A Ladder to the Sky(60)

The new term got off to an exciting start with two pieces of news, one a cause for celebration, the other a source of scandal.

The former was the announcement by Garrett Colby that he’d secured a publishing deal over Christmas for his debut collection of short stories, The Voices of Animals. He told us as we settled down for our first workshop, during which he himself was due to be critiqued, and the reactions of the other students ranged from delight to envy to disbelief to a sort of carefully controlled fury.

I weighed up whether or not to tell you but decided that I should. You would find out eventually and wonder why I hadn’t mentioned it myself. But I waited until a couple of days later, when we were having dinner and you seemed to be in a good mood. That evening, I’d come home and been a little frustrated to find you working in my study again. You pointed out that it overlooked the garden rather than the street and that you needed peace in order to write and, besides, I was on campus throughout most of the day, so what did it matter?

‘You’re in very good spirits,’ I remarked as we ate. ‘Your work must be going well.’

‘Very well,’ you said cheerfully. ‘You know that moment when you realize you’ve got a firm grasp on your book and know exactly where it’s going?’

‘Sort of.’

‘That’s how I’m feeling right now. Writing a novel is a war and I think I’m winning at last.’

‘I’m really glad to hear that,’ I replied. ‘So are you going to give me some clue as to what it’s about?’

‘Afraid not,’ you said, shaking your head and grinning like a mischievous child. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘I’m hardly in a position to,’ I said. ‘It’s not as if I’ve been willing to tell you about mine.’

‘Exactly,’ you said. ‘You must be getting close to a final draft, anyway?’

‘Another six weeks or so. And you?’

‘Around the same.’

‘What?’ I asked, staring at you in astonishment. ‘But you’ve only been working on it since November.’

‘I know, but it’s just coming together a lot more quickly than I imagined. These things can happen. Anthony Burgess wrote A Clockwork Orange in about three weeks, you know. Faulkner wrote As I Lay Dying in six.’

‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ I said, unsure whether it was or not. I couldn’t even conceive of writing a novel in so short a time, but I was aware that you’d often worked in sustained periods of creative intensity.

‘Actually, I have some news too,’ I said carefully, praying that my announcement wouldn’t destroy your positive mood.

‘Oh yes?’ you asked. ‘What’s that?’

‘You remember Garrett Colby?’

‘The children’s writer with the talking animals?’

‘He’s not a children’s writer,’ I said with a sigh. ‘You’ve been told this before. Many times. They’re adult stories.’

‘With talking animals.’

‘Murakami has lots of talking animals in his books,’ I said. ‘As does Bulgakov. And Philip Pullman.’

‘Yes, but you can’t compare that little twat to any of them,’ you said.

‘Don’t call him that. It’s not nice.’

‘You don’t like him any more than I do.’

‘I know, but still.’

‘Fine,’ you said, laughing a little. ‘I’ll be nice. What about him, anyway? Has he had a breakthrough of some sort? Decided that his novel needs some trees that can dance the tango or a few lamp posts that can juggle while singing show tunes?’

‘No. Actually, he’s sold them.’

‘What do you mean, sold them? Sold what?’

‘Sold the stories. As a collection.’

You put down your cutlery and looked at me with an incredulous expression on your face. ‘You don’t mean to an actual publisher?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Jesus Christ.’ You stared across the room, refusing to meet my eye, and I could see that you were allowing yourself a few moments to digest this information and decide how to react to it. ‘Who bought them?’ you asked when you finally looked back.

‘You won’t believe this,’ I said. ‘But it was Rufus.’

You didn’t even blink. ‘Not my Rufus?’ you asked.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I replied. ‘If that’s how we think of him.’

I had only met Rufus Shawcross twice, and briefly on both occasions. The first time was only a few weeks after I’d started dating you and I was waiting in the lobby of your publishing house while you met with him in his office upstairs. Afterwards, you came down together and I could tell by the expression on your face that things hadn’t gone well, but you couldn’t avoid introducing me. I liked him immediately. He was exactly my idea of what an editor should look like: button-down shirt, thick-rimmed glasses, floppy hair, boyishly handsome, looking like he needed to shave about once every second month. The second time was several years later, after you’d had all those novels rejected and effectively been dropped. We’d run into him in a health-food store on Glasshouse Street and the whole thing had been terribly awkward. You’d pretended to be friendly but everything you said was clearly intended as an insult and he seemed upset by your rudeness. For my part, I was simply embarrassed. I knew the poor man had taken no pleasure in turning down your novels, but he’d had no choice. After all, they weren’t any good.