A Ladder to the Sky(71)

‘He said that your publisher called and they’re wondering whether you might give the title of your novel another thought. Turns out they don’t like it very much. They want something a little more commercial.’

‘Really? I thought it was rather good.’

‘I thought so too when I came up with it,’ I said, raising my voice now. ‘The Tribesman.’

‘Sweetheart, it’s just a title,’ you said, smiling, and I knew you were rattled, for you’d never once, in all the years of our acquaintance, called me sweetheart or darling or honey or baby or any of those other bullshit words that I’ve always hated so much.

‘It’s more than just a title,’ I said. ‘It’s the whole fucking book! You’ve stolen it from me!’

‘Oh, please,’ you replied with a laugh. ‘I haven’t stolen anything. Don’t be so melodramatic.’

‘Jesus, Maurice, I looked on your computer! I found the file. And the emails to and from Peter. I found my novel there. My novel!’

‘But do novels really belong to any of us?’ you asked, looking up towards the ceiling as if we were engaged in a profound philosophical discussion. ‘Other than to readers, I mean? It’s an interesting question, don’t you think?’

‘That’s what you’ve been doing here all year,’ I said, standing up and starting to pace the floor as the depth of your betrayal hit me. ‘While I’ve been at work, you’ve been sitting in that office, transcribing my book, word for word. And the drafts! You even managed to get some of them on there! I have to compliment you, Maurice. You’ve been pretty good at covering your tracks.’

You opened your mouth to protest but I knew that you couldn’t be bothered to deny it. You’d been caught out. It was easier to change tack.

‘I needed it,’ you said quietly, unable to look me in the eye. ‘I’m sorry, Edith, but I had no story. You know that. I’ve never had a story of my own. I’m just no good at them.’

‘That doesn’t mean you can steal mine!’ I shouted.

‘Look,’ you cried, standing up and coming towards me, frightening me a little as you took me by the arms and I pulled free. ‘No one has to know. Just give me this, Edith, that’s all I ask. If you love me, if you truly love me, then just give me this. The novel is wonderful, by the way. Everything that Peter has said about it is true. It really is a masterpiece and you’re a terrific writer. I’ve got a real shot at The Prize with it. I’ll certainly be shortlisted, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.’

I stared at you, bewildered, wondering whether you’d lost your mind completely. ‘But then it’s my masterpiece,’ I cried. ‘And it will be my shortlisting!’

‘Does it matter whose name is on it? We’re married, aren’t we? We’re a team. In it for the long haul. What difference does it make to you if I put my name on this one and you start another? I’m better known than you are, after all, and this is my way back into the publishing world. I’ll write something else myself afterwards, I promise.’

‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I roared. ‘You actually think I’m going to just give you my novel? After all the work I’ve put into it?’

‘Why not?’ you asked, looking confused. ‘Is it really that much to ask?’

‘Because it would be a complete lie!’

‘I think you’re being terribly selfish,’ you said, and I started to laugh, my laughter quickly becoming a little hysterical. I felt as if this couldn’t possibly be happening. I looked at you, you smiled, and I couldn’t help it, at that moment I remembered how attractive I’d always found you, and for a moment I wondered how it would feel to fuck you right there and then, knowing everything about you that I knew now. But of course I didn’t, I turned around instead and left the room, making my way towards the bedroom, where I was going to start packing for you. Before I could get in there, you’d caught up with me at the top of the stairs and had spun me around. The stink of vomit on the floor was overwhelming.

‘What are you going to do?’ you asked, and I could see how pale your face had gone now. The terror you felt that I was going to expose you as a liar.

‘First, I’m going to throw you out,’ I said. ‘Then I’m going to phone my agent and tell her what you’ve done. After that, I’m going to phone your agent and tell him what you’ve done. How you’ve lied to him, made a complete fool of him in the industry. I can’t imagine that he’ll be very happy, can you? It might delay the press release by a few days. Oh, and then I should probably call your publisher too—’

‘You can’t!’

‘Of course I can! Do you actually believe you can get away with saying that you wrote it? You might have created a few drafts on your computer, Maurice, but I have dozens of notebooks, all dated, all filled with notes. You never looked for them, did you? I have so much proof that the novel is mine that it will take about five minutes to show you up for the plagiarist you are. It’s no wonder that you’re fucking Maja Drazkowski, you probably gave her the idea of stealing someone else’s story from the New Yorker.’

‘That’s true, I did,’ you said with a mocking laugh. ‘I didn’t think she’d have the guts to go through with it, though. Although I didn’t say the New Yorker. I told her to pick a much more obscure magazine. Something from some mid-Western university press with about five readers. She slipped up badly there. I mean, the New Yorker. What an amateur.’