We work until four in the morning, fine-tuning our mass of ideas, putting them in order, searching for a nice, neat way to sum up the plot. Finally I groan, push the pile of notes away and hold up the three-page plot outline, the fruit of all our endeavours, as if it was the Holy Grail.
‘What about typing it up?’ Joe asks.
‘Screw that.’ I stand and yawn. ‘It’ll do as it is.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Rubbing my eyelids, I ask Joe if he wants to sleep on the couch instead of making the long trek home.
‘That’s OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll head back to the flat. I find it hard to sleep if I’m not in my own bed. But do you mind if I treat myself to a nightcap?’
‘Help yourself,’ I tell him, heading for the bedroom. ‘But if you get arrested for drink-driving, don’t blame me.’
In the morning I find that all the notes have been tidied away and nine sheets of A4 paper rest on top of my laptop — the word-processed plot outline and two copies. There’s a note from Joe. Thought we should type it up all the same. Hope you don’t mind. Let me know how you get on. Good luck!!!
The meetings go well. Both editors claim to be fans of my previous work, are intrigued by the plot of the new book and want to see more. I had American editors on my other books, but Jonathan thinks I should go with a Brit this time, seeing as how the story is set in London. He claps my back just before we part, tells me this could be the start of something big, then heads for the airport to catch a flight to France, leaving me behind to dream.
I spend the next week coming up with characters and exploring plot angles. I try not to think about Andeanna, but it’s hard. I can forget her for brief spells but she’s never far from my thoughts. All it takes is a moment of quiet reflection or a glimpse of an attractive woman and I’m off, recalling the lines of her face, the curves of her body, the sparkle of her eyes. I wish I wasn’t this weak, this open, but it’s an old flaw of mine.
Joe thinks I should call her. I told him the truth a few days ago, though I didn’t mention that she was married to a gangster. At first he agreed that I’d done the right thing giving her the elbow, but now he’s not sure. He says I’m tearing myself apart agonizing over her.
I think about phoning her, but I don’t know how to start the conversation.
‘Hi, Andeanna, how’s the Turk?’
‘Hi, Andeanna, or is it Deleena today?’
‘Hello, Mrs Menderes, this is the man whose heart you broke.’
Forget it!
To distract myself, I concentrate on Spirit of the Fire (I’ve decided on the title), and jot down descriptive paragraphs of what the characters look like. I also start seriously mapping out the parts of London that I plan to use in the book. I wander the metropolis, notebook in hand, searching for creepy buildings and alleys. At first I explored by day, but I’ve switched to nights. My ghost should be a creature of the darkness, only able to brave the streets when the sun goes down. More atmospheric that way.
Because I’m out late and sleeping in, I skip the first two calls on Wednesday. I wake when the phone rings, but ignore it, and only answer shortly after midday when it rings for the third time.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Jonathan roars.
‘Sleeping,’ I yawn.
‘I’ve been ringing all morning,’ he exaggerates.
‘Sorry. I was dead to the world. Didn’t hear.’
‘You’ve got a great life,’ he grumbles. Then adds brightly, ‘Guess what I just sold?’
‘Not Spirit of the Fire?’ I snap, coming fully awake.
‘Bet your skinny sleeping ass I have,’ he laughs. ‘Even on holiday, basking by a swimming pool in southern France, I push deals through for my ungrateful stable of would-be superstars.’
One of the editors phoned him yesterday with an offer. Jonathan batted terms back and forth, and this morning a deal was agreed subject to my approval, the first time a book of mine has been bought on the strength of a synopsis.
I tell Jonathan he’s the world’s best agent and promise to treat him to dinner in a restaurant of his choice the next time we meet. As soon as I’m off the phone, I punch the air with delight and grin stupidly. Then I call Joe to share the news. I get his voicemail, which frustrates me. I try leaving a message, but the words mix awkwardly on my tongue and I wind up mumbling something incoherent.
I stand in the middle of the room, mind whirling, then sit down, breathe deeply and wonder who else I could call — I have to share the news. Forgetting all of my anger and suspicion, I dial the number of the one person apart from Joe who might care. It rings on and on. I’m about to hang up when suddenly there’s an answer. ‘Hello?’ Her voice, hesitant, maybe scared, as if she thinks I might be calling to curse her out.
My mouth goes dry. ‘Delee– I mean, Andeanna? It’s me. Ed.’
There’s a long silence. I feel my heart tightening. I think something in it will fade away for ever if she hangs up or cuts me dead with a withering wisecrack.
‘Ed,’ she finally murmurs, warm as sunlight. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ I reply softly.
And we take it from there.
SEVEN
We meet in a beer garden, find a table and sit down with two glasses of their finest brew. Andeanna is dressed in green, another of her high-collar, high-hem numbers. She sips from her glass. Her fingers are damp when she lets go. She runs them over the back of her neck and smiles. ‘Hot,’ she says.
‘Yes.’ I smile self-consciously and murmur, ‘I’ve sold my book.’
She frowns. ‘What book?’
‘Spirit of the Fire. My agent –’
‘Ed!’ she squeals, and lunges across the table to hug me. ‘That’s wonderful! Who bought it? How much did you make? Have you started writing it? How can they buy a book that isn’t written? What if you change your mind or get stuck?’
I take her questions one at a time, loosening up while I answer, and by the end of the explanations we’re almost back to where we were before Andeanna dropped her bombshell. She touches my hands with her fingertips when she wants to make a point, stroking my knuckles unconsciously. For a while we chat about work, my trip to Devon, what she’s been up to. I’d like to go on like this for ever but I can’t. The elephant in the room has to be addressed.
‘We need to talk about Mikis Menderes.’
Andeanna sighs but doesn’t drop her gaze. ‘I know.’
‘I’ve been thinking about him constantly since we had our little disagreement.’ She smiles at the understatement. ‘It wasn’t the lie that maddened me so much. It’s what could have happened if he’d found out. I don’t know Menderes –’
‘Call him the Turk,’ she interrupts. ‘Everyone else does.’
‘– but I know his reputation. He wouldn’t have shrugged and made light of it if Bond Gardiner had seen us together, would he?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘He’d have torn into me, then gone after you.’
‘And if he caught up with me?’
She shrugs. ‘A beating. Maybe worse. Mikis is a dangerous man.’
‘That’s what infuriated me. It looked to me like you were playing games, toying with me, setting me up for –’
‘No,’ she begs. ‘Don’t think that. Please, Ed.’
‘I don’t,’ I sigh. Then, leaning across the table, ‘I love you, Andeanna.’
Her eyes widen. ‘No,’ she whispers.
‘I love you,’ I repeat, louder this time. A couple at a nearby table glance at us and smile. ‘I love you –’ I lower my voice – ‘and I don’t care who you’re married to. I’ll take my chances with the Turk if you love me too.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ she says miserably. ‘You’re a writer. Before that you sold computers. You can’t defend yourself against Mikis or Bond.’
‘I can deal with the Turk,’ I grunt.
‘How?’ she asks sceptically.
‘I’m a black belt in karate,’ I joke.
&nbs
p; She raises an eyebrow, but I don’t blink. Finally she grimaces. ‘Where does this leave us, Ed?’
‘That’s down to you. Do you love me?’
On the wings of a long, trembling breath, she says, ‘Yes.’
I take her hands and squeeze. ‘Tell me about your marriage.’
Her story unfolds over the course of the night. She keeps jumping between the present and the past, so I have to concentrate to piece it together. She was young when she married Mikis Menderes. It was a shotgun wedding — she was pregnant with their son, Gregory, now a grown man in his twenties. (That caught me off guard. It means she’s quite a lot older than I originally guessed. But that’s OK, I like older women.)
It was an unhappy union from the start. She knew going in that it would be. Mikis was unpleasant even when they were dating. She endured the mild abuse in the beginning because he was older than her, he was a gangster, it was a thrill to be with him. Later, when he learnt of the pregnancy, she had no choice. He insisted she keep the baby and marry him. If she’d had her parents to turn to, she might have defied him, but they’d disowned her when she hooked up with Menderes, and she didn’t dare approach them.
‘He wouldn’t let me wear white at the wedding,’ she says, her eyes a pair of dark, bitter mirrors. ‘I wanted to, even though I was five months pregnant, but he said white was for virgins, not whores. He called me a whore even though he was marrying me. He made me dress in red. It was a beautiful gown, but . . . ’
Mikis has no respect for her, no love, no compassion. She’s his wife, the mother of his only son, so she wants for nothing — the finest clothes and jewellery are hers for the asking. But no kind words, no fond caresses, no gentle gestures. He’s proud of her – he takes her with him when he wants to impress, shows her off like a prize dog – but jealous too. He regularly accuses her of flirting with men and beats her for it. He hits her for a variety of reasons – speaking back, not making a fuss of him, sometimes just for looking at him askance – but more often than not because he believes she’s considering infidelity.
‘He’s obsessed with the idea,’ she hisses. ‘He makes me mingle when he takes me to parties, forces me to talk with his associates or friends, to make him look good, so they go away saying what a charming wife old Mikis has. But then he attacks me for coming on to them. He accuses me of flaunting myself.’ She sniffs. ‘I’ve learnt not to argue. I stand and take it. It’s easier that way. Once, I threw his accusations back in his face, said I’d fucked one of the guys I’d been talking with. I thought that might shut him up.
‘I spent three weeks in hospital recovering. He’s normally careful when he hits me, focuses on my shoulders, arms, breasts.’ She touches the high collar of her dress. ‘It’s why I cover up so much, to hide the bruises. But that time he lost control and almost killed me. Since then I’ve taken my punishment without complaint.’
I would ask why she’s stuck by him instead of fleeing, except I already know the answer — you don’t run from men like Mikis Menderes. He’d hunt her, find her, kill her. Besides, he’s been her whole life since they married. I’m sure she has no friends or allies of her own. Who could she turn to for help?
‘Does he ever go after the men he accuses you of flirting with?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she snorts. ‘He knows I’ve never betrayed him. He just likes to act as if I have. He’s betrayed me plenty, though, and he doesn’t bother to hide it. He’s had so many women. He taunts me with them when he’s bored, phones them when he knows I’m listening, comes home with their lipstick all over him, moans their names while he’s fucking me, tells me how much better they are.’
‘Why doesn’t he divorce you and marry one of his other women?’ I snarl.
‘He doesn’t believe in divorce. I don’t think he’d marry again, even if I died. He’s in love with the idea of family.’
‘What does your son think? Does he stand by and –’
‘Greygo?’ she interrupts with a smile. ‘That’s what we call him. Mikis insisted on naming him Gregory, but he has trouble pronouncing it.’ She shakes her head. ‘He doesn’t know. Mikis never hits me in front of Greygo, and has threatened terrible things if I turn informer. He won’t have his son thinking ill of him.’
She says that the beatings aren’t the worst. The worst is when he makes love to her. Menderes believes that it’s a wife’s duty to satisfy her husband’s every need. Even though he spends most of his nights with other women – hence her nocturnal freedom – he works in three or four ‘shafting sessions’ a month with his wife. He’s horrible in bed and has grown more so with the passing years.
‘In the early days our lovemaking was a comfort. He could be kind towards me. There were nights when he’d make slow, gentle love, then lie beside me and talk softly. I used to tell myself that things were taking a turn for the better. Now I haven’t even got that false hope. He comes into my room and –’
‘Please,’ I stop her. ‘I don’t want to know. Imagining’s awful enough. If I have to listen to a blow-by-blow account . . . ’
‘Of course.’ She looks away. ‘I don’t want to bother you with my problems. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be waffling on like this.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ I take her chin gently between my fingers and turn her face back towards me. ‘I want to listen. I want you to be open with me. I just can’t stomach a graphic description. I’m not sure I could control myself.’
She sneers automatically. ‘What could you do about it, Ed? Track down Mikis and whack him over the head with your laptop?’
‘Maybe,’ I deadpan. ‘Or I could throw copies of my books at him until he begs for mercy.’
We share a smile. ‘This is crazy,’ she notes. ‘There’s nothing funny about Mikis or what he does to me.’
‘I know,’ I chortle, ‘but I can’t stop grinning.’
‘Me neither. Let’s order more beer. I feel like getting tipsy.’
The mood lightens after that, and even though Andeanna carries on describing her trials, the sting has gone from her tone and she talks blithely, as if about somebody else. She finds the humour in her situation. Mikis accused her of coming on to one of his uncles once, an elderly, incontinent, wheelchair-bound man. When she took driving lessons, he didn’t trust her instructor, so he made one of his men accompany her and sit in the back seat, even during the test. And then, of course, he accused her of seducing her minder.
I think, if dawn could be put off for a week, we’d still be here talking about the Turk and his abuse of her. But the beer garden closes at midnight, and although we intend finding somewhere else to cuddle up, our legs turn to jelly when we stand and realize how much we’ve drunk.
‘I can’t handle a nightclub,’ Andeanna says. Her face and neck are flushed from the beer. Knowing the truth about her, I think she looks more beautiful than ever. It’s incredible, having endured what she’s had to, that she’s held on to her looks and spirit. Most women would have crumpled years ago in her place.
‘We could get a cab and drive around for a while,’ I suggest.
‘Would you mind if we left things as they are?’ she asks. ‘I’d rather head home and get my head down. It’s been a long night.’
‘No problem. I feel the same way.’
Our smiles fade as we stare at one another.
‘What now, Mr Sieveking?’ Andeanna asks.
‘We catch some shut-eye.’
‘I mean tomorrow and the next day and –’
‘I know what you mean.’ Leaning forward, I kiss her. ‘I won’t run away,’ I whisper when we break.
‘What about Mikis?’
‘He doesn’t matter. If you loved him, that would be different. But I won’t let a monster come between us.’
‘If he finds out . . . ’ She leaves the unspoken threat hanging in the air.
‘Are you worried about what he might do?’ I ask, and she nods silently. ‘Will your fear drive us apart?’
‘I don’t want it to, b
ut . . . ’
I kiss her again. ‘A simple yes or no. Do you want to stop seeing me?’
A long pause, then the softest of answers. ‘No.’
‘So we carry on, whatever the risks, and take it one day – one night – at a time. To hell with Mikis Menderes.’
‘If you’re sure . . . ’
‘I am.’
‘Then so am I,’ she says with a kiss, and our destiny is sealed.
Now that we’ve declared our love and reconciled ourselves to an uncertain future, I expect the physical side of our relationship to explode into passionate life. I’m not sure how to react when a week passes and it doesn’t. I understand Andeanna’s initial sexual hesitancy, but now there should be nothing to come between us. I know about the Turk. We’ve made a commitment to each other. So what’s holding her back? Our petting has increased and her fingers roam more freely, but whenever I make heavy advances, she tacitly diverts me.
When I ask about it, she shrugs and says she wants to take things slowly. ‘This is a big step,’ she mutters, nuzzling my neck. ‘I’ve become conditioned to the demands of sex. I’m used to surrendering my body, not giving it freely. I want it to be special between us, not like it is with Mikis. Will you be patient?’
I say that of course I will, but it’s frustrating. I can feel the desire in her, the sexual longing. She wants me as much as I want her. So again I wonder — what’s holding her back?
I try not to let my personal life interfere with Spirit of the Fire, which is chugging along nicely. I’ve been devoting a lot of time to the science side of the book and I’ve got a good idea of how to blend it with the horror elements. Soon I’ll be ready to start.
Jonathan gets in touch to say he’s in the process of finalizing the contract, but it might still take a few weeks. He’s not going to rush them — he’ll use the time to scout around for an American publisher. He asks if I’m free to return to the States if needed. I say I’ll let him know, then discuss it with Andeanna. I mention the possibility of her accompanying me, but she vetoes the idea. There’s no way the Turk would let her travel to America without him.