Under a Watchful Eye(95)

Wendy entwined her fingers into what looked like a bony mace and shook that knot of hand angrily. ‘But you haven’t changed all of the names! I mean, you are in it. You. You put yourself in the story! This book wasn’t supposed to be about you, it was supposed to be about him and his life’s work. This is unacceptable. It’s not what we asked for. It’s not what was required.’

‘No, it’s really not, Seb,’ Natalie said. ‘You’ve really been a grave disappointment to us. In fact, I am uncomfortably reminded of a similar experience that we had with your friend, Ewan.’

‘Quite, Nat. Quite so,’ concurred Wendy, nodding her head to add weight to their position.

Nat’s own gorge rose. It seemed she’d waited a long time to have a go at someone. I don’t imagine it has been easy living with Wendy for decades, and in that wretched hovel in the grounds of the Tor, in the service of him and the alumni of the API, or the Association of Psychophysical Investigation. At least, in the story, I did change the acronym of the API to SPR – not that anyone beyond a handful of people even knew anything about the API. ‘You promise so much, you writers. And we’ve taken such a close interest in you, and we presented you with a marvellous opportunity, and provided access to miracles, and then . . . you produce this? You have assassinated us. You let us down, you let the API down, you let him down, you let yourself down.’

Wendy now looked at Nat with something approaching surprised admiration, though this quickly turned to what looked like resentment, as if Wendy had wanted to say these very things to Seb, but had been upstaged by her subordinate. ‘Thank you, Nat,’ she said in such a way as to prompt the end of her colleague’s participation in the discussion.

I fought to suppress a smile of satisfaction. My revenge had been sweet and all that I’d done was write an accurate account of my recent experiences. But it would have been foolish to goad them any more. Despite the tone of the novel, I was sure that the publishing advance would deter them from taking revenge. There are times when being a disappointment as a writer is advantageous because freedom is the by-product. ‘You asked for an interpretation of my experience of your organization, Wendy, and from the very moment that Ewan reappeared in my life. You wanted me to depict what you have devoted your lives to: him, Hazzard. Well, this is the honest result. I’m afraid I see you in a way that is remarkably at odds with how you perceive yourselves. And I can only write what I feel compelled to write. I’m afraid, as I told you, I cannot write to order. I have more integrity than that. And it’s not as if he can even read it. So be grateful for what you have.’

The two women stared at me in silence. Their shock and suppressed rage seemed to suck the static electricity out of the room and into their quivering bodies. One of Wendy’s eyelids even trembled above that discoloured, egg-yolky eye, and the eyeball appeared to distend from the eye socket. Her forehead purpled and I mused over her blood pressure.

‘I know what this is,’ Wendy all but spat at me. ‘It’s a smear. Revenge. A petulant attempt to protest your grievances. But that was not what we asked for!’

‘Asked for? Is that how you would describe what you have demanded from me, ever since Ewan allowed your shadows to fall across my threshold, and to darken an existence that I was perfectly content with?’

‘Oh no. No, no!’ Wendy cried. ‘We’re not going through all that again. If you cannot see this as an opportunity, then that is not our problem. This book –’ Wendy tapped the manuscript that she had thrown onto the coffee table – ‘is nothing short of a smear campaign.’

‘Then sue me for defamation and libel. After the book is published.’

Wendy’s thin-lipped mouth worked about her dirty teeth but produced no sound. There was a flicker now in her second eyelid.

‘Did you say, published?’ Natalie whispered.

‘Oh, yes. My publisher has accepted the manuscript. I sent an outline and the first few chapters to my agent some time ago. That’s how it works, you see. Not that either of you would know anything about how this business operates. And that thing that occupies the top floor of the Tor wouldn’t have a clue either, because he’s been out of the loop for some time. But my publisher has offered me a new agreement for Yellow Teeth. They’re very enthusiastic about this book too, and more so than the book I abandoned. In fact, they hope to publish Yellow Teeth at Halloween, this year.’

Wendy managed to swallow enough of her bile to speak, albeit in a strained whisper. ‘How much are they offering?’

I told them.

‘Dear God,’ Wendy said. ‘As much as that?’ She glanced at the manuscript on the table. ‘For . . . this?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘For that very novel, right there. Yellow Teeth. The manuscript has been accepted for publication.’

‘I see,’ said Wendy, the blossom of blood draining from her face. ‘And you took it upon yourself to proceed without discussing this with us.’

‘I did. It’s my book and my career.’

‘Not exactly,’ Nat offered. ‘We have told you that you mustn’t think about your writing in those terms any more. You are to facilitate the reintroduction of a significant set of ideas into the world.’

‘Nat!’ Wendy barked. ‘If you don’t mind!’