I learned to adapt to these leaps in time, accepting them as a normal part of my existence, a phenomenon that came and went, with no discernible pattern. But Kim’s appearance in my apartment marked the biggest shift I’d ever experienced. I’d lost more than a month, long enough for us to have not only met but fallen into something of a routine. Two or three times a week, she’d stop by after work, talk about herself for an hour, then drag me to the bedroom—dominating me, my arousal a joyless autonomic function that I’d actually started to dread. When I woke the next morning, she’d be gone. I couldn’t say just how we’d met, but she had definite ideas about who I was, or more precisely, who she wanted me to be, bringing me uncomfortable shirts from upscale second-hand clothing stores, leaving moody compilations in my CD player, forcing me to watch films that were either infuriatingly experimental or pointlessly disturbing. I’d only published one book (which I doubted she’d even read), but she possessed an unwavering faith in my abilities as a novelist and assured me that she’d been working hard to increase my visibility around town, promoting my “brand” in her sprawling network of clients and friends.
When she insisted that I write something new, I started work on a romance novel about an English professor and an exotic dancer just to spite her. I wasn’t writing about Jasmine. I was writing to her, letting her know that I was still out there, that I would wait for her. The message couldn’t have been clearer. These are your instructions. Find me.
Kim, meanwhile, was spending increasing amounts time at my apartment—reorganizing the kitchen, learning my pincodes, introducing a houseplant and an incense burner to the bedroom. Like any shrewd invading general, she befriended the locals, chatting with my neighbours when I wasn’t around, dispensing dog-related advice. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted me to change, to accompany her out into the world. When she showed up one evening with tickets to a play at an amateur theatre, my anxiety levels instantly spiked.
“I have work to do,” I said, edging towards my laptop.
She pulled a yellow pill vial from her purse and rattled it in front of my face with a grin.
“What’s that?”
“Diazepam.”
I gave her a blank stare.
“Valium,” she clarified. “I got them from a vet friend.”
“You want me to take dog meds?”
“It’s the same stuff they give humans.” She shook out two pills. “It’s fine. I’ve taken them myself.”
The pills had heart-shaped holes in them, as if they were meant to be strung onto a little girl’s necklace.
Kim went over to the sink and came back with a glass of water. “Open.”
She tucked the pills into my mouth. I swallowed them and grimaced. She rubbed my back. “Good boy. Now go lie down. I’ll come get you when it’s time to head out.”
To my surprise, the Valium helped. I went to the theatre. I watched the performance. I applauded with everyone else. When we got home, I felt invigorated, inspired to create. I shuttered myself in the bedroom with my novel and wrote for twelve hours straight, ploughing my way to the end of a first draft. The moment I stopped typing, Kim tapped on the door.
“How’s it coming in there?”
“I think I’m done,” I said.
“Really?” She peered over my shoulder. “Did you save it?”
“Of course.”
“Did you back it up?”
“No, but—”
“Which file is it? This one?” She reached over me to plug in a jump drive and copied the manuscript onto it. “There. I’ll print out a hard copy at my place.”
“You don’t need—”
“I don’t mind.” She slid the jump drive into her purse and looked at her watch. “Wow, is it ten o’clock already? I’d better get going. Talk to you later, Felix!” She breezed out of the room and the front door slammed. I closed my laptop, feeling as if I’d just handed my life savings over to a stranger. I wanted the book back, but incredibly, had no idea how to find her. Kim had always been the one to initiate contact. With no phone number or address to refer to, I was going to have to wait.
Three agonizing days later, Kim called from a coffee shop, a strumming guitar and chattering voices in the background.
“I’m here with David,” she informed me.
“Who?”
“David Cavendish. Spencer Ford’s agent? I showed him your book.”
“What book?” I asked, confused.
“The one about the dancer.”
It took me a second to understand what Kim was telling me. “You showed my manuscript to someone else?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“It’s a rough draft!”
“He’s upset,” I heard her tell David.
My hand tightened around the phone. I had no idea what David looked like, but pictured a thin man in suspenders and dark-rimmed glasses, smirking as he noted clumsy passages, bad grammar, and inconsistent character names—all of it permanently saved on the hard drive of his brain. There was no way to undo the damage, short of murder. I saw myself storming the coffee shop with a gun, a kitchen knife, a pen—rammed into his esophagus, my words gushing from his body and pooling all over the floor. Kim was talking again.
“I missed that,” I said, putting my free hand to my suddenly throbbing temple. “What did you just say?”
“Sorry, it’s loud in here. David says he wants to represent you. He has some publishers in mind. He expects you’ll get a good advance.”
“Advance?” I said weakly, wondering if she was making fun of me. My first book hadn’t made any money at all. I was actually in debt to the small press that had published it. At any moment, I expected her to explode with laughter and hang up the phone.
“Hold on,” Kim said. “I’ll pass you over to David. He can explain better than I can.”
Before I had the chance to protest, the phone changed hands and a new voice came on the line, a hearty voice that managed to sound both enthusiastic and condescending at the same time. “Hello, is this Felix?”
“Yes.”
“Felix, this is David Cavendish, from the Whitson Agency. How are you today?”
“Fine.”
“Glad to hear it! Glad to hear it! So I had a look at this manuscript of yours. The Pole? It’s really quite good. Sexy but not tawdry. Suspenseful in places. The ending actually moved me a little. Anyway, there’s a solid market for literary erotica right now and I’m fairly confident we can find a home for this. I was hoping we could get together in person and hammer out the details. Assuming you haven’t signed with anyone else.”
I couldn’t seem to find my voice, still seeing the pen embedded in his skinny neck, his body sprawled on the ground, hemorrhaging language. A low drone came from the line, as if something was interfering with our connection.
“Hello?” David said, sounding very far away. “Felix? Are you there?”
“How much do you love me?”
The question came out of nowhere. I was sitting in a chair in the middle of the living area with a towel around my neck. Kim had borrowed some clippers and a pair of scissors from a hairdresser friend and was giving me a much-needed haircut. “When we first met,” she said, trimming around my left ear, “you were like a raggedy old dog that had been kicked around its whole life. Look at you now. All cleaned up. Getting out of the house. You have to admit, I’ve been good for you.” She moved in front of me and started on my bangs, scissors snipping uncomfortably close to my eyes.