‘I haven’t looked so favourable in years!’ Penelope fobbed off the concern. ‘Just have a wonderful evening, and I shall enjoy it all from the comfort of my warm bed, with a lovely cup of tea.’
‘I’ll be in with all the gossip in the morning.’ Gabrielle waved on her way out.
‘I shall look forward to that.’ Penelope returned the gesture.
But Peter couldn’t leave without having a quiet word to the nurse in charge. ‘Could you check Ms Whitman’s blood pressure for me? If there are any problems at all, call me.’
‘She’ll do no such thing!’ Ms Whitman called out — there was nothing wrong with her hearing. ‘Just leave, before I have security evict you!’
‘You, behave,’ Peter cautioned her in good humour. ‘No getting over-excited.’
‘I haven’t been over-excited since the discovery of quantum theory,’ she scoffed, ‘so you have nothing to worry about there.’ She waved in finality and he returned the gesture with a laugh.
‘Peter,’ Gabrielle took his arm and led him out of the room. ‘Time to leave,’ she gave him a supportive grin. ‘Do you have your speech?’
Peter pressed a hand to his jacket, where the envelope was folded and tucked into a pocket. ‘I have my speech,’ he confirmed.
‘Well then, you have me . . .’ She continued to gently guide him to the door, ‘and a limousine waiting just out front, so . . . we are good to go.’
Inside the limousine there was champagne on ice, which Gabrielle wasted no time in popping the cork on. ‘A glass?’ she offered.
‘I think I should refrain until I make this speech,’ Peter declined.
‘I think you need to loosen up.’ She poured the champagne. ‘One can only help.’ She passed the glass to him, and he accepted.
‘You’re probably right.’ He waited for Gabrielle to pour one for herself and sit back in the seat beside him. ‘What shall we drink to?’
‘To Penelope Whitman, to you and all writers, artists, mystics and misfits, without whom our world would be rather dull and boring.’
‘To the misfits.’ He clinked his glass gently against hers, and they drank to that.
‘Not this evening, however.’ Gabrielle looked out the window at the passers-by who were all gazing at their ride. ‘Tonight we are the king and queen.’ She looked back to him, clearly thrilled by the fact.
Rather than make some insecure comment like ‘don’t remind me’, Peter chose to change the subject. ‘So are you going to tell me what Monique and Tyme discovered in that cupboard today?’
‘Oh, come on, Peter.’ Gabrielle appeared disappointed in him. ‘Life is good this evening; leave the fiction behind for one night.’
‘Sorry. I feel rather like the characters, I don’t want to come out of the story,’ he admitted.
‘And look at where their reluctance to strike a balance has got them. Julian has lost his girl, Nathaniel is fighting with his wife, Tyme is neglecting her daughter, and Monique is probably wondering if she’s having a lesbian affair with an otherworldly being!’
Peter laughed at her summation of the plot line.
‘I think Penelope might be trying to weave a lesson in there somewhere, don’t you?’ Gabrielle raised her glass to him again, and then polished off the contents.
‘I know she regrets some of the sacrifices that she had to make to pursue her writing career,’ Peter warranted.
‘I think the point is that she didn’t have to make those choices,’ Gabrielle reasoned. ‘She just needed to find a balance and not be obsessed with her fantasy world all the time. Without real life experience, what is there to write about anyway?’
‘Someone else’s life?’ Peter posed, and Gabrielle gaped at his cheekiness. ‘Which reminds me. Penelope has arranged a little treasure hunt for us after this event.’
‘Really?’ Gabrielle’s expression switched from perturbed to completely fascinated. ‘What fun!’ She placed her glass aside and clapped her hands together. ‘Thanks so much for inviting me.’ She kissed his cheek and then brushed away the mauve lipstick imprint she left behind, using the napkin that had been wrapped around the bubbly. ‘Note to self, no kissing until after the event.’
‘Aw,’ Peter objected playfully as Gabrielle sat back to inspect her work.
‘I know you’ll do a wonderful job.’
‘I aspire to prove your confidence is not unfounded.’ He felt that was about as optimistic as he could be right in this instant. ‘Have you ever had that feeling of knowing that you are walking into a pivotal moment in your life?’
‘I do know that feeling.’ Gabrielle clutched his arm to reassure him, ‘I feel it right now.’
‘You do?’ He was surprised and then touched by the way she was gazing at him.
‘This is the start of something big,’ Gabrielle concurred.
‘Is that what Grandma said?’
‘That’s what I say.’ Gabrielle kissed his lips this time.
All concern and nerves flew out the window, as Peter’s attention was snatched into the present, where the kind of bliss and contentment he’d only read about had magically made an appearance in his own reality.
Penelope was propped up in bed in front of her TV monitor, watching guests flood into the room at the literary event.
This was not a televised affair. Fabrizia had hired her own transmedia expert to shoot and stream the event live to both Penelope in hospital and herself in Europe. They would also be keeping a recording that could be uploaded to Penelope’s new social media pages.
‘Goodness, that’s quite a turn-out for you, Ms Whitman,’ Nurse Henly commented, as she placed a tray of tea and cake in front of Penelope.
‘Well, it’s not all for me, other awards are being presented too.’ Penelope was gracious. ‘They’ve done a lovely job with the room.’
‘It’s very elegant,’ her nurse agreed. ‘Now I’m off to do the rounds, but you enjoy!’
‘I certainly shall,’ Penelope rubbed her hands together in excited expectation, ahead of reaching for her teapot.
It took a little while for the ceremony to get underway, and there were several preliminary awards that were handed out to the year’s best books by genre.
‘Oh, do get on with it.’ Penelope had exhausted her tea supply, her eyes were getting weary, and she feared she was going to drop off to sleep and miss her big moment.
‘Now, it is my great honour to present this year’s lifetime achievement award,’ announced the presenter.
‘Thank goodness for that.’ Penelope raised her left hand to grip the side of her head, semi-aware of a headache beginning to brew that she hoped to stave off until she’d seen Peter deliver her speech.
The presenter waffled on about her many books and achievements, accompanied by a video presentation about her life and her work, memorable scenes from her many films and television productions, and portions of interviews she’d done over the years. Normally, Penelope would have been flattered, but the pain in the side of her head was more acute. It became a battle to focus on the screen, as the words of the presenter became muffled beyond all recognition. What is wrong with this stupid computer?
There is nothing wrong with the machinery, Penelope. I could not say the same about you, however.
The words registered in her mind, but this was not her own inner voice. This voice she’d not heard this clearly since her last stroke.
You avoided this story all through your career! You had to wait for the very last moment, didn’t you?
Her focus shifted from the broadcast to search for the disembodied source, but she was distracted by the sight of her own body, which suddenly appeared a rather odd-looking vehicle that seemed quite apart from herself. The pain in her head released, but a pang of panicked recognition surged through Penelope’s body — she had experienced this odd disconnect from reality before. I’m having another stroke!
The writer knew about brain functions, having researched the brain for many of her tales, and rather
extensively following her last stroke. The right side and the left side of the brain were responsible for entirely different functions. The right side of the brain was all about here and now, being in the moment and at one with all there is. This side of the brain thought in pictures and controlled the left half of the body. The left side of the brain controlled the right side of the body and thought in words. The left brain was that little voice in your head reminding you to pick up bread and milk on the way home, for it had everything to do with the past and the future, everything you’ve ever learned, everything you planned to do. It was this side of the brain causing Penelope grief, and if it was damaged she’d never write another tale. She would lose all sense of self and all the problems associated with her human individuality; and, if she survived again, she’d find herself living in a constant state of now.
With the remission of the headache, Penelope’s reasoning skills engaged, but she knew this was only a temporary reprieve. She had to page the nurse and get some medical attention before any permanent damage was done. The alert button was just to the side of where her right hand lay on the bed, but her right arm — being controlled by her left brain — did not respond. The energy that surged around her form was mesmerising to observe as it exuded from and was again re-absorbed by her being. This is the life force of creation. The interplay of energy was not limited to her own being either, for her body appeared to meld into the bedclothes, making it difficult to perceive where her person ended and her surrounds began. Everything was void and void was everything, she was an expansive, beautiful and an all-inspired being. Penelope allowed her sight to wander around the room, awash with the brilliant energy of atoms and molecules in a pirouette of motion, fashioning the construct of her current reality. But amid the oneness a being stood apart. The body of the entity was mutable, but Penelope saw the face as clearly as she’d seen it the last time she was at death’s door.
You’re not going to make it, old girl. The words were clear as a bell. Pain gripped her head once more, whereupon her perception was drawn back into her solid form and the little voice inside her head was screaming, Use your left hand to press the buzzer! Penelope swung her arm across her body and fell short of her aim, as it was not just her right arm that was defunct but the entire right side of her body and no matter how hard she stretched, she couldn’t get out of her own way to hit the button.
You and I both know you were the only writer ever likely to discover and pen this tale. But now you have handed the key over to someone who you obviously believe is braver than you.
No! I will finish this. It was my risk; Peter has no part in this. That’s what Penelope wanted to say but all that came out was a bunch of muffled sounds that made no sense whatsoever.
You know he wants a muse more than anything. Just as you did. You knew exactly what you were doing.
Again the pain ebbed enough for Penelope to regain her senses. She gripped hold of her alien limb around the wrist and directed it towards the button.
Why did I not tell Peter the truth sooner? She strained to edge closer to the buzzer, and the pain gripped her head once more as she continued to fall short of her mark. If I die, the story dies with me. It was comforting to know that her agent would take the unfinished manuscript from Peter and that would be that.
He won’t give up, he’s hungry . . . that’s why you picked him.
With one last effort her finger made contact with the button and the alert light lit up.
You are just another betrayal on my road to justice. Goodbye, Penelope. May God forgive you for your lies.
The intense pain ebbed, along with all the inner chatter and panic, and as Penelope was distracted by the beautiful energies flowing through the room once again, she quite forgot what she’d just been thinking. All her study of esoteric doctrine, the occult and the supernatural, had been in search of a state of being as beautiful, peaceful and as expansive as this. If she’d been capable of asking herself at this moment if her passion for writing was worth living for when compared to the expansive bliss she felt at present, the answer would have been a resounding NO!
A beautiful surge of coloured energy came into her line of sight and she was mesmerised by it, as it moved much more frantically than anything else in the room. But the energy made a disturbing sound, like a dog’s muffled bark. The beautiful display solidified into blurry, static objects, and the pain in her head amplified and drove her back to her bleak physical existence once again.
‘Ms Whitman,’ her hearing was acute once more, and the frenzied blur she’d been fascinated with was Nurse Henly, appearing very serious. ‘Can you say your name for me?’
Of course she couldn’t say her name, she was having a stroke, was this woman an idiot? When Penelope spoke out loud her words were mumbo-jumbo.
‘Lift your arms for me?’ Nurse Henly made a lifting motion with her own arms to demonstrate.
When Penelope attempted the same feat, the left arm went up, the right did not.
‘I’ll be right back.’ Nurse Henly moved swiftly out of view.
The pain behind her left eye felt like it was splitting her head open, but she had to try and stay with it and be coherent. She was thankful to have raised the alarm, yet she could not remember how she had.
The next thing she knew she was on the move and Nurse Henly was keeping pace beside her.
‘We’re just wheeling you across to surgery, Ms Whitman, try to stay with me.’
The pain was relentless and exhausting, although a shot in the arm had eased it a little. But she was so weary, she wanted to rest.
‘What’s the story you’re writing about?’ The nurse was trying to keep her focused in her left brain.
The query and her answer panicked Penelope, she could only hope that her agent carried out her will and kept Peter away from the story.
As her consciousness began to expand, way beyond the confines of her tiny, frail form, nothing of the micro-world that she was departing held any significance, she knew only that she would not be crammed back into that limited, painful form ever again.
Apart from being accompanied by the most beautiful woman in the room, Peter had imagined he’d be a rather low-key guest at this high-end literary affair. He was going on the assumption that nobody knew who he was. Everyone else inside this shindig seemed very familiar, as there was much kissing and handshaking going on over drinks in the bar of the venue. What he’d not counted on was how many other authors from Fabrizia Zenton’s stable would also be in attendance.
Gabrielle nearly died when she spotted one of her favourite paranormal romance writers, Denise Yin, who upon sighting them, excused herself from her conversation. ‘She’s coming over here!’ Gabrielle whispered discreetly, as she squeezed Peter’s arm in excitement.
‘Would I be addressing Mr Lemond and Miss Valdez?’ The rather zany, yet elegant woman held out her hand to Peter.
‘Peter,’ he shook her hand as she smiled and added an air kiss to his cheek in greeting. ‘And this is Gabrielle.’
‘Denise,’ she introduced herself, air kissing his date’s cheek also.
‘I know,’ Gabrielle was beaming with excitement. ‘I’ve read everything you’ve ever written.’
‘Then I love you already.’ She held both Gabrielle’s hands. ‘Call me Denny, all my friends do.’
‘But how do you know us?’
‘Fabrizia is my agent also, and Penelope was something of a mentor to me when I was starting out. So I volunteered to look out for you both this evening. And to introduce you, Peter, to all the most influential people who might be of benefit to a young author like yourself.’
‘Well that’s very generous of you, Denny.’ Peter felt a little put on the spot. ‘But I haven’t actually completed writing anything yet.’
‘I hadn’t either when Ms Whitman and I first met, but you will,’ said Denny assuredly, and Peter felt rather comforted by her admission. ‘All of Penelope’s prodigies have become bestselling authors in their own r
ight. Well, except for that last little bitch, but we won’t talk about that.’
‘No pressure then,’ Peter joked his insecurities away.
‘None whatsoever,’ Denny emphasised. ‘Everyone is dying to meet the young man who inspired Penelope Whitman out of retirement.’
‘He certainly did do that.’ Gabrielle encouraged him to take the opportunity and run with it. ‘So who do you suggest we meet first?’
‘How about the President of HarperCollins Publishers?’ Denny suggested, and though Peter felt butterflies gathering in his gut, if he wanted to be part of this world, he had to learn the lay of the land sooner or later.
‘I would be honoured, and most appreciative,’ he replied.
Many stimulating conversations and a couple of drinks later, Peter was feeling far more relaxed. He’d never had the opportunity to talk writing with a bunch of writers of varying ages and genres before, and he didn’t imagine he’d get the chance again any time soon. It was exhilarating and inspiring to hear stories about their early careers, rejections and doubts; somehow it made his goal seem all the more achievable. He’d expected authors would be rather aloof and elitist, but in just the span of an hour, he felt like he’d known Denny and her colleagues for years! Fortunately his date didn’t need babysitting either, she and Denny were deep in an esoteric tête-à-tête; Gabrielle just cast him a glance and a smile every now and then, to let him know she was enjoying herself. Peter had never experienced such a sense of belonging — these were his people — and, more than ever, he was convinced that he was meant for the writing life.
Everyone, even those authors nominated for awards this evening, seemed reluctant to leave the lounge bar and head into the theatre for the ceremony.
‘We’ll have all night to chat after.’ Denny encouraged everyone to their feet. ‘You two must sit with us,’ she instructed.
‘If you say so.’ Peter was grateful for the invitation to hang around with the big kids, and he was not so nervous about speaking in front of these people, knowing they could completely empathise with his predicament, having stood in his shoes once themselves. Of course Penelope had known this; she’d known exactly what she was sending him into and he could not have been more thankful for her insistence now. This was turning out to be a truly magical evening, one he felt quite sure he’d still be recollecting when he was Penelope’s age.