Having not entirely had the conversation with Ben Cohen that she’d wished to have, Jane now did something she had never done before. Driving to the area of Brakeston closest to Meade College, she parked her car, removed from the backseat a bag containing her laptop, and walked to the nearest coffeehouse. There she ordered a latte, took a seat at a table near the front window, and began to work on her novel.
She had often seen people—mostly students from the college—busily engrossed in doing something (she assumed writing) on their laptop computers in coffeehouses all over town. Although the idea of working on one’s craft in public had never seemed to her to be quite polite, she wondered if perhaps a change of scenery might not give her a new perspective on her book.
After ten minutes she decided that it apparently did not. Despite staring doggedly at the screen of her laptop, she had not written a word. She glanced to her left and saw a young man with papers and books spread across his table tapping manically at his keyboard. Pretending to stretch, she leaned in his direction to get a look at what he was doing.
The screen was filled with what appeared to be a picture of a factory. A series of pink shapes moved up and down, as well as from side to side, as something round and blue bounced between them. The man appeared to be guiding the blue ball by tapping the keys of his computer.
The blue ball dropped into a basket at the bottom of the screen and a series of numbers flashed rapidly on the lower left-hand side. The man, noticing that Jane was looking at his screen, said, “It’s a total waste of time, but I’m addicted to it.”
“What is it?” Jane inquired.
“It’s called Sushi Cat,” said the man. “See all of the little pieces of sushi?”
Jane moved her chair closer and peered at the screen. “Why, so they are,” she said. “How clever.”
“And here’s the cat,” the man said, pressing a key. The blue ball appeared at the top of the screen and Jane saw that it was in fact a cartoon cat.
“You drop the cat from anywhere up here,” said the man, demonstrating. “It falls between the gears or the balls or whatever and it eats the pieces of sushi. If you can get him to eat enough pieces, you go to the next level.”
Jane watched as the cat ate piece after piece of sushi, growing fatter with every bite. She saw absolutely no point in the game, but she found herself fascinated. “Can I try it?” she asked the young man after he’d successfully finished a level.
“You can play it on your laptop,” he answered. “Just do a search for Sushi Cat and you’ll find it. It’s a free game.”
“Thank you,” Jane said, leaving him to his game. She opened the browser on her computer, found that she could connect to the Internet through the shop’s free Wi-Fi, and soon located the Sushi Cat website.
An hour later, having made it to level nine, she paused to get another latte and a scone. She promised herself that once she cleared level ten she would begin writing.
The completion of level thirteen saw her coffee cup empty and the scone reduced to crumbs, but not a word had been written. Jane glanced at the clock and discovered that she’d been sitting in the shop for more than two hours and had accomplished nothing. If you can call a score of 654,890 on Sushi Cat nothing, she argued.
Annoyed with herself, she closed the game and opened her word-processing program. Locating the file for her novel, she clicked on it and prepared to read what she’d written so far.
The koi pond was filled with the detritus of fall. Staring into it, Lydia searched in vain for the fish she had watched swim there in the summer. She had fed them from her hand, their whiskered lips breaking the water as they competed for her attentions. Now she prayed for the briefest flash of orange or gold, the merest flip of a tail to indicate that something still lived in the brown water.
“Koi?” she said under her breath. “When did I write about koi? And why?”
She had no memory of putting those words to paper, as it were. But there they were. She read more, but it was equally hideous. She thought hard and vaguely remembered a bottle of merlot. Possibly two. Had there also been some typing involved?
“Apparently so,” she answered herself.
It was all dreadful, every last word. Lydia (and she had not the foggiest idea who Lydia was or why she was looking anxiously into a koi pond) was dull and a bit of a whiner. There seemed to be no plot whatsoever, nor really any incentive to keep reading at all. Hoping to stumble across something she could use—some bit of prose that might be salvaged and used to build something better—Jane skimmed over several paragraphs about a pair of woolen mittens. When she arrived at some dialogue between Lydia and a child holding a balloon, she highlighted the entire document and deleted it.
She closed the computer, shut her eyes, and wished she hadn’t eaten the scone. It was disagreeing with her. Also, she had a headache, and now the music from Sushi Cat was playing in her head.
She got up and left, tossing her coffee cup in the trash and angrily pushing the door open. The afternoon sun was hot and the light hurt her eyes. Finally, to make things even worse, she walked two blocks in the wrong direction looking for her car before remembering that she was driving a loaner from the garage where her car was being repaired.
She considered going to the bookstore and having a chat with Lucy, but decided to go home instead. Lucy would almost certainly still be giddy over her new relationship with Ben Cohen, and although Jane was sincerely happy for her, she didn’t want to be exposed to that much joy. She just wanted to go home, open a bottle of wine, and not think about anything.
It wasn’t until her phone rang and she recognized Byron’s number on the caller ID that she remembered she was supposed to be watching Chloe. She’d promised to relieve Byron at four. It was now half past. For a moment she considered just not answering. You could always tell him you got busy writing and lost track of time, she thought.
“Like he’d ever believe that,” she said as she answered the call. “I’ll be there in ten,” she told Byron, and turned the car around.
Chapter 22
“How nice of you to come,” said Byron as Jane entered Chloe’s trailer. “I hope we aren’t inconveniencing you.”
“Just a little,” Jane sniped.
Chloe was seated in one of the chairs, a script open on her lap. Her eyes were closed and she was silently mouthing some words. She was dressed in a white poodle skirt and a pink angora sweater. Jane couldn’t bear to look at her.
“What is she doing?” she asked Byron.
“Learning her lines,” Byron explained. “She’s shooting a scene with Tucker Mack this afternoon. It’s the scene where Jonathan seduces Barbara after taking her for a ride in his new Chevy Bel Air convertible. Wait until you see the car they got. It’s a beauty. Red and white. I had one exactly like it in 1955.” A dreamy look appeared on his face. “I took Scotty Mulligan to see Rebel Without a Cause at the drive-in in that car. He was captain of the football team.”
“How romantic,” Jane teased. “Did you go to the malt shop afterward?”
“Of course not,” said Byron. “We went necking.” He clicked his fangs into place and gave Jane a lecherous leer. “I think I still have his class ring somewhere.”
“Wait a minute,” Jane said, ignoring him. “There’s no scene in Constance where Jonathan seduces Barbara, let alone in a convertible.”
“There is now,” said Byron, getting ready to leave. “What’s-her-name wrote it not an hour ago.”