‘Oh god,’ said Connie.
‘But also the market’s very different from when we were starting out, Con. Publishers are different. You’ll have to be prepared for that. So will I.’ Deborah pushed her glasses onto her head. ‘After you called me about this, I did mention that you were writing a novel to a select few. You know, to get them excited. Word spread as it always does, and I’ve had interest from a couple of film producers to look at the manuscript. One at Paramount and one at Silvercrest.’
‘Silvercrest,’ Connie said. ‘You went to Silvercrest?’
‘I didn’t go to them, Con. I just said. They called me.’
But Connie looked furious. I had no idea why having the interest of one of the most famous movie studios in the world would be so enraging.
‘Let’s just get the manuscript typed up, and finished, and see what they say, eh?’ said Deborah placatingly.
‘Just not Silvercrest.’
‘All right.’ Deborah chewed her lip. ‘Georgina Hyatt might be interested in this book,’ she said.
‘Who the hell’s Georgina Hyatt?’ said Connie.
‘She’s an editor at Griffin Books. A little older than you, Laura. She’d love this. She’s a huge fan of yours, Con.’
‘I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing,’ said Connie.
‘Why?’
‘Well, this one’s different.’ Connie paused. ‘Do you think people will actually be interested in this?’ she said. ‘Will people actually want it?’
‘Of course, Con. I know they will.’
‘I just don’t want to be one of those poor bloody women resurrected as a “forgotten masterpiece”. It’s this awful sort of righteous kid-glovery. A book’s qualities are never elevated by the word “forgotten”. It makes it seem like it’s your fault, as if you deserved obsolescence in the first place.’
‘Tell that to the forgotten women,’ said Deborah.
*
Deborah did not stay for pudding: she claimed she had to get home to take the dog for a walk. I offered to see her out. She and I stood on the doorstep as Connie pottered in the kitchen, gingerly trying to load the dishwasher. It felt as if Deborah and I were both waiting for the sound of a smashing plate.
‘Her hands really aren’t good,’ murmured Deborah.
‘I know.’
She pulled the front door almost closed. ‘Over the years, Connie’s had a lot of girls and women drawn to her,’ she said. ‘It’s a Plath thing.’
‘A what?’
‘Except Connie made it through alive, of course. Instead of visiting a grave, these women want to get into her life. Are you one of them?’
Even as I was taken aback by her forthrightness, I was so tempted to ask Deborah whether one of those girls was called Elise Morceau. Had my mother been lured into Connie’s orbit, or had it been the other way round? Who had fallen first? And was I one of those girls too? Not here for romantic reasons, but still desirous nevertheless to peel back the layers of Connie’s life, hoping to find my mother underneath.
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I just wanted an interesting job.’
Deborah sighed. ‘Fine. You know, when she was writing the last time, she wasn’t always easy to deal with. She didn’t like talking to journalists, and I don’t see why that would be any different now.’
‘Why didn’t she like it?’ I said, feigning concern in order to seize my chance. ‘Won’t they just be delighted she’s back?’
Deborah looked uncomfortable. ‘They like to fill gaps with their own stories. Connie’s not a recluse. She just wants to live privately. But the more she hid away the more they wanted to sniff her out.’
‘But why did she want to hide?’ I said. ‘She was so popular.’
Deborah smiled. ‘Well, there’s your answer. It’s a curse, but it’s also a game. You give a little, they leave you alone. I gave up in the end trying to make Con see that. She likes you, I can see that. She may even trust you. So you’ll have your work cut out for you if this book’s a hit. I want it to be a hit, don’t misunderstand me. But it won’t be easy, for either of us.’
‘That’s good to know.’
‘I thought you should just be aware, is all. It was good to meet you, Laura.’
‘You too—’
Before I could say any more, Deborah began to walk down the short front garden path and didn’t look back. She disappeared past the hedge, and I remained on the doorstep, mystified and getting cold. I tried to comfort myself by thinking about the people I was soon to meet – Margaret Gillespie, Christina, Davy Roper – potentially as real to me as my mother – or even, in this strange limbo I was in, myself. I thought about Green Rabbit and Wax Heart, and The Locust Plague, and how much those books had stuck in me, however much the author of them had wanted to flee. Oh, you and your girls with their difficult times. They fall at your feet and look where it leads you. That’s what Deborah had said. I thought about what my dad had told me: Your mum was easily led. I was convinced that Connie and Deborah had been talking about my mother, and the thought that she might be committed to a fiction that I was going to read before anyone else felt almost too much to bear.
1982
20
Connie dropped Elise off at the roadside of Shara and Matt’s beach house. ‘I’ll come and get you in four hours, OK?’
‘What are you going to do?’ Elise asked, holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. She’d forgotten her sunglasses. Connie was wearing hers, and Elise couldn’t see her expression.
‘I’m going to work,’ said Connie.
‘Where?’
‘Where? Why are you asking that?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘I’m going to be at the house, El.’ Connie smiled at her. ‘Call there if you need me.’
‘Con—?’
But Connie had driven off. Elise watched her disappear into the blazing day. Con, she wanted to say. Today’s my birthday. I’m twenty-three.
*
Shara led Elise straight to the studio. Elise followed the other woman’s gait, her ample backside like half a cello underneath her sundress. Shara was physically everything Elise was not: full-breasted, wide-hipped, with long blonde hair and tanned skin. She reminded Elise of something hauled from the water, a sea lion, perhaps – a beautiful sea lion, half-turning into a woman, with bells on her flippers.
‘What’s funny?’ said Shara, smiling, as she sorted out her brushes.
‘Nothing,’ said Elise.
‘Are you OK to sit there?’ Shara said, gesturing to an old bottle-green chaise longue with tassels round its base.
‘Of course.’
*
The telephone call had come about a week after Elise asked Shara if she needed a model. Shara had apparently changed her mind: she did want a model – and would Elise still like to oblige? It all felt a little suspicious to Elise, and she wondered if a conversation had happened behind her back. Shara, calling Connie with the news that Elise had offered herself. Connie saying, Amuse her, Shar – she needs a distraction.