‘I order them from America,’ Freda replied to Joely’s unasked question. ‘The machine itself was my father’s. I know there are easier ways to work these days, but I’m attached to it.’
Tearing herself from the fascination of a bygone era Joely crossed to one of the windows wanting to get a closer look at the balcony that hugged it. It was large enough to stand on, she discovered, though perhaps not when it was so cold outside, and even then she felt sure that being out there would give her vertigo considering how high they were. She looked ahead at a whirling formation of seabirds and on to the restless waves glittering in a sudden burst of sunlight. Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better. From here there was only a look into nature.
She turned to find Freda watching her.
‘Is this somewhere you’d like to work?’ Freda asked hopefully, generously. ‘You can bring your laptop, but I shall ask you to use a font that is similar to my Remington’s. After all these years I find it easier to read – and I’d like you to print out the pages when you’ve finished so I don’t have to critique on a screen. Is that acceptable to you?’
‘Of course,’ Joely replied, ‘but do you have a printer?’
‘I don’t, but Edward has organized for one to be delivered sometime today.’ Her eyes performed a slow progress into twinkle. ‘And once you’re underway in here I shall wait with bated breath elsewhere in the house for you to bring me your literary interpretations of our discussions. Is that acceptable to you? Will you take notes, or did you bring a voice recorder?’
Not a little daunted by this on several levels, Joely tackled the unstated one first. ‘Are you meaning that you want me to continue the first draft?’ she asked.
No hesitation. ‘Correct. With the first two chapters I’ve established a style for you to emulate, and I have every confidence that you’ll do so with great skill and sensitivity. Taking a step back like this will allow me to call upon a more objective viewpoint, and at the same time it’ll give me an idea of how you see my life.’ She gave a sudden laugh that softened her features and seemed to dispel the strange air of intensity. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she chided. ‘Before you write anything we’ll talk, at length. I’ll tell you everything that happened and you’ll transform it into words that everyone will believe I’ve written myself.’
It wasn’t as though Joely hadn’t worked this way before, often because the client was either too busy or too lazy to do it themselves – and just as often because they had no writing skills. None of these applied to Freda M. Donahoe, who was an established author of a literary standard that Joely wasn’t at all sure she could emulate, much less meet.
‘It’ll simply be a first draft,’ Freda reminded her, picking up on Joely’s misgivings. ‘When it’s done we’ll review and edit it together and if need be I’ll take over from there. Would that suit you?’
Joely said, ‘Yes, I’m sure it will. I just … Well …’
‘Don’t be intimidated,’ Freda instructed. ‘I have no doubt that we’ll soon fall into a pattern that will work extremely well for us both. I don’t want you to be shy about making suggestions, and you must feel free to give me your opinions on certain behaviours. I asked you about my parents earlier, and what sort of people you considered them to be. It’s going to be helpful to me to see them – and myself – through your eyes. Did you warm to young Freda?’
Wishing she felt better prepared for this, while realizing she had to get herself off the spot before she came out with the wrong thing, Joely said, ‘I’d like to have some time to think about that,’ and before Freda could respond she pointed to a door beside the day bed. ‘What’s through there?’ she asked.
Unruffled by this small distraction, Freda’s eyebrows rose humorously. ‘A WC,’ she replied, and glanced over her shoulder as a voice carried up from downstairs,
‘Yoohoo, I’m back.’
To Joely’s relief it was Brenda, who’d returned to clear up after lunch and to take away any laundry that needed doing. At least while Freda was busy with her, Joely would have a little time to collect her thoughts and maybe even read through those first two chapters again. She’d had no idea she was going to be questioned about them in quite such a personal way, and nor had she expected to be writing the rest of the first draft herself. If anything, after reading the first chapters, she’d imagined her role was going to be more of a sounding board, a researcher, perhaps even a line editor, with some occasional ghostwriting. However, if she’d learned anything from this past half an hour with Freda Donahoe it was that if she, Joely Foster, wanted to make an impression on her unusual and clearly unpredictable client she was going to need all her wits about her.
‘So,’ Freda said with a smile as they settled down either side of the kitchen fireplace after Brenda had gone, ‘have you decided yet whether you’re warming to the young Freda?’
Used to clients referring to themselves in the third person, especially when discussing behaviour or events they might not be proud of, Joely said, ‘I’m still forming an opinion, but she certainly intrigues me.’ And before Freda could take the ball back to her court she said, ‘What do you think of her?’
Appearing surprised by the question, but ready to take the challenge, Freda said, ‘I think she’s vain, ignorant and arrogant.’
Joely hadn’t expected that. ‘Harsh words to speak about yourself, especially when you were at such a tender age.’
‘Do you think I have to like who I was back then?’
‘No, but if you’re still angry with your fifteen-year-old self it’ll come through and—’ she broke off as Freda waved a dismissive hand.
‘I was naïve,’ she declared, ‘vulnerable and hormonal. I thought I knew more than I possibly could at fifteen, and my parents encouraged me to believe it.’
‘So you’re still angry with them?’
Freda’s eyes shifted to the flames as she considered this. It seemed to take a long time for her to formulate an answer, until in the end she folded her hands almost prayer-like and began to shake her head. ‘I loved my parents,’ she said softly. ‘I loved them very much and they suffered in ways no parent should ever have to.’
Joely held her silence, and even her breath. She pictured the raucous weekend parties and motherly chats that had influenced and confused a young girl; the respectable tax lawyer and his wife the civil servant who wrote speeches for ministers. Could they still be alive? They’d be very old if they were. What had happened to them? What had happened to the husband, and was there any other family today besides the nephew?
Freda spoke again, this time in a tone that was light, even bordering on playful as she said, ‘How do you feel about explicit sex?’
Joely stared at her.
‘Writing it, I mean.’
Joely swallowed, and tried to work out what the right response should be.
‘Do you think sex should be portrayed in graphic detail?’ Freda enquired. ‘Or should it be approached with the use of subtle innuendo and metaphor?’