There was a silence in the room. ‘What do you mean?’ Deborah said eventually.
‘The thing is,’ said Connie. ‘Everyone is always abandoning Margaret Gillespie. This is both her pleasure and her pain.’
‘What does Margaret do, Connie?’ said Deborah.
‘She makes an abortifacient for Christina,’ said Connie.
Deborah swallowed the last of her champagne. ‘Right.’
‘Christina takes it, and it kills her,’ said Connie. Slowly, Deborah placed her champagne glass on the coffee table. ‘And so Margaret has to start again.’
Sitting in this elegant living room in Hampstead, I felt an energy crackling into life: strange and cold and unfamiliar where all had been convivial. The hairs on the backs of my arms rose up, as if, in the corner, Margaret Gillespie and her daughter were manifesting from almost imperceptible shadows into a solid shape.
‘Does . . . Margaret manage it?’ I asked.
‘Manage what?’ said Connie.
‘To start again?’
She smiled. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Is it fair to say that The Mercurial is a window onto difficult family dynamics?’ said Deborah. ‘Can I tell interested publishers that’s what the novel offers?’
Connie wrinkled her nose. ‘That sounds diminishing, Deb. What about when a man writes about family? People don’t think he’s really talking about his family. If a man writes about hoovering dust from the carpet they think he’s talking about cleansing one’s soul. But when a woman does the same, she’s talking about the housework. This novel could be about the soul.’
‘I know,’ said Deb. ‘But—’
‘They think we’re incapable of making stuff up. Seeing the bigger picture – when actually we’ve had to be the best liars in town, the best impersonators.’
I choked on my champagne and Connie turned to me. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.
‘I’m fine.’ I could hardly bear to look at her.
‘All right,’ said Deborah with a touch of exasperation. ‘I won’t be saying it’s a window onto the nature of family. Although I do believe there’s nothing wrong with writing about family.’
‘Of course there isn’t,’ said Connie. ‘Except the way it’s received.’
Deborah lifted her empty glass off the table and we clinked glasses, toasting Connie’s novel. ‘I’d better check on the pizza,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ said Connie. ‘All homemade, Deb. Do you know, Laura made the base.’ She widened her eyes, as if I’d split the atom.
Deborah raised her glass in my direction, her face mask-like. ‘Congratulations,’ she said.
*
I was dying to go back, to eavesdrop on what they were talking about in my absence, but I focused on putting all the toppings on the pizza, throwing together a salad, and laying the table. This done, I tiptoed quietly along the corridor and waited outside the door. They were talking in low, insistent voices.
‘Do you really want to drag all that up again?’ Deborah was saying.
I felt my jaw go slack. I closed my eyes, willing the floorboards not to give me away.
‘It’s just a novel, Deb,’ Connie said. ‘My business is to bridge reality with the presentation of reality. The important thing is what the bridge looks like, how it feels underfoot, where it takes us. Not why I in particular am the builder.’
‘Con, I’m not stupid.’
‘You don’t understand, Deb.’ Connie seemed to hesitate. ‘You never did.’
There was a pause. ‘You think I don’t recognize where this has all come from?’ said Deborah.
‘It’s fiction,’ said Connie, an edge to her voice. ‘Did everybody think Charlotte Brontë had been locked up in a red room when she was nine years old? That she secretly wanted to marry a sociopath who kept his first wife in an attic?’
They fell to silence. I could hear the fire crackle in the grate. ‘You never meant any harm, Con,’ Deborah said eventually.
Connie was still silent, and Deborah made a puffing sound of impatience. ‘You don’t know all of it,’ Connie said.
‘I was there. Half of it was in your head, Con. In your head. I know it was a bad time, but he never blamed you. No one did. So why should you blame yourself?’
My heart began to pound. Was Deborah talking about my dad? The thought that Connie might be putting my mother in her new novel – and I might be the one to type it up, was unbearable yet irresistible. I bunched fists up to stop my hands from shaking.
‘He didn’t know the half of it, Deb. But if he had, he’d have blamed me.’
‘Well, everyone had a part to play. Including him. Con, you were too hard on yourself. You didn’t write for so long and it was such a waste. What’s changed?’
Connie sighed. ‘The fact that in a year or two I might not even be able to write my bloody name? Fiction doesn’t put anything right, but at least it tries.’
‘And now you’ve got this new girl in, getting her involved—’
‘Laura’s wonderful,’ said Connie. On hearing those words, I felt so guilty. I was not wonderful. I had invaded Connie’s house in the search for my mother. I was here for Elise, not Connie. And yet, hearing Connie say those words, I couldn’t help feeling a rush of affection for her. Connie had seen value in me – or a version of me, at least. I wanted to cry.
‘What are her qualifications?’ said Deborah.
‘She’s got a degree. She’s travelled, taught – she’s been to Costa Rica.’
‘But what does she get out of being here?’ Deborah persisted.
‘Jesus Christ, Deb. Not everyone has an ulterior motive. She needed a job. She wanted a change. I think she’s had a difficult time. A bright girl like her, working in a coffee shop.’
‘Oh, you and your girls with their difficult times. They fall at your feet and look where it leads you. I’m sorry. It’s just – I care about you, Con. I want you to be all right.’
‘I’m running out of time, Deb. One more story.’
Deborah exhaled: a long, drawn-out sigh of someone who has spent her whole life dealing with unorthodox, stubborn people. Shaken, exhilarated, I tiptoed slowly and silently down the corridor. Then I retraced my steps – loudly, this time, so the women could easily hear me. I went in and announced that in ten minutes the pizza would be ready.
*
They said nothing more of interest once I was in the room with them. Deborah made small talk and Connie was little more than monosyllabic. The evening felt ruined.
‘Would you say The Mercurial is finished?’ said Deborah.
‘Not quite yet,’ said Connie.
‘Who’s going to type it all up? I presume it’s in longhand.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. I turned to Connie. ‘I’ll type it up.’
‘My handwriting’s appalling,’ said Connie.
‘I’m the patient type.’
Connie smiled. ‘I’ll call you the patient typist.’
‘OK,’ said Deborah. ‘When Laura’s finished typing up the manuscript, we’ll be good to go. Everyone at Artemis Press who worked on your books has long gone, Connie. Which means we could go anywhere. There’s no contract. Could be a completely new approach. There’s a lot playing in your favour. People think of you as an icon. You are an icon. This is the long-awaited third novel from a literary genius who hid away.’