudden disappearance from the world of publishing, and my sharp decline in popularity. Owen really ought to have been a politician.

         Ten minutes before my agreed meeting time with Owen, I head to the Ladies to fix my makeup and brush my teeth. I make a conscious decision not to smoke for the remainder of the day, as I am not inclined to create the wrong impression that I have replaced drinking with chain smoking. I turn on the cold tap and let the water run over my wrists, a trick I learned while at University; apparently it is supposed to help wake you up but I am convinced it is just an old wives’ tale. Today, however, I will clutch at whatever straws I have.

         I shove a piece of chewing gum in my mouth, take one final look at my reflection (am pleased to note that the bruise on the side of my head has all but healed) and with one, final nervous sigh, head out to meet Owen in the hotel lobby.

         Owen’s tall figure towers over the other guests in the lobby and we smile at each other, me broadly, him rather tiredly, and then we almost fall into each other’s arms. I cannot remember the last time Owen held me that tightly. He is sharply dressed – as usual – in a grey pinstripe suit, crisp, white shirt and tie. His hair has grown greyer than since last time I saw him, and he looks tired, haggard. I decide not to mention my telephone call with Mel the previous night, inwardly hoping that he will confide in me about his new girlfriend. Besides, I am dying to find out why he left Melanie; to me, their relationship was always rock-solid and they seemed to be so happy, so perfect together. I hazard a guess at the old cliché of things that go on behind closed doors. I steal a look around the lobby, trying to second-guess who we might be meeting.
          “Don’t worry, they’re not here yet”, he says with a small laugh. He points at a seating area in the corner, consisting of four low but bulky camel-coloured leather seats, arranged around a small glass table in the centre. The contrast between the two seems striking to me, like a little elf, lost in a sea of sumo wrestlers.
          “Alright, honey, what have you got?”
         As I start pulling out my notes, he puts a hand on my arm and says, “Sorry, Sonia, I forgot. How’s your Aunt?”
          “Dead”, I say. “Yeah, positively dead. Best that way, been suffering a while.”
         Owen gives me a knowing, stern look across the top of his titanium framed glasses.
          “Seriously, I am fine. Look, we were never close. You know that, anyway”, I say and open the folder and start fiddling with my papers.
          “I really am very sorry… about your Aunt”, he says and something in his tone of voice, well it hits a nerve somewhere and I feel my eyes welling up.
          “Look what you made me do”, I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, trying not to smear my makeup. I clear my throat and put on a business voice, “Right, I have a couple of ideas. First it’s well, do you remember I told you I spent a summer, picking Mangoes in a orchard in Florida?”
         Owen nods but remains silent. His eyes dart upwards and he quickly gets up to shake hands with one of the two gentlemen who have just arrived. He introduces them to me as Daniel Hargreaves and John Mortimer, founders of a new publishing house called Alias, based in London’s Fleet Street. My ears prick at this information as it means they seem to have their finances in order; no paupers can afford to rent so much as a broom cupboard on Fleet Street.

         We take our seats in the luxuriously furnished hotel restaurant, and soon the conversation is flowing easily, bouncing back and forth between the four of us like a ping-pong ball. Unfortunately, it is not the only thing to be flowing; two bottles of wine arrive at our table and John Mortimer takes it upon himself to fill my glass without asking.

          “So, I hear you live in Bristol?” he asks as I watch my glass being filled to the rim. I am still throwing helpless looks at Owen, trying to get some support but, alas, before I can even think of asking for a carafe of water, the other three have raised their glasses in a toast. I smile, and sip a small amount of my wine.
          “South Gloucestershire, actually”, I finally reply. “Well, it’s a small just north of Bristol, you wouldn’t know it.” I realise my response is in vain as John is now consulting the menu and I too, open up the heavily embossed card. As my eyes wander up and down the page, I am filled with dread, as I don’t understand a single word on the menu. It is all in French, and I am afraid even my meagre pigeon French has wilted to a pathetic nothing. Owen and the two publishers are engrossed in a conversation about white water rafting, a conversation I don’t feel able to contribute to.

         I try my best to follow the conversation, looking from one person to the next like a spectator at Wimbledon following the ball from one side of the net to the other. I smile when they laugh, and when they are not paying attention, I ask the waitress to bring me a carafe of water.
          “Certainly, madam”, she says with a smile.
         Owen is now holding the floor, entertaining the two publishers of various anecdotes about me, how we first met, the instant success of my first novel, how close I became to becoming the Poet Laureate almost twelve years ago.
          “She would have been the youngest ever”, he says as he beams at me with pride, the same way I had always hoped my own father would once beam.
          “So, what happened?” John asks, filling my glass although I have barely touched the wine.
          “Who’s to say”? I pick up the glass tumbler, still feeling rather nervous in the company of strangers and I pick up my fork, picking at the monkfish tail neatly arranged on a bed of sweet and sour vegetables. The anxious knot in my stomach, securely fastened with emerging feelings of grief at the passing of Aunt Mildred, blunts my appetite and I don’t even dare to take another sip of wine for fear of instant intoxication.
          “So, how is the writing going these days?” Daniel Hargreaves addresses me directly for the first time.
          “Oh you know”, I say after finishing a mouthful of trimmed courgettes, carrots and mangetouts. I decide not to lie. “It’s been a bit slow lately, but I have a couple of…” I place my hand on the folder lying on the table between us, “ideas which…”
          “Did you know, if you are suffering from writer’s block, apparently Mozart used to pour cold water over his head before he settled down to compose. Worked, don’t you think?”
         I imagine myself in my lounge, pouring a pitcher of ice-cold water over my face, spilling it all over my handwritten notes and into the laptop, causing it to short circuit the whole house and, possibly falling and breaking my leg as I fumble around in the dark, looking for a candle. I smile at this image, and take a sip of water.
          “Different things work for different people, I suppose. I’m not sure what inspired me when I was younger. The words just seemed to write themselves, I didn’t really have a routine as such. I just… wrote.”
          “Ah yes”, Daniel says, shoving a piece of lamb into his mouth, “it’s always best when the writing isn’t… you know, forced.” He chews his food and continues, “Did you know that Louisa May Alcott only wrote ‘Little Women’ because her publisher asked her to?”
          “Really?” I am genuinely surprised.
          “Yeah, apparently she hated children.”

         This pleasant conversation, an exchange of anecdotes and trivia, continues right through the remainder of the main course, dessert and coffee. The folder lies beside me, untouched. I glance at my watch, knowing that we are meeting the next set of publishers in less than an hour. Owen looks up at me and nods, indicating he has understood my hint.
          “Right, gentlemen, this has been very pleasant. Unfortunately, Sonia and I have to go now, we have another meeting across town”, and he manages to throw in the name of the next publisher with whom we are meeting, before he raises his hand to ask for the bill.
          “I will pay for this”, Daniel says, and I detect a slight sense of anger in his voice. And, to be frank, I too am miffed. We’ve sat through a two and a half hour, four course meal with these potential publishers and I’ve not yet had the chance to pitch any of my ideas. I am frustrated, and eager to vent my anger at Owen.

          “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” I ask, furiously, as we head to the lobby, having said our goodbyes to Daniel and John. “I thought you might have pointed me in the direction as to when to talk about my ideas but no, all I get all bloody afternoon is small talk! Now they haven’t got the faintest idea…”
          “Exactly, that’s the whole point: keep them guessing. Now they know we have other options lined up, it will get them thinking. It’s all part of the grand plan, Sonia, and it’s working a treat. All you’ve got to do now is work you charm on Malcolm Dillon.”
          “The Malcolm Dillon?” I ask, stopping to pause and take this information on board.
          “Yes… Now come along, a quick change of clothes, see you back in the foyer in twenty minutes.”

         My hands are trembling as I return to the Ladies’ where, luckily, the cubicles are spacious enough to give me some elbowroom. I take off my black skirt and beige cashmere sweater and fold them on top of the toilet. Next, I take my anti-crinkle dress from my small hold-all and pull it over my head. My hair is a mess after pulling clothes on and off over my head, so I brush it back into a neat bob. I reapply a bit of make-up, place my clothes in the holdall, and sit down on the toilet to force myself to relax and gather my thoughts.

         Malcolm Dillon is one of the most ruthless critics you could ever hope – or not, as the case might be – to come across. For years he has slain egos of countless aspiring and established authors; his words are so venomous and his opinions held in such high regard that he can make or break a career. I have been one of the lucky few whose work has been reviewed either positively or at least to a neutral outcome; a good balance of positive and negative points.

         A couple of years ago I heard that Malcolm was thinking of setting up his own publishing house, backed by a couple of other editors, authors and, I believe, a national newspaper. I am under no illusion that the meeting with Dillon won’t be a walk in the park like the previous one; I expect him to be asking hard-hitting questions, leaving no stone unturned, hoping, no doubt, to squeeze a few drops of my blood out in the process. And boy, I thought I was nervous this morning!

         Although I have only met Dillon once in person, I recognise him instantly as Owen and I enter the foyer of the next hotel. He is standing at the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, looking as though he owns the place. The physical transformation Malcolm Dillon has undergone since I last saw him, is truth be told, incredible. He has gone from podgy, slimy grease ball with a hygiene routine you could, at best, describe as slack, to a trim, slim snappy dresser. His attitude, his entire demeanour has changed, too.

          “Miss Spooner, how very nice to see you again”, he says, smiling at me as he stretches a hand out in greeting.
          “Pleasure is all mine”, I say, and I mean it. Somehow with his smile, he has blown away my nerves and I feel relaxed although still on guard; you never know when the venomous cobra might spit.

         He finishes his drink and, in an instant, a waiter is by his side, asking us all to follow him to the table. As I trail behind Owen and Malcolm, I am suddenly concerned, remembering Dillon’s reputation as a heavy drinker. I decide I am going to tell him I am on antibiotics for some infection, to avoid having to drink alcohol. You have to understand, I am dying to have a drink, to steady my nerves, to help me relax, to make me feel good and loosen my tongue. But I know if I go down that road, I will soon be gulping two or three bottles of wine, and tomorrow I will feel rotten. Not just hung over rotten, but rotten because I am doing so well with limiting the drinking, and I have physically never felt so good, that I really don’t want to go down that road again.

         Luckily, Malcolm Dillon soon sets the record straight as he orders a bottle of rose wine.
          “I don’t know if either of you have heard”, he says, “but I had a bit of a health scare earlier in the year. A mild stroke, in the office, after a meeting. Luckily, my secretary was there. Spent six days in hospital – I really thought I was going to die”, he says, and even I have to choke back tears. It is strange, the transformation that takes place when you suddenly view a person in a different light. I find myself actually liking Malcolm Dillon.
          “Since then, it’s been a new regime for me: healthy diet, no more smoking cigars, a bit of exercise, although”, he says, leaning to me and continuing in a whisper, “I find exercise incredibly tedious.”
          “My only vice is the odd tipple you know, to steady my nerves.”