While her nearest colleagues are out for lunch, Natalie opens a browser and types her ex-boyfriend’s name. Thousands of hits. She skims down a few pages of images of smiling men, young and old: suited Californian surgeons, bloggers in arty monochrome, a police mugshot. Strange to think of all these insignificant men casually flaunting the same name — his name. She adds ‘UK’ to narrow the search. Tries his middle name, the name of his university, a couple of likely professions, remembered hobbies, the city where he lived. Nothing. She’ll need more to go on.
Or she would need more to go on, if she actually cared. Making himself untraceable is somehow characteristic of his arrogance. She remembers the gathering whispers of suspicion that he might not be the generous, dependable soulmate she wanted. His endless intellectualisation of their relationship was, she acknowledged to herself at last, his way of preparing the ground for future selfishness. She was certain, back then — had no regrets. But now a mischievous little hand of doubt tugs at her. All she wants is a glimpse of who he has become. To make sure. She hears the approaching chatter of colleagues and closes the browser.
Mike Vickers graciously admits to himself that his job sometimes makes him happy. The Box has recovered last week’s losses, and his firm’s colossal main fund is doing well enough to soothe touchy egos. He thumbs the key in his pocket and is mildly surprised to see the lights flash not on a battered Volvo estate that looks very much like the car his father passed down to him when he was eighteen (the old man had bought a Jag during a brief spell of prosperity), but on the sleek, black Audi S5 behind it. Maybe he’ll gift it to his dad when he trades up.
As he drives, he dictates to his hands-free phone. ‘Email. Compose. To. James Fuck Fakes Saunders. Subject. Execution. Dear James comma new line. Thank you for your frank reply, but I think we can do better. We both have doubts about our place in the cosmos.’ He slows, waves a group of students across the road, beneficent behind the embossed leather wheel. ‘I am succeeding at an enterprise of questionable value to mankind, while you have a calling you think noble, but have failed to execute. The problem is, your calling is only noble if you do execute — otherwise it’s merely self-indulgence of the most contemptible kind.’ A set of traffic lights turns green as he approaches, as though by arrangement. ‘Have you at least tried to diversify? Journalism, perhaps, or tutoring? I make these suggestions for your own good, and that of the welfare state. New line. Sincerely comma new line. Mike Vickers. New line. P.S. Brenda can look after herself, as you may soon discover. Send.’
That evening, while taking a satisfied stroll along the canal, hands in pockets, quite by accident but with deific precision, he steps on a snail.
James F. Saunders is taking his mind off Brenda’s physicality with some composition exercises. He’s a stylist. Not in the hairdressing sense, although he did try that once, briefly, with the idea that a secular confessor might gather a rich crop of material from his customers. No, James is a prose stylist — his novel is never going to be described as rollicking.
King Edward’s was rare among state schools in offering Latin through to A-Level. James relishes the dead language spoken, for its precise, merciless exertion of tongue, teeth and lips, but even more he delights in its glinting density on the page. A conventional English paragraph, by comparison, is spattered with ugly little words that say nothing much — pronouns, conjunctions, articles. If English could be rendered down to a comparable density, might it not answer Latin’s mineral glint with something glistening, urgent, wet with life?
It’s not only the little words that have to go. Punctuation is like a disease on the skin of the language, a nasty, nannying obsession of amateurs and minnow-minded school-teachers. On this point James agrees with his great Irish namesake, the writer he calls the Exile and whose faded bespectacled photograph, cut from the TLS a decade ago, is still tacked to his wardrobe door: perverted commas can have no place in his dialogue.
Then there is the question of voice, of seamlessly reconciling authorial omniscience and the immediacy of character; his whole armoury of means and devices must be smoothly confluent with the course of the narrative, the whole sliding inexorably towards its crisis as a river to the sea.
Flawed world, James types, flawless apple. Glossy anomaly, turn you over yes unblemished skin a Monet sky, spotless bruiseless, flesh like crisp snow: temptation to believe in fated love. Minutes later, acid taste lingering, exposed core browning. True love: false love.
The cursor blinks. He nods. Adds a mark to a long tally he’s made on a library ticket. Deletes. Tries again.
‘I have a story for you. Just to remind a married man what he’s missing.’
Dan Mock rolls his eyes. ‘Go on, then.’ He looks forward to these meetings, which alternate between London and Reading. This cosy pub in Little Venice, a short walk from Mike’s flat, is a favourite rendezvous.
‘So it’s like this,’ begins Mike, in a low, conspiratorial voice. ‘I have a date, name of Victoria, who’s a friend of a friend of Pete’s. I’ve got tickets for Betrayal, and we’re supposed to meet in the foyer, and then have dinner afterwards. Problem is, she doesn’t show. Doesn’t answer her phone. These are great tickets, and I don’t want to waste them. What do I do?’
‘Phone a friend?’ suggests Dan.
‘No time for that — it starts in five minutes. So I go outside and call out, “One free ticket for the performance starting now! Best seat in the house! Only catch is that you have to sit next to me!” It takes a few goes, but eventually there’s a taker. She’s an older woman, forty, maybe, but—’
‘—strangely attractive,’ contributes Dan, setting down his pint.
‘Not only that, but she’s the kind of woman I’m drawn to. Spirited. Says her name is Carmen. Intense, spirited women are, as you know, my passion. So we’re watching the play, and just before the interval I get a text from Victoria: Mike, so sorry, bath overflowed, disaster, missed your calls on the tube. At the theatre now. Hope we can still hook up. Call me.’
‘For a minute I’m flummoxed, thinking of Victoria in the bath and not much else, but then the way ahead emerges with perfect clarity. At the interval, Carmen and I battle our way to the foyer and find her — Victoria — looking contrite and stunning. I explain the whole situation to both of them, and insist they watch the second half together while I wait in the bar.’ Dan frowns.
‘It’s the only way you could fulfil your obligations as a gentleman.’
‘Precisely. Anyway, it turns out the two girls get on like a theatre on fire. Afterwards, Carmen thanks us graciously and wishes us a good evening, but Vic’s having none of that, and invites her along to dinner. Of course, I’ve already changed the booking to three.’
‘I must be a mind-reader, because I can see where this is going.’
‘It is going there, but wait for the punch-line. Carmen turns out to be a sculptor, and I mention that I own a few pieces myself, and somehow we all agree to go back to my flat for a drink. We’ve already worked through a couple of bottles by now.’
‘I’ve definitely seen this one,’ says Dan. ‘While you’re making the drinks, the girls start getting friendly on the sofa. There’s a close-up shot of the glasses filling, and then the camera focus shifts to nascent frolics in the background.’