Chapter Five
”Alistair Revealed: An Exclusive With England”s Most Reclusive.”
The interview was a center page feature story which hit stands at the beginning of autumn, written by a famed literary critic who spent two days interviewing Sidney at Lewiston. In its lines, the truth came out in a genteel fashion instead of the Simmons” sensational fashion. Real name, real author in photos, and the story of writingA Dark and Glorious House— minus any mention of Terry”s death, or the rift with Adele.
That was the reason Sidney agreed to do it at all. This was his way of protecting his mother from further embarrassment, now that the truth was coming out regardless of what he intended. It was his way of taking the suggestion of his agent and taking control of his side of the story. This bid would put an end to the speculative questions about who, exactly, was behind the famous words of the bestseller, and to all the attention that had begun with Megs”s theatrical scoop.
Candid photos were sprinkled between the paragraphs about a young writer with a literary vision and a case of wanderlust, glossing over the rough details that had been edited out of this abridged version. The two-page photo for the story”s intro was of Sidney standing in the fields near the river, looking out over the water with his hands in the pockets of his coat, a dark wool one over semi-casual attire. It was eerily reminiscent of the way I had pictured Alistair Davies in the beginning. I had shivered a little when I stood off to the side, watching the photographer take it.
The journal issue lay on the table at Dean”s cottage, where it had been delivered with the mail which had not yet stopped trickling in. It was half-buried underneath the latest art magazine and a London newspaper. The paintings and other personal things were in the midst of being wrapped and boxed for sending to London, to Irene”s home for storage in her garage.
I had seen the Alistair Davies” reveal more times than I could count, on the news rack in the village post, and in copies added to the recycling bin at the hotel. Dozens of copies that brought back the experience of walking in Lewiston”s garden, watching him think of things to say about his past that were honest, yet uncontroversial, as the critic posed questions that the literary community and book lovers had been postulating on and off for a decade.
My original image of the author — rugged, introspective, masculine — superimposed itself over the boy I had known through all of his regenerations. Alex as Alistair Davies was part of the strange new world. I wondered how Adele felt about it. I wondered what Dean would say if he was only here. The only part he cared about was the manuscript”s finish, however. The rest would have had his scorn, probably.
The window was open, letting in the breeze and the glorious sunlight that was changing the leaves. Sidney was sitting at the typewriter in the garden, surrounded by the dogs, as Yo-Yo lay in the window, watching him. I was taking my day off to try a recipe for a cinnamon bun cake with pecans and brown sugar filling. In the background, the hi fi Dean had bequeathed to Sidney or the cottage, whichever was the more convenient recipient, played one of Sidney”s classic country records.
Someone knocked on the door — probably Mrs. Graves with a jar of the oft-threatened applesauce. ”Come in,” I called, as I opened the oven door, checking for doneness in the middle of my bake. ”If it”s in a sealed glass jar, you can just leave it on the table and I”ll put it in the pantry in a bit.” Where, as a precaution, I generally hid it in the back behind the jars of emergency box rice and oversized treacle jars.
”I don”t come bearing groceries, as it happens.” The voice, deeply masculine, had an American accent and a slightly-familiar tone that I recognized only when I stood up. The literary agent Byron Duncan standing in the doorway.
I felt a tremor of shock. ”Oh. Hello.” Awkwardly, I tucked back a strand of my hair, one which had escaped the little knot I had formed at the back of my neck to keep it out of the way whilst I baked. ”I didn”t realize ... I didn”t know you were coming.”
”I”m unannounced,” he said. ”I drove down to see Alex. I thought it was time he and I have a chat.” He laid something on the table — a folded-open copy of the interview on the real Alistair Davies” life. ”Is he here?”
”He”s in the garden,” I said. ”He”s working on a project. He prefers the outdoors to the indoors most of the time, if the weather”s decent.” As was habit, I was cagey about anything to do with Sidney the writer, even though I was in the presence of someone who had helped — and hurt — the career of the person in question.
I held out my hand. ”I”m Maisie, by the way,” I said. ”We weren”t introduced at the graveyard that day, when you spoke with Sidney.”
He shook it in greeting. ”Speaking of Sidney, how is his project these days?” asked Byron, with a pointed emphasis on one particular word. ”As you can see I”m making a cool, off-the-cuff effort to learn about it by taking the roundabout way.”
My smile kept the answer hidden. ”That”s for him to know, not me,” I answered, sliding the oven mitt onto my hand again. ”I try to only be interested when he wants me to be.” Pestering him as an ardent fan, even in joking fashion, had lost its appeal for me once he began struggling his way back into the story.
”I”ll remember that for the future,” said Byron. ”I had a devil of a time finding him, but I see why a writer would come to a spot like this,” he said, with a glance that probably noted the semi-rustic interior of the cottage, down to the mismatched cupboard knobs. ”Whose place is it, yours or his?”
”Neither,” I answered. ”It belonged to a friend. The one whose funeral you attended. Sidney”s staying until the lease is up.” I reached for a spatula in the utensil crock.
”His good friend,” said Byron. ”Yes, I knew of the family, but I didn”t know them personally. I”ve had some dealings with people who did, in business. I was mostly there to see Alex, since I didn”t know when I would have another chance to catch him. Since his disappearing act has a Vegas-style reputation, I mean.”
”How did you find him?” I was curious. I didn”t think any of the Greshams would have given up Dean”s former address, knowing how Sidney felt about privacy.
”I have a few friends. They put me in touch with someone who had a useful connection, and I had already guessed Cornwall, knowing his attachment to the place.”
I slid my ring of cinnamon buns on a rack to cool, feeling the heat of the sugar trying to burn my spatula hand”s fingers. The outside was crusted by a brown sugar caramel sauce, already becoming sticky and candy-like as it glazed the fragrant spice buns.
”They look delicious,” he remarked. His cordial smile becoming a little more casual now. ”I haven”t had actual home baking in some time. I see the kitchen of a French restaurant”s patisserie now and then, but that”s as close as I come. You could rival them with these.” He broke off a piece of the candied brown sugar that had fallen from my cooling rolls, with an approving thumbs up after he tasted it.
It was an exaggerated compliment, but offered in a kindly tone that inclined me to accept it. Establishing rapport with the man who held Sidney”s future was probably a good thing, for all of us.
”Thanks,” I said. ”Would you like one? The kettle is on.” I had been intending to make a cup of tea for Sidney after I was done.
”I”m more of a coffee man,” he answered. ”But I might say yes to the cinnamon roll. Are you a professional baker? Or is this just the result of an afternoon at home.” He shucked off his jacket, revealing shirtsleeves rolled, a tie of watered silk that looked very expensive.
Like Mr. Trelawney, something about him struck me as formidable, although it was offset by a level of charm that disarmed one”s initial impression of it. First impression had already twigged him as well put together, sophisticated, and handsome — only Adele”s particular scruples would reject his dinner invitation in the past, judging by this impression. He must be either self-made, or from a family that didn”t have enough generations between its entry to the gentry and the present day.
”I”m barely a baker,” I answered. ”But I work at the hotel at the top of the hill, and the chef”s given me some tips this past summer on how not to burn things. I thought Sidney might want something sweet for a change.” I put my mixing bowl in the sink. Sidney used to be the one who produced sugary surprises at the drop of a hat.
”Kitchen has the look of one that gets good use, so I assumed it was the domain of someone living here,” he commented.
”Sidney — Alex — not me,” I said. ”I actually live at the hotel. But he used to bake a lot for Dean. The friend who owned this cottage until ... until recently.” My voice quieted for a moment. ”He liked to bake for Dean to cheer him up. I fell into the habit, I guess.”
He picked up my book, which was lying on the table, a copy of Grayham Hunter”s latest novel. Irreconcilable differences between us might exist, but I still admired his talent as a reader.
”Who”s reading this?” he asked.
”Me,” I answered.
”Good taste,” he said. ”Hunter”s excellent. Single-handedly redefining the American perspective in British literature. The only one now.” I recognized this jab to the ex-Pulitzer among Davies” work. ”If you like him, try Alex Prince”s new novel. He”s smart and forward thinking for a traditional writer. I think he”d be the jam of anybody who likes Alistair Davies” work. I”ll go out on a limb and assume that you”re one.”
”Obvious?” I held back my smile.
”I took a guess,” he answered. ”I like to read people. Like books,” he said, as if telling a joke for the analogy. ”That”s what passes for humor in my professional capacity.”
”I almost laughed, so it”s decent,” I answered, by way of joking back.
He put back my book. ”He”s talented, your Alex,” he said. ”In some ways, it”s more intriguing that he”s the one behind the novels, and not the kind of writer most people expected. It”s exciting that he”s young and has a capacity for genius that could develop. Exciting to the book world and the readers who like the books, especially those who like to think the writer is attractive, not that you need that option to be broadcast.” He smiled at me, archly, and I blushed.
”I still know it”s true,” I answered.
”He”s probably better than Hunter, although the literary community would call it an open debate. An agent never accepts anybody but his client as the best.”
”Is that the only reason you think so?” I asked. I knit my brows. ”Then how do you know it”s true? Only a fan of the work knows if it”s the best, and they have to be a thorough fan, not just one of those obsessive ones — one who can be a little bit critical and open-minded, so they can explain why.”
”Tell me,” he said.
”Me?” I echoed, caught off-guard. ”I shouldn”t have to. By now, you should see what makes it great yourself. He was a master of prose on those pages — like an alchemist who knows how to mix delicate subject elements with not too much and not too little, to create gold in the form of words.”
”Good defense,” he said. ”You”re one of the ultimate fans you were talking about. The ultimate reader.”
”You”ve discovered my real hobby now,” I said. ”Not kitchen utensils and pots and pans, but a voracious devotion to words.” He didn”t know I was a writer, which was for the best.
”There are worse habits anybody could fall into.” This was from Sidney, who was standing in the doorway now. ”Smoking, for example. Following the news. Those come to mind first for me.” A smile crossed his lips, but it seemed reserved.
”The man I was looking for.” Byron dusted the brown sugar from his hands. ”Am I interrupting a writer in the zone?”
Sidney shook his head. ”More like light typing,” he said. ”I was ready for a cuppa, anyway.”
”Ah, the famous fourth manuscript,” said Byron, seating himself backwards in the kitchen chair pulled away from the table. A scrutinizing gaze, a hint of an ironic smile. ”The one I asked Alli about religiously until last spring. Then I learned I”d been talking to the wrong person for nearly a decade.” He folded his arms across the top of the back rest. ”I miss her, oddly enough. She had an eccentric personality flair that I liked. It must have been the theater in her.”
Sidney”s smile was lopsided. ”Megs”s drama was actually very helpful for that,” he said. ”So long as she kept the performance to a small audience. Although it was still a little bigger than we originally agreed.”
”Good to know the manuscript wasn”t entirely performance art or myth,” said Byron. ”Very much like you.”
He reached for the paper and held up the open article. ”The real Alistair,” he said. ”Very enlightening. Very effective.” He laid the paper on the table again. ”I take my hat off to you, because I didn”t expect that you would take that advice.”
”After I thought about it, I decided I didn”t have much choice,” Sidney replied. ”Maybe if I told them enough of what they wanted, they would go away.” He poured hot water into the tea pot from the kettle which had been sitting on the stove”s furthest eye. ”Cuppa?” he asked.
”No, thanks.” Dismissal from Byron was a slight shake of the head.
Sidney poured a second cup for me. ”I didn”t expect to see you,” he said. ”I thought an agent like you was far too busy to go on the hunt for a has-been.”
”I think a better term for you would be ”elusive,”” said Byron. ”You”re not a has-been in my book. Far from it. I think there”s still potential in you and in the brand of Alistair Davies. I would never sell them short.”
”Maybe you should change that opinion,” answered Sidney, sipping his tea. ”There are writers much more deserving, younger, and better, any of whom need a top-tier literary agent more than I do.” He sat down at the table, across from the literary agent.
”I don”t think so,” said Byron, with perfect frankness. ”I think those are the words of a man who has given up on himself, and forgotten what it means to the rest of the world.”
The smile on Sidney”s lips faded a little. ”You might need to know me better before you say that,” he answered. He looked at his tea.
”I intend to,” answered Byron. ”It”s long overdue.”
The joke was about to dissolve. I could almost feel its particles breaking away, filling the air like a cloud of dust. I cut three buns apart from the tearaway cooling on the rack, putting two plates on the table for Sidney and his visitor. I took my teacup and retreated quietly to the opposite side of the kitchen, making myself busy by putting away some of the ingredients I had used.
”Why, I should ask, for starters,” said Byron. ”That”s the real question, which you didn”t answer in that magazine interview, although you made it look like you did in a roundabout way. Why create that fictitious mask? When people have your assets, they don”t bury them.”
Sidney shrugged. ”Believe it or not, I had my reasons,” he answered. ”Private ones, mostly. Some of them are more obvious.”
Byron nodded. Maybe if he knew Adele, it wasn”t hard for him to guess at least one of the reasons. Then again, if he knew anything about writers and books, it was easy to imagine why Sidney would shed his name and the privileges of background in pursuit of literary recognition.
”You think you”ve made a mistake, but I don”t think you have,” said Byron. ”This so-called publicity stunt is just that. P-R geniuses pray for this level of attention and public interest, and very few of them are granted it organically. You have been, and it”s a gift all on its own. I congratulate you, I”d be patting you on the back for it, except it”s clear that it wasn”t on purpose.”
”You should know that I haven”t given up on coming back to writing, but I don”t think you should hold out for the success I was, or what you believed I was capable of doing,” said Sidney. ”It”s possibly a mistake to pin any kind of hopes or P-R campaign on the return of Alistair Davies, because I may not be the same writer I was in the past.”
”That part matters only to purists and diehard fans,” said Byron. ”The end result is a secondary material factor at this point, you know.”
”If there is an end result,” said Sidney, stressing the first word. ”And it does matter, the nature of what I create, at least to me.”
”I have more confidence in you than that,” said Byron.
Any emotion that could be mistaken for humor drained away from Sidney”s expression. His gaze was clear, not retreating from the unspoken truth of the matter he was standing on the verge of saying. It had been coming for a long time.
”Megs — Alli — once asked you if the contract could be renegotiated. Truthfully, that was me asking, through her,” he said. ”Back when I realized that the fourth book was jeopardized by other circumstances, I realized that the stories, the image of the mysterious author, was something I couldn”t control. Or an expectation I could truly meet.”
He paused. ”The original stipulation isn”t helping the fourth book come into existence ... more like preventing it at this stage.” His gaze met the agent”s, squarely. ”I need you to have the contract changed. I can still write, but I can”t guarantee them the manuscript they wanted. That”s why I”m asking you to break the clause for me.”
”Renegotiation is my wheelhouse,” said Byron. ”It”s not easy to break a set precedence. Being an author with a certain amount of fame and success helps, of course.”
”Would it make a difference if they knew the truth about the unfinished Alistair Davies” book?” asked Sidney. ”Even if they wanted to keep the stipulation of first look at any future works, that would be fine. Maybe then I can give them one, even if it”s not the same manuscript they expected.”
The agent listened intently. ”I hear what you”re saying,” he answered. ”You”re thinking that anything is better than nothing. Starting over with a blank slate here and now, before you burn yourself out on a project that”s been stalled — I understand that feeling.”
”Can you change it?” Sidney asked. ”If that”s what I want?”
”I could,” the agent answered.
Byron leaned back. ”Do you prefer being called Alex? Or Sidney?” he asked. ”I remember that Alex is your given name, but Maisie here, when I first walked in, called you by a name that I suspect is the one you really prefer. Otherwise she wouldn”t be using it.”
”True,” said Sidney. ”You can call me either one.” He was reluctant about this offer — unlike his usual nonchalance for the subject of what someone wanted to call him.
”Good, Sidney it is,” said Byron. ”Sidney, I want to be very frank with you from this point in our relationship. Now that we”ve met face to face, that is.” A laugh punctuated this point. ”I want to form the understanding that we should have had from the beginning, if I had only known the real you.”
”That”s fair,” answered Sidney.
”Okay.” Byron nodded. ”What you”re asking me to do is something that I don”t think is in the best interest of any of us.”
”How so?” Sidney”s brow furrowed, slightly.
”The value of the name,” said Byron. ”Those expectations you were talking about. We can”t simply leave them. You realize that”s the reality of it, Sidney. This is a brand now. There”s a price for losing it, and we don”t want to pay it.”
”I don”t want the advance,” said Sidney.
”We”re not talking about the advance,” said Byron. ”A big check popped once is nice, yes, but this is about royalties and media rights. The future of the first three books hinges on number four. We don”t want bargain bins if we can double, triple therevenue of three books which ought to be dead by literary standards. We can make them a success again if this fourth book hits the stands. It matters to Saxx and Brighton, too, which is why they negotiated for all four books. When you said you could give them that number, they took you at your word.”
”But what if it doesn”t happen?” Sidney looked as if he wanted to laugh, but not because it was all that funny. ”What if they”re holding out for nothing?”
”I don”t believe they are,” said Byron. ”I think you”ll do it.” He locked eyes with Sidney as the conversation paused.
”I told you that I don”t care about the money,” said Sidney, quietly. ”If they would cut me from the contract, I would take it. I”d give them the value of the fourth advance, I can pay that much.”
”Very generous,” said Byron. ”But I couldn”t go to them with that offer.”
”I”m authorizing you as your client,” said Sidney. ”I”m asking you to. I”m not trying to break my contract with you, only the contract clause that holds me to the fourth book, whatever it takes to lose it.”
Byron nodded. ”I understand what you”re asking already,” he said, with a laugh of his own, albeit a short one. ”Sidney. I am the kind of man who built his reputation by doing good business. By treating it as a business, not an investment in humanity, or a friendship club. Some agents do, and they”re good, a lot of them, and a lot of them have good clients. But they”re not on top. Once you are, you have certain standards you have to meet if you want to stay there. I do.”
He leaned forward again, making eye contact at a closer level. ”This has built itself into something beyond both of us, Sidney,” he said. ”The press loves it. The public is eating it up. There are journalists and P-R agents phoning me every day, asking how to touch base with you, because they want to cash in on the story while it”s hot. This can fuel those books to the top again, scrape off the rust from the gears.”
Sidney held his tea but didn”t touch it to drink, although it was cooling.
If you want to control it, accept it,” said Byron. ”What doesn”t kill you makes you stronger, as the old saying goes. I told you that you can”t hide from it. We can capitalize on it, ride it until it”s over, which would make the value of the fourth manuscript all the greater. That”s why I won”t cut a deal for anything, Sidney. This book needs to be written. If it says on paper it has to be written, that”s all the better.”
The fingers holding the bottle of cinnamon from the cupboard had begun to tingle, the pins of numbness. Dean had been right, even more than he knew.
Glancing over my shoulder, I could see from Sidney”s posture that he was thinking, but I doubted it was about anything good.
”And if not?” Sidney asked.
”That”s not a good way to talk,” said Byron, softly. Calmly. ”Don”t do that. Just focus on the material and the fact that this is what needs to be done.”
He took a bite from my cinnamon roll, then licked his fingers. ”Very delicious, Maisie,” he said. ”Compliments to the chef. The caramel glazing was just right.”
Slipping on his suit jacket again, he collected the paper from the table. ”I don”t think I need to leave you a copy to remind you to think about all this,” he said to Sidney. ”Think about it hard. These are the terms of the world you entered all those years ago. Since you don”t have the power to change them, you need to move with them, if you want to keep living in it.”
He stepped closer to the doorway. ”When the fourth book is done, we”ll talk,” he said. ”Until then.” He smiled, at Sidney, then at me. ”Thank you for the hospitality. I hope I”ll see you both again in the near future. I”ll see myself out, don”t worry.”
A moment later, I heard the front door to the cottage shut behind him. I collected the plate with the unfinished roll. Sidney”s tea was going untouched before him. He rested his chin on his thumbs, the lower part of his face hidden by the interlaced fingers in front of it. The hazel gaze, a sea of trouble that troubled me.
I put the dishes in the sink. The kitchen”s back door opened, then shut behind Sidney. A little steam of bubbles rose from the washing up liquid I poured into the sink. Through the window, I watched as Sidney crossed the back garden, hands in his pockets, Kip and Bugsy at his heels.
The teacup in my hands had a rose pattern on it that Dean was fond of. I rinsed it clean, along with the saucer which had held my cinnamon roll. It was good, but needed more butter.
When the dishes were done, I went to look for him, taking the footpath by the pond. It led through the groves around it, to the fields that let the cows graze up to the hedge-woven fence that prevented them from going near the sea cliffs, patching together old rails and older stone boundary walls beyond.
The wind pulled at my knit coat, and the tall blond grass, thick at the shaggy, overgrown pasture”s end, brushed against its hem as I walked by instinct in the direction I knew he had taken.
Short of the crest where the sea”s view awaited, he had paused and stood facing into the wind and sky, hands in his pockets, as if braced for a challenge. I thought of him mocking Alistair Davies for such a pose a long time ago, struck by the irony of it — then I saw the resemblance to this moment and the photo in the magazine, which stripped away the mask and made two people one.
The look on his face was the same as when he was still at the cottage. I could see it when I joined him, my own hands thrust into my coat pockets. At my feet, Kip snuffled around, then bounded away through the tall grass.
He didn”t glance at me, but his demeanor changed as I stood beside him. Eventually, he spoke.
”I didn”t know what he was like when I signed,” he said. ”Wishing I had doesn”t change the fact that I did it.” He exhaled. ”I wish I”d been less stupid back then. Or more convincing now.” His smile was flat, and rueful. ”I don”t think I can change his mind, even if I never write another word on that novel”s pages.”
To hear him trying to buy his freedom only to be rejected had been like watching those hopes be dashed to pieces on the kitchen floor”s tiles. He was still tied to that agreement, and the only way to rewrite its rules was to have the kind of power that an unfinished book didn”t provide.
”What do you think happens now?” I asked.
He shrugged. ”I”ll go on as I am already,” he said. ”There”s nothing else. I won”t flog Alistair Davies” secret in the public eye, no matter what it supposedly brings me. I don”t want more fame or money, no matter what anyone else thinks, either.”
”I wish he had been willing to listen,” I said. ”It”s his job to help you. He only makes money if you do, and you only make money if you write something you can finish.”
”Not part of his reputation, apparently,” he said, with a grim smile. ”No surprise there.”
For a moment, Byron Duncan had almost fooled me into thinking he was open to being reasonable about Sidney”s writer”s block, but that was before I glimpsed what was beneath his own mask, the charming one he wore. I knew he wasn”t going to listen, and that he didn”t care about the integrity of the work or the talent of its writer. He understood the beauty of its fruits, however, which made it worse.