“She’s invited us to go for Christmas. The extension will be finished, there is room for us all. One of her daughters will be in Australia, but Serena is going, the one who is a lawyer…She might have contacts that would be helpful for you.”
It’s like half-watching a programme on the television. He knows the set is on, but he’s somewhere else, wondering which is the best oil to buy, wondering if it will be nice for the baby, wondering if it is a girl or a boy. He, Justin Henman, is going to be a father. The world is changing, utterly. His mother understands nothing of this. And he is glad that she understands nothing. Last time she only caused problems with Zakira. For the moment, it needs to be entirely his, this new, this magical beginning of a family.
“Will you come, Justin? Are you listening?”
“Um, yes.” He means he is listening, though it isn’t true, and he’s already gone downstairs. But Vanessa thinks he is saying ‘yes’ to Christmas.
“That’s agreed, then, darling. Have a good day.”
Now Vanessa feels a little surge of joy. For she will have a child to show off to Lucy. It was rather odd turning up with Mary. This time she will drive up proudly with Justin. Vanessa will have to do the driving of course. Justin is still not driving again. But at least they will be safer than she was with Mary.
“The twenty-second,” she shouts down the stairs. “Coming back on the twenty-eighth.” She thinks she hears a grunt before the front door closes.
There is a note from Mary on the kitchen table: “I have gone shopping. If anyone telephones, please tell him I will be back soon.”
It’s unusual for Mary to leave notes. It is unusual, indeed, for Mary to give any information at all about what she is doing. And who is this ‘him’ she expects to call? Vanessa remembers the shouting, cheerful man who rang one morning from Uganda. She can’t quite remember what it was all about, though she does remember how annoying it was that Mary took the phone-call on her bed, before Vanessa had officially got up. She planted her great bottom right on my pillow. Right on the place where I put my face.
Mary must be thinking about going home.
Vanessa realises how much she wants this. They’ve had a wordless truce since the night of the masks, but underneath it, she senses they are both making plans. Mary has been out of the house a lot, or talking to Justin or Tigger in the kitchen, and they still fall silent when Vanessa comes in, which brings back Vanessa’s old sense of isolation. There is really no more reason for Mary to be here. Yet Vanessa hopes to bring things to a graceful conclusion. If they cannot be friends, they should not be enemies. She feels a kind of duty to Uganda.
Yet the money she is paying out is enormous. Not that she resents it: it makes her feel better about bringing the whole chapter to a close. Should there really be notice, with an arrangement like this? After all, it has been informal, friendly.
Mary’s note gives Vanessa an idea. The easiest thing would be to write her a letter, and slip it underneath her door.
She goes to her study and begins to write, but after a moment, she tears it up. A handwritten note seems a tad too casual. There is just the possibility, the tiniest worry, that Mary will not be keen to go. After all, every week Vanessa’s handing over money, great bundles of notes, cash in hand. In a way Mary’s on to an easy number.
Vanessa tries again on the computer, a formal but friendly letter of notice. “Obviously I’ll pay you until the New Year, and this will hold even if you decide to leave sooner.”
Yes, she could not be fairer than that. The blunt truth is, she doesn’t need her any more.
There is a ring on the door. That will probably be Mary, who has a tendency not to take her key. It is one of her more annoying habits. Vanessa goes rather slowly to the door, and opens it with a reproachful smile.
But it isn’t Mary. The day is cold, and dazzling. The shape of a man, blank on the light.
A young man. Standing too close to the door. He is in her face. For a moment she is startled, but then her eyes grow used to the light, and she sees it is just Derrick, the boy from college, hunched in a navy military jacket. He looks thinner than ever, and his hair is too short, which makes the bones of his face show through. His eyes are rather bright, today.
She steps back, instinctively, and says, “Oh, hallo,” as he steps forward, half across the threshold.
“I have brought something to read to you.” He is already unfastening his bag, he is in.
She says, “I’m sorry, I’m rather busy. Really you should bring me work at college,” but he laughs, a short, strange laugh like a dog, and pushes straight past her down the hall. And yet he is her student. She will have to be civil.
“Where do you write?” Can his voice be trembling? “I want you to show me the place where you write.”
She realises he is merely nervous. “Why don’t I make us a cup of tea? I mean, I can give you twenty minutes or so. Just this once, but really, in general—”
“Show me your study, please, Vanessa.” Now he is talking more quietly, but there is still that tell-tale tremble. Yet Vanessa has never meant to be frightening. Probably the context is overawing. She smiles at him, trying to look kind and maternal and yet, at the same time, authoritative. He cannot make a habit of doing this.
She leads him to her study, and indicates, with an airy hand, her chair and desk. “It’s all ergonomic, of course,” she says. “Worth thinking about, once you have some money. Makes such a difference to one’s working day. Now sit yourself down and I will put the kettle on.”
“I don’t want tea,” he says, too vehemently, and sprawls on her turquoise futon sofa, though she had pointed him towards the armchair. “I have things to read to you, and things to show you.”
Vanessa remembers the annoying voice with which he reads, too loud and too slow. She really can’t put up with that now. “I think it would be best if you just give me an outline. Then we can discuss any problems you have, and I will read the whole thing in due course.” She sits on her typing chair, which means she looks down at him, and instantly begins to feel better. “Shoot,” she says, feeling brisk and powerful.
“It’s a short story. Called ‘Creative Fire’, but I think that might be a bit old·fashioned. I might call it ‘Feu‘, or ‘Liver’.”
“Liver?” says Vanessa, taken aback, but then, smiling, on automatic pilot, “very striking. Yes, much the best title of the three.”
“Do you remember you talked about using myth?” he says. He is sounding calmer now. “In our last class. You told us to make modern versions. Well, I researched Prometheus on the net. The guy who went and stole fire from the gods. I guess, in a way, this dude could be a writer. So I changed the name to ‘Metheus’. You get it, don’t you? Me, Metheus.”
“That’s good,” she says. On the screen, to her left, she can glimpse the text of her letter to Mary. She finds her mind is wandering.
“So Metheus needs to have creative fire. In the time of the Greeks I guess you couldn’t do drugs, so he goes and steals it from Mount Olympus. He writes two or three really big sellers, but then he gets caught by the father of the gods. Who is really, you know, just this dude’s Dad. And then of course Metheus gets punished.”
Vanessa starts to see where this is leading. After all the times she has told him not to!
“So his Dad gets Metheus staked out on the patio, with his liver being pecked by—” Something dawns on him. He looks at her anxiously, and finishes, “…his liver’s being pecked by a — rabbit. No, a rat.”
“You know perfectly well that it is an eagle. Everyone knows about Prometheus. I said to you, Derrick, please, no birds.”