CHAPTER 22 #2
‘That’s really great,’ Belinda said, touching his arm lightly. ‘Stay well, Jeremy.’ She wandered off, leaving Jeremy reflecting ruefully on his lack of chill. Was he fundamentally ill-equipped to be a bigger man? Maybe he was just a narcissistic little goblin man who loved to boast.
‘How did that go?’ asked Sam, slipping an arm around him. He’d been chatting to Liz and Anna.
‘I’m not great at this!’ Jeremy laughed, and by saying it, he realised he didn’t particularly care that he’d been weird and awkward.
It had helped to have Belinda apologise, and for him to pretend he didn’t even want the apology.
It was, in fact, exactly the spite he wanted.
‘But also, this is genuinely making me feel … better about the whole thing – more in control, anyway.’
‘Good!’ Sam said, kissing him. ‘Try to enjoy yourself too.’
‘I will absolutely not do that,’ Jeremy promised, allowing himself the luxury of being held in Sam’s arms. He smelt like Sam – comforting and masculine and exciting, a hint of some woody, earthy cologne and just a trace of mothballs from the suit.
He kissed the side of Sam’s neck. It was honestly crazy they were there together!
He didn’t ever want to stop feeling amazed by Sam.
He suddenly couldn’t wait to get out of here and go back into their bubble, tear that suit off his body.
‘Uh oh, I think I’m getting jealous!’ came an unctuous voice from behind Jeremy, sending a chill up his spine.
‘Oh god, play along,’ Jeremy whispered into Sam’s ear. Then he turned around. ‘Brian! You handsome devil!’ he trilled, realising he sounded exactly like his mum meeting people she secretly hated at social events. ‘I’ve been looking for you all night!’
He stepped in and gave Brian an air-kiss on the cheek, followed by a loud ‘mwah’.
‘Aha! Well, look no farther, for I am here!’
Brian Northern Trellis looked handsome in a dishevelled older poet way, and Jeremy realised it was exactly the look Miles was going for.
‘And are you going to introduce me to this delicious young man?’ Brian asked, holding out a hand coquettishly to Sam.
What was it with everyone hitting on his boyfriend?
Jeremy swiftly improvised. ‘Yes, finally I can introduce you two. Brian Northern Trellis, this is my boyfriend Sam, who I’ve been telling you about. Sam, I do not have to remind you who Brian is!’
Sam blinked a little but picked up on the game Jeremy was attempting.
‘I’m a big fan, sir,’ Sam said, vigorously pumping Brian’s hand. ‘I thought Jeremy’s profile on you was so interesting – it gave me a new appreciation of your work.’
Jeremy mentally cheered – Sam understood how important ego was here.
‘Well, gee, flattery will get you anywhere, young man.’ Brian tittered. ‘So, the boyfriend …’ he said ponderously, as Jeremy grabbed Sam around the waist and smiled.
‘Yes, yes, you know. How have you been?’ Jeremy said, chucking in a wink to further confuse Brian. If there was one thing that might haunt him from this spite-pie plan in the years to come, it was his manipulations of this poor horny author.
‘I did wonder why I hadn’t heard from you in the lead-up to this shindig!’ Brian said. ‘But if I am denied the pleasure of hanging on your arm, at least you chose a very handsome and delicious replacement.’
‘You’re so wicked,’ Jeremy teased, sweat beading on his forehead.
‘Can you ever forgive me? Poor Sam was desperate to come with me.’ This seemed to mollify Brian.
Jeremy had to wonder if Brian really was as clueless and malleable as he thought, or if perhaps he had been getting what he wanted the whole time, and it was never that serious.
‘Of course, darling. Sinners like us have to stick together,’ Brian said.
A photographer came over and held up her camera hopefully, and Brian pulled Jeremy and Sam close, holding them so tightly it looked as if they were both staring adoringly at him, rather than simply struggling to breathe.
As the camera snapped, and Jeremy pasted on a happy photo smile (sucking in his cheeks to pop out his cheekbones), and Brian kissed him on the cheek with a flourish, a passage cleared through the crowd as they began to reorganise themselves around the stage and podium.
And that’s how Jeremy saw Miles clock him with his arm around Brian, and even at this distance he saw Miles’s eyes narrow. But a second later, he was smiling and laughing as someone clipped a microphone to his lapel.
The event began – acknowledgement of country, a dean introduction, a second introduction from another faculty member, a poem about the importance of writing from a teacher with iron-grey hair and clumped mascara in the corners of her eyes, and then finally, the dean announced Miles.
He was introduced as both ‘a voice of his generation’ and ‘one of the workshop’s proudest achievements’, then they were given a rundown of his work, which dropped off noticeably after the slew of accomplishments from Amour No More , his other book listed as ‘acclaimed follow-ups’.
Jeremy knew enough publishing speak to know this meant they had bombed in the market, and that made him feel good.
However, the intro ended with the dean teasing, ‘And we might be lucky enough to get a sneak preview of his new novel – so without further ado, I present Miles Martin, a graduate of the Parker Workshop.’
Miles took to the stage, his brow furrowed, studiously ignoring the applause, waiting for a moment of silence.
He started slowly – talking about the opportunities the workshop had given him, reflecting on what he had learnt in these hallowed halls, buffing and polishing the reputation of the workshop so his own reflection glowed even brighter as a result.
It was pompous, but nothing that different from any of the other keynotes Jeremy had heard in years past.
‘I’ve been thinking about the role of these reunions,’ Miles said, his voice deep and resonant.
‘Is this purely ego, a mutual back-slapping exercise? Perhaps only partially.’ This got a huge laugh from the workshop faculty.
‘I think it’s about learning,’ he continued.
‘We’re given the skills to start writing when we study here – that’s what all you current attendees can bank on.
But we come back ten years later to share what we’ve found out since, to bring our knowledge back, reflect upon it.
And that’s very fortuitous, because that’s what my next book is about.
It’s about looking back and trying to make sense of our earlier actions; it’s about learning from them.
It’s called The Seven Apologies of Miles Miller , and it’s very much an autofiction that responds to my first book, Amour No More . ’
Jeremy shot Sam an astonished look, which was returned in baffled kind.
‘In fact, one of the people I think I could learn the most from is here in this room. While Amore No More is fictional, much of it was inspired by my relationship with Jeremy Sharp, another attendee of the workshop, who is here tonight.’
The room shifted to look at Jeremy, and without knowing what else to do, he gave a small, embarrassed wave.
He’d imagined so many different ways this could play out, but among vague fantasies of taking to the stage and yelling at Miles, or finding some way to catch him out publicly and win back the love and esteem of the entire workshop, he’d never envisaged this.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about the ethics of using someone from your life in your work, something that a lot of authors navigate,’ Miles went on.
‘Was what I did to Jeremy – turning him into Jerome, using his life as fodder for art, using our failed relationship as inspiration without asking for permission, without warning him – the wrong thing to do?’
He looked around the room, his expression serious, brushing his hair out of his face, readjusting his glasses. Jeremy watched with his heart in his mouth, his pulse pounding.
‘This is a huge debate, an ethical conundrum that has been discussed since the dawn of literature – but I have decided on an answer. No,’ Miles said.
‘No. Ultimately, what I’ve learnt is that I did nothing wrong.
Like all great authors, I answer to a higher calling than the politics of politeness.
Literature, good literature, real literature, must always take priority.
The brief spark that was mine and Jeremy’s relationship was used to ignite a bonfire that will last forever – my book – and that’s the power of writing.
That’s our duty as writers: to capture even the most painful moments of our lives and create beauty from them. ’
A spontaneous round of applause gathered around the room. Jeremy made a sound in his throat that he absentmindedly acknowledged was something close to a sob.
‘I don’t know how Jeremy feels about this,’ Miles said, ‘and I don’t know how several other people from my life will feel about revisiting moments of pain I’ve been involved in.
But Jeremy is a former attendee of this workshop, and surely he acknowledges the importance of discussing this in a literary sense, which is why I humbly extend my hand and invite him to be a part of The Seven Apologies of Miles Miller .
It can be a way we can apologise to each other. ’
He looked directly at Jeremy, for long enough that the crowd shifted to look at him too, hundreds of faces turning on him like a spotlight in a studio audience. This was nightmarish, beyond surreal, a Twin Peaks cut scene.
‘What do you say, Jeremy? Shall we create art together?’ Miles asked, then quipped in his precisely clipped tones, ‘As part of my new self-awareness, this time I’m asking!’
Jeremy didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to rise above this, be the bigger man, be unbothered. He was intensely bothered, but he knew he’d only look petulant if he pushed back now. He was frozen, weirdly aware of how hot his feet were in his shoes.