A Ladder to the Sky(104)

The barmaid poured the drinks and I happened to glance over to the other side of the pub and a familiar face – two familiar faces, in fact – caught my eye. I turned away quickly, hoping they hadn’t spotted me, but perhaps my sudden movement alerted them for they looked in my direction and recognized me immediately. An awkward moment followed before they raised their hands in greeting and I nodded in return, attempting a smile, before carrying the drinks back to our table. I wanted to sit down and see whether things felt different between Theo and me now, but there was simply no way around it. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate until I’d gone over.

‘Will you excuse me for a moment, Daniel?’ I asked him. ‘I just spotted a couple of old friends in the corner and I should probably go over and say hello.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And it’s Theo.’

‘What?’

He shook his head and reached into the pocket of his coat for his phone as I walked across the room, hoping that I looked reasonably healthy and not too much like the tragic old drunk I had turned into.

‘Hello, Garrett. Hello, Rufus,’ I said, shaking their hands in turn. Garrett Colby, my late wife’s former student, and Rufus Shawcross, my erstwhile editor. The man who’d dropped me after the failure of The Treehouse and come to regret that when I was shortlisted for The Prize with The Tribesman a few years later.

‘Hello, Maurice,’ said Rufus, standing up and shaking my hand as if we were close friends. ‘It’s been such a long time! How are you keeping these days?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ I said.

‘You know Garrett Colby, don’t you?’ he asked, turning to his companion.

‘We were friends back in my UEA days,’ said Garrett, not standing but offering his hand too. ‘Hello, Maurice, it’s nice to see you again.’

‘Well, we were acquainted,’ I said, correcting him. ‘“Friends” might be pushing it a little. I almost didn’t recognize you. What happened to all that lovely blond hair of yours? It used to be rather a signature piece, didn’t it? Drove all the boys crazy, as I recall.’

‘I got older,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And it fell out. Are you growing a beard? I didn’t realize they were back in vogue for men on the wrong side of fifty.’

‘No, I just haven’t shaved in a few days,’ I said.

‘Actually, we’re celebrating,’ said Rufus, and I noticed now that they had a bottle of champagne standing between them in a silver ice bucket. That wasn’t something you saw in the Lamb and Flag very often. ‘You’ve heard the wonderful news, I presume?’

‘No. Has Mr Trump died?’

‘Even better. The shortlist for The Prize came out this morning and Garrett is on it.’

‘Garrett who?’ I asked.

‘Garrett,’ repeated Rufus, looking a little baffled by my question. ‘This Garrett.’

‘Oh, right,’ I said, turning back to the buffoon next to him, who was grinning like the cat that got the cream. Of course, I knew only too well that he’d made the shortlist. It had made me scream aloud in my flat earlier that day when the news was revealed. I had thrown four dinner plates, two cups and a vase at the wall and they had all smashed into pieces that I would have to clear up later. ‘I didn’t even know that you were still writing.’

‘Apparently, I am.’

‘Well, congratulations you.’

‘Thanks, but it’s not really all that important,’ he said with the insouciant air of a man who was beside himself with happiness but didn’t want to make it too obvious in case he came across as gauche. ‘Prizes are rather ridiculous, don’t you think? Writers of my generation make such a fuss about them. It’s an unedifying sight. I mean, you ask someone how their book is doing and they reply by telling you that it didn’t make this shortlist or that longlist and it just makes one roll one’s eyes in despair.’

‘So you won’t be going on the night then?’ I asked. ‘You’ll be making a stand, on principle?’

‘Oh, well, I have to go,’ he said, colouring slightly. ‘I mean, I owe it to Rufus and to everyone at the publishing house who’s put so much work into my book. But whether I win or not is neither here nor there. I’ll just get drunk and enjoy the silliness of it all. I daresay it will make for a good scene in a later novel.’

‘Of course you’re going to win,’ said Rufus, reaching across and gripping Garrett by his pathetic little biceps, around which a small child could have comfortably wrapped his thumb and middle finger. ‘It’s your year. It has to be.’

‘Do you really think so?’ he asked hopefully.

‘I’m sure of it. The reviews for Garrett’s book have been extraordinary,’ he added, turning to me. ‘Have you read them?’

‘I was neither aware of the reviews nor of the book,’ I lied. ‘But I’m delighted to hear it’s gone down so well. Edith would be proud of you.’

‘We’ll be adding your name to the list of all those great writers whose names have been associated with The Prize,’ he said, turning back to Garrett. ‘Including, of course, our friend Maurice here.’

‘Well, that was all a long time ago,’ I said.