A Ladder to the Sky(77)

‘I assume you’ve brought something new for me to read?’

‘Ha! As if I would. After the way I’ve been treated by your magazine? Not a cat’s chance in hell!’ She leaned forward and rearranged the letter opener, stapler and hole-punch on Maurice’s desk so they were perfectly aligned. ‘I don’t give my work to people who despise me.’

‘I don’t despise you, Henrietta,’ replied Maurice. ‘Why on earth would you think such a thing?’

‘Well, you don’t respect me, that’s for sure.’

She reached into her carpet bag and shuffled around for a bit in it before removing a sheet of A4 paper folded into eighths. ‘Dear Henrietta,’ she read aloud as she unravelled it. ‘Thank you so much for allowing me to read your latest story—’

‘If I may,’ he interrupted.

‘THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALLOWING ME TO READ YOUR LATEST STORY,’ she repeated, raising her voice now, ‘a wonderfully quirky fable that illustrates just why FSG were so keen to sign you up! Unfortunately, space in Storī is rather limited at the moment and I don’t think I’ll be able to publish it, although I daresay I’ll regret that when the New Yorker snaps it up! Keep sending me your stuff, though, I can’t get enough of your particular brand of whimsy. Much love, Maurice Swift. Editor-in-chief.’

‘You’re upset,’ said Maurice.

‘Upset? Why would I be upset? It’s only “stuff”, after all. It’s not as if I pour my very lifeblood into every sentence, paragraph and chapter. Stuff! Fuck you, Maurice. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.’

‘That might have been an unfortunate choice of word,’ he admitted.

‘You think? I never would have imagined that you would treat me with such contempt. You’ve let me down, Maurice, you really have.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t take it personally,’ he replied. ‘I’ve done that to quite a few people over the years. There’s an army of them out there, both living and dead, who don’t look at me with any particular benevolence.’

‘Anyway,’ she continued with a sigh, looking around the office, which was filled with books, manuscripts and multiple back issues of Storī. Several shelves were taken up with various foreign-language editions of Two Germans, The Treehouse, The Tribesman, The Breach and The Broken Ones. ‘I wouldn’t normally do this, but since we have so much history together I thought I’d come in and offer you a second chance.’

‘A second chance?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘At what exactly?’

‘At publishing my story,’ she replied, rolling her eyes. ‘Because if you don’t want it, I’ll take it across the street and find someone who does.’

Maurice tried not to laugh. Across the street? Did she think she was a character in a David Mamet play? There was nothing across the street except a vintage-clothes store, a coffee shop that reeked of marijuana and an elderly homeless man who sang the chorus of ‘American Pie’ whenever anyone handed him money. If she wanted to take it across to any of them, then she was perfectly welcome.

‘Of course, I hate to pass up such an opportunity,’ said Maurice. ‘But I read the story several times and I just didn’t think it was the right fit for our upcoming issues. I don’t like turning people down but—’

‘And I don’t like being shitted upon from a great height!’ shouted Henrietta. ‘Particularly by someone I respect and admire.’

He frowned. Weren’t respect and admire essentially the same thing? She’d made similar blunders in the story he’d rejected. The opening line, for example, had gone:

Every evening as he took the train home from work, Jasper Martin began to feel both anxious and apprehensive.

The same thing. And there was another on page four:

Lauren glanced up towards the light, which was flickering and quivering, and wondered whether she should put off hanging herself until the connections were secure.

The same thing.

‘I don’t think I’ve shitted on you, Henrietta,’ said Maurice. ‘Not from any height, great or small. I just didn’t feel the story was right for us, that’s all. And I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can be persuaded otherwise.’

‘What was wrong with it?’

‘There was nothing wrong with it, per se,’ replied Maurice, glancing back towards the screen, where Nadal was celebrating taking the second set. ‘I suppose I just didn’t feel that it had your usual je ne sais quoi.’

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s French.’

‘I know it’s French. And I know what it means. I’m asking what you mean by it.’

‘Do you want the truth?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘It’s just that, usually, when I ask writers whether they want the truth, they say that they do but actually they want anything but. They want me to lavish praise on them and tell them to dust off their dinner jackets for the Nobel Prize ceremony.’

‘I don’t own a dinner jacket,’ said Henrietta, narrowing her eyes. ‘Now, are you going to—’

‘I just thought the story was a little boring, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It didn’t seem to go anywhere. There were some interesting moments, of course, and your writing is as strong as ever, but the overall effect was—’