I said nothing, and sensed Connie’s unease. ‘At least it makes a change from drowning,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of women drowning in art.’
I still said nothing. ‘You don’t like it,’ she said.
‘I do,’ I said. ‘Of course I do. But, Connie – is Margaret guilty or not?’
She looked confused. ‘Guilty of what?’ she said.
I tried to mask my impatience. ‘Christina’s dead. Was that Margaret’s intention?’
Connie frowned. ‘Have I not made her intentions sufficiently obvious?’
‘Maybe I’m being stupid, Con.’
‘No, you’re not. I’m interested in what you think.’
Emboldened, I pushed on. ‘I just thought – given that it’s a book about responsibility—’
‘Oh,’ she said, elongating the word, her eyes wide. ‘You thought there’d be some justice. A sort of reparative chapter at the end.’
‘I just thought we’d – understand Margaret’s intentions. Whether she had any remorse, for example.’
‘Huh.’
‘People – are going to want to know.’
‘Well,’ said Connie brusquely. ‘They’re going to have to work it out for themselves. This is a book about how people damage each other inadvertently. I’m not going to spoon-feed them. Bash them over the head with it. That’ll kill it.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Although maybe I need to amp up Margaret’s pain a bit. Show some odd behaviour or something. I don’t want her to be aware of it, you see. Because she is hurting.’
I fought back the tears that were threatening. ‘So Margaret did love her daughter?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Connie, looking at me in disbelief. ‘Of course.’
‘And did she mean her to die?’
‘No,’ said Connie. ‘But that’s between you and me.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry, Laura. I didn’t realize you were going to react so strongly to it.’
‘I suppose that’s what happens when you become so intensely involved.’
‘I suppose. And I’m glad you are.’
‘And Margaret – is she going to die in the sea? I mean, it’s the Atlantic Ocean,’ I said.
‘Well, if she didn’t go into the water, they were going to set the dogs on her. She had no choice, Laura. But don’t worry: she isn’t going to die in the sea.’ Connie put her hand on my shoulder. I felt the bone and sinew of it. ‘Margaret Gillespie never dies.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I haven’t written that, that’s why not.’ I shrugged her hand off. It was the most transgressive thing I’d done to her: it felt teenaged and taboo, and Connie looked shocked. ‘What on earth’s wrong?’ she said. ‘It’s just a story.’
‘It isn’t,’ I said. ‘I know it isn’t.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘It’s your life.’
Connie’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, it isn’t my life, Laura. It’s my work.’
‘But it’s come from inside you. Who is Christina? Who is Margaret?’
Connie looked alarmed. ‘Christina is Christina. Margaret is Margaret. Who do you think they are?’
‘They’re people you know.’
Connie stiffened. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. As figments of my imagination.’
‘Just figments?’
‘Where has all this come from?’
‘I just – I’m confused, Connie.’
‘I see that. Confused about what?’
I struggled to find the right words. ‘Nothing,’ I said eventually, miserably, feeling a fool.
‘Laura,’ said Connie more gently. ‘Come away from the computer for a moment.’
I obeyed her, turning round to face her fully. She looked down at me, her expression one of concern. ‘Are you angry that we’ve finished? Do you think I won’t need you any more?’
‘No,’ I said, but I realized as I spoke that the thought of not being near Connie, not being wanted by her, would devastate me. ‘Connie,’ I said, looking pleadingly up at her. ‘You haven’t written anything for thirty years. Why did you want to write this now?’
She gave me a long look. From the slight twitch at the side of her mouth, I could tell she was irritated and had had enough of questions. ‘Because it was what was inside me, Laura. And it had to come out.’ She put her hand up to stop me saying more. ‘Now, can you go and send it off to Deborah?’
*
Chastened, frustrated, I went to the corner cafe – more of a teashop than a greasy spoon, this was Hampstead, after all – to use the Wi-Fi and email the manuscript to Deborah from another account I’d had to make up for Laura Brown. I texted Deborah to tell her to expect it waiting in her inbox when she got back to work.
Deborah texted back immediately. Thanks, she wrote. What a way to start the new year! Can’t believe it really. Having a brief glance now, it seems very clean. Excited!
I was interested in the word clean. Clean – as if Connie had threatened Deborah weeks previously with something dirty and messy, a tangle of the past unthreaded and re-woven for the present. This book had a sleek, authoritative power to it, and its characters emanated guilt and mystery. Deborah would find that out.
I didn’t reply, because I was worried I’d get sucked into writing something that could be used against me if anyone ever discovered who I was. Deborah had the manuscript, and that was all that mattered. When I got back from the cafe, Connie was standing in the hallway, wrapped in a long scarf and coat. ‘I’m going to the Heath,’ she said.
‘I might go for a nap,’ I said, ‘I’m exhausted.’
She stopped in the hallway. ‘You’re often exhausted, Laura,’ she said. ‘Are you eating enough?’ Then she was gone.
I wandered into the front room, drained yet slightly wired from Connie’s energy. I pictured her pacing the common land, sparked and restless, anticipating her agent’s verdict after such a monumental break in time. But what I should have been doing was paying more attention to myself. Not to Connie. Not even to my invisible mother. Not to Margaret Gillespie or her daughter Christina. But to myself.
1982
28
Everyone from the last few months of their LA life came to Elise’s belated birthday party. Connie had hired waiting staff, who moved in and out of the groups with trays of canapés. The waiting staff all looked like models – young men and women, extra-tall and extra-beautiful, their minds only half on their serving duties, waiting to get back to their small apartments in case today was the day for the magic phone call from their agent that might change their lives. The canapés they took around the patio were delicate and colourful, little blobs of avocado, curls of smoked salmon, puffs of pastry filled with Californian vegetables that nobody wanted to eat. There was tequila and vodka, and wine and beer and soft drinks. Music pumped from speakers that Connie had placed facing the garden from the living room: Roxy Music, The Sweet, The Stranglers, The Clash.