Chapter Nine

Chapter 9

         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 Auntie’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.”
         There is no doubting the fact that Malcolm Dillon is a transformed man; in spite of his vicious reputation as a ruthless, no beating round the bush, critic who is not afraid of calling a spade a fucking awful spade, it turns out his temper has mellowed. Don’t get me wrong; he is no pussycat and he still doesn’t suffer fools gladly.
         The questions he asks me over dinner are hard-hitting and hurtful; hurtful because they confirm what Owen previously told me, that my life is a mess. I have gone steadily down a very slippery slope, have managed to crawl my way up an inch or two on a couple of occasions, but generally it has been downwards for three years now.
          “Where do you think it went wrong?” Dillon asks me after dinner and small talk has finished.
         I know from my experience of him, both old and new, that he isn’t looking for a woolly answer. “I know that… that everything starts somewhere”, I say tentatively, looking across at Owen for support but he is giving me a straight-laced poker face. “I believe in circles”, I continue, “that everything in life evolves in circles, no real beginning and no end. The way that the planets evolve in a set pattern, it fascinates me. I think that each stage of our lives is a circle and as you move from one stage of your life to another, two or sometimes more circles are moving at the same time, overlapping, absorbing elements of each other before they drift apart, taking with them parts from a previous stage that perhaps we can’t quite let go of.”
         The look I get from Owen still doesn’t give anything away. Damn you, I think, I need you here! I feel like I am drowning in my own ocean of confused, irrational thoughts. Circles? Pah! He must think me such a fairy.
          “That’s… interesting”, Dillon says as he is unwrapping a small chocolate mint, which he chews thoughtfully before continuing. “I’ve not thought of it like that before, but you are right. About the circles.” Stirring his coffee, he says, “which… circle… would you say you are in right now, and where would you like to be?”
         I realise I have to continue to be on my guard with Malcolm Dillon; it feels as though I am in a confined space with a caged animal who could, at any time, pounce and go for the kill. But at the same time, no cock and bull story will do. It is time, as they say in America, to talk turkey.
          “My circle is complex. There is one… section of my circle, which carries on from one circle to the next. My parents died when I was six, you see… In a car accident. My love for them, and the trauma I felt at the time, is always with me… In my heart. Then there is a portion of… anger and resentment. That I am trying to let go of.”
          “Who do you resent?”
          “My Aunt Mildred… Well, I resented her. She brought me up after my parents passed away, and let’s just say she didn’t make a good parent. I think a lot of my feelings of inadequacy and lack of self-esteem is down to her. She was always telling me I am no good.”
         Even in my own ears it sounds like I am whining and if there is one thing I know about Malcolm Dillon, it is that he hates people who whine. The only reason why I am telling him this is that he is no longer a critic but a potential publisher. I will not fear having my name or my work ripped to pieces in the Sunday papers, but hopefully, merely a rejection letter. At this moment in time I don’t dare even contemplating a publishing deal with Malcolm Dillon; I may as well wish for the moon.
          “She passed away last night…”, I say, and Owen leans back in his chair. I try but fail to read either of them; it is as though they are preparing me for the slaughter but now that I have started this diatribe I feel I have to continue. There is no way of backtracking my way out of this situation. I am dying for a cigarette or a glass of wine, or both, and the thought of it makes me tremble; I want so much to be strong and prove I can do this.
          “I am very sorry to hear that”, Dillon says, “but what are you doing here? Should you not be with your relatives at a time like this?” He has placed a reassuring, comforting hand on my arm and I give him a small smile.
          “I have no other relatives”, I say and feel my throat constricting. I fight the tears burning behind my eyes. “In a way, the timing of her death could be good. I feel I am ready to progress to the next circle, and leave those negative feelings behind. Bury them for good.”
          “That may not be as easy as it sounds”, he objects, “you know how difficult it can be to break the habit of a lifetime.”
          “Sure, I am not oblivious to that. All I am saying is, it is time to put that demon to rest. She can no longer touch me, it doesn’t matter anymore what she thinks – and in a way, if I do fail, if I don’t manage to pull myself out of this rut, then she has won. She was right. I am a failure.”
          “And in terms of your writing, where are you with that?”
          “Well”, I sigh, placing a hand on the folder next to me, “I have put together a few ideas…”
          “I am not interested in your ideas, Miss Spooner. Continuing with your circle analogy, where are you with your writing?” For the first time this evening, his voice is hard and unforgiving, a flash of the old Malcolm Dillon.
         I have never been inside a court of law, neither as a witness, a defendant nor as a member of a jury. Today I learn a hard lesson in what is feels like to be cross-examined by a barrister or prosecutor who has done his homework.
          “For a long time, my writing circle was just… well, almost… drifting… in a sphere of its own. A few years ago, it drifted into the realm of my personal circle… and they became… meddled, linked.” I curse myself for having brought the whole damn circle thing up; clearly the weeks and months of solitude has turned my brain to pea soup, which, if you think about it, might explain my inability to write a decent piece of work.
          “What links did the two circles establish?” Even more astounding than me having mentioned the bleeding circles in the first place is the fact that Malcolm Dillon seems intent on continuing with it, pressing, pushing me, like a bulldog hell-bent on hanging onto its bone. How much more of my blood does he want? I wonder.
          “Well, personal… circumstances started interfering with my… ability to put thoughts onto paper. I became… so consumed with my own life, my own feelings, that I couldn’t… I couldn’t relate to the outside world anymore. I think if you lose that, then your creative cogs just… shut down.”
          “And now?” I breathe a small sigh of relief that he doesn’t press me to provide exact details.
          “Now… well, for the past six months things have been getting worse. I have been… too much on my own… brooding… drinking”, I say quietly, hoping he doesn’t react my ripping the heart out of my chest.
          “How much?”
          “Pardon?” I say but I am merely stalling for time. I look at Owen who gives me a small shrug as if to say, sort this out yourself.
          “Well, how much do you drink?”
          “A couple of bottles of wine a day. More, on a bad day.”
          “Every day?”
          “Not every day, no. But, like you, I had a wakeup call and have decided to give up the booze.” He snorts in a manner that tells me he has heard it all before. The strong, determined woman within me resurfaces, feeling she has to stand up for herself.
          “You don’t believe me?” I say, giving him a challenging look, which makes me look infinitely more self-assured than I feel; I can feel my knees trembling beneath the table. “I have spent this whole day, trying to convince you and others to let me return to the fold of established writers. I have done so without drinking much more than a glass of wine, and even that I have only drunk out of courtesy. And that is in spite of the fact that I am crapping myself with fear of rejection, in spite of the fact that my only remaining living relative passed away last night, in spite of the fact that I have barely enough money left in my bank account to pay next month’s bills.”
         Owen and Malcolm are both staring at me, and so are, I vaguely realise, a number of other diners.
          “Believe me, if I needed a drink, if I ever needed a drink, then today is the day. “