Chapter 9 MARCEL
Chapter 9
M ARCEL
The next day, Marcel rose early as usual. He threw on his workout clothes and went out for his run around Great Hill, at the north end of Central Park. The park wasn’t busy at that time of day; only the footsteps of other early-bird runners interrupted the Sunday-morning tranquility. Later in the day, the hill would fill up with families enjoying a picnic beneath the elm trees, folks playing Frisbee on the grass, and some jazz musician or other. He was listening to jazz as he ran. “Take Five,” by Dave Brubeck; one of his all-time favorites. Listening to it transported him to New Orleans: nights in the Spotted Cat, the taste of a Sazerac, and those erratic summer storms that caught him off guard and forced him to pin himself against a wall while the water splashed his ankles. That morning, however, Marcel’s mind was distracted by something closer to home.
Or someone, to be precise.
Siobhan Harris.
The naive, insolent, and insufferable Miss Harris.
He grunted as he lengthened his strides. He was running so fast it was like he was trying to flee something. When he had decided to knock off William J. Knox, he never imagined he would end up involved in a situation like this—one in which he found himself about to write a novel he didn’t believe in, just because his idiotic editor had threatened to let the cat out of the bag. He would have a draft in three months, no question, but he had a deep hatred of obligation. If working under pressure wasn’t his strong suit, doing so as part of a team was even less so. This young woman who looked like she was about to attend her first English lit class had altered his internal chemistry, and it was irritating. A spark of fury tightened his cheeks; then he calmed himself, grudgingly admitting that his mood, somewhere between ill humor and excitement, could be explained by the bond of sorts that had sprung up between them without Marcel realizing or intending it to. The fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about her disturbed him. For god’s sake, they didn’t even get along! Hours after she had left his apartment, he could still discern her disconcertingly pleasant aroma of fresh coconut. He was surprised by his desire to savor it until it dissipated. His heart rate increased as he pounded up the path to the top of the hill. He thought of her sitting on the sofa, resolved not to let her nerves show, although her body language gave her away, with that stupid rookie’s notebook on her lap and that frightfully ordinary dress she must have bought at Macy’s. Good lord, her style couldn’t be more off-putting. Even so, she was natural. And attractive. God, yes. She had beautiful blue eyes that observed everything around her with vitality. She hadn’t realized he had been studying her. The way she played with her bracelets. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear or chewed on her pen with that mouth as tempting as a bowl of cherries. He was a writer, so he loved the details. A worrying thought flitted through his mind. Marcel’s face contorted in genuine concern before he relaxed again. No, what nonsense. You don’t even like sugar, he told himself reassuringly. He smiled in relief. He had met far more attractive women in his life. No matter how much she had intoxicated him, it was manageable. You don’t get drunk on just one sip. No sir. Marcel knew he could break the spell whenever he wanted, just by snapping his fingers.
Siobhan Harris didn’t interest him in the slightest.
An hour later, he stepped out of the shower. He slipped into a white shirt and a pair of jeans and decided to have breakfast at home for once. As he waited for his coffee to brew, he called Alex.
“What time is it? This had better be important. I was in the middle of an incredible dream about Scarlett Johansson in Tokyo. She was wearing a pink wig and I—”
“Wait, don’t tell me. You were Bill Murray.”
“With much more hair.”
“Not that much more.”
“Asshole.”
Marcel smiled. Annoying Alex was one of his great pleasures in life.
“Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that this asshole has worked out the plot of the next Baxter Books moneymaker,” he announced. He took a sip of his coffee.
“Really? Tell me everything.”
“Oh I will. When you invite me to dinner at one of those swanky fusion restaurants in Tribeca. But to give you a hint, the story centers on time travel.”
“Seriously?” Alex sounded skeptical now. “Hasn’t that kinda ... been done already?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, my friend. Our novel isn’t set in Scotland, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“Our? As in the plural? Wow. This is what I call a small step for humankind and a great step for the ego of Marcel Black. So you and Siobhan are compatible after all?”
Marcel swallowed. He felt like he’d been slapped in the face: surprised, vulnerable, or a combination of the two.
“Don’t talk nonsense, please. The princess and I couldn’t have less in common. She’s indiscreet and mouthy, and she talks a mile a minute and her worldview is that of a ninth-grader. Heck, she has a notebook with the phrase ‘Unicorns Do Exist’ on the cover! That girl represents everything I loathe. Would you believe, she showed up at my place with a cake? Shit. Just a sec. The cake. She didn’t take it,” he muttered. He opened the huge stainless-steel refrigerator and confirmed that the white Lady M box was still where he had left it the day before.
“Wait, wait, wait. Rewind a moment? I think I’ve missed an important part of the movie. Did you say Siobhan went to your place? Heavens, you must have been impressed. As far as I know, the only woman you’ve ever allowed into your luxurious penthouse has been paid in advance. And I mean the cleaner,” he hastily clarified.
“Listen, I can assure you that my interest in Siobhan Harris is purely contractual. Once we’ve finished the novel, it’s over. In fact, just yesterday we agreed not to see each other anymore. We’ll write separately. End of story.”
“Was the experience so bad?”
“Bah ... even worse than you can imagine.”
“Poor girl.”
Marcel huffed, affronted.
“You know what? You and Miss Harris are a lot alike in one regard: you’re both absolute ball breakers,” Marcel said.
“But you invited her to your home.”
“Only because the stupid ...” He frowned and held back the expletive. “... blabbermouth decided to tweet a photo of Café Boulud while she was waiting for me. Desperate times call for desperate measures. We don’t exactly have a lot of time. And if she doesn’t stop making a problem out of everything ...”
“Are you sure she’s the one who’s been making problems?”
“Goodbye, Alex. I’m hanging up.”
And he did.
The coffee was already lukewarm, so he poured it down the drain. He remembered Siobhan’s cake. What should he do? Call her and ask her to come get it? Send it via messenger to wherever she lived? Take it to her himself? All the options seemed ridiculous. Just as ridiculous as Alex had been to insinuate that ... He wasn’t even entirely sure what Alex had insinuated.
“Compatible, like hell,” he muttered.
He decided to get rid of the lousy cake and put an end to the matter. It would be fun timing how long it took to drop down the long metallic chute to the building’s trash room. He was just opening the refrigerator when the bell rang.
How strange. He never received visitors without Gonzales warning him on the intercom first.
Who could it be?
A neighbor?
When he opened the door, he was hit by that cursed scent of coconut again. This was no neighbor. Siobhan was waiting on the doorstep with her irritating Girl Scout smile. A few strands of her coppery hair had freed themselves from her messy ponytail and fell haphazardly around her oval face.
“What the hell are you doing here? And why didn’t the concierge warn me you were coming?”
He wanted her to go away.
Or did he?
“I asked him not to. I figured you wouldn’t have let me come up.”
“You figured right,” he replied coldly. “What do you want?”
“I’ve brought this,” she said, holding out a classic Bloomingdale’s “medium brown bag.” “Seeing as you’ve never read a romance novel, I thought it would be good for you to familiarize yourself with the genre. I picked out a few of my favorites for you.”
“Lord have mercy on me ...” Marcel grabbed the bag with one hand, took a deep breath, and started to pull out one book after another. “ And Then He Kissed Her , I Dream of You , The Mad Earl’s Bride , Time of the Rose , The Duke and I ... Jesus, these titles. Tell me you haven’t come just to torture me, princess.” He slipped the books back in the bag. “Because if that’s the case, you’re wasting your time. Go home, take this with you, and get writing. Now.”
His tone was brusque and verging on rude, but it was necessary.
Siobhan dropped the bag to the floor between her ankles.
“The thing is . . .”
Marcel raised a thick dark eyebrow.
“What?”
“I can’t do it,” muttered Siobhan. “I’m sorry.”
Marcel folded his arms. If she has the gall to turn up here with such a feeble excuse, let’s hear what she has to say .
“Explain.”
“You see, yesterday ... The whole thing was so clear in my head. I could hear the dialogue and visualize full scenes. It was like Felicity had come to life, like she was a real person. My brain was fizzing with ideas. I was desperate to get home and write. I hadn’t felt like that since I used to publish on WriteUp. And then when I got home ... I had a blank. The ideas, the dialogue, the scenes ... It all just suddenly vanished. I ...” She bit her lip, embarrassed. “I haven’t been able to write a word.”
“What do you want me to do about it, Siobhan?”
“Teach me.”
“No one can teach you to write. It’s something you have to learn on your own.”
“Please, Marcel. I’ve swallowed my pride and dragged myself over here knowing you hate me, and you’d rather never see me again, because you’re the only one who can help me out of this impending existential crisis.”
“I’m not ...” He clenched his jaw. “I’m no Mother Teresa. You should have thought of that before signing the contract.”
“You think I like this situation?”
He looked at the distraught face before him, the delicate, nervously fluttering hands, the agitated breathing, the rapid blinking. For a moment he wanted to run his fingers around the outline of that precious face, though he quickly rebuked himself. What was he thinking? That would only give her the wrong impression. What should he do? Remain stony and implacable? Or help her? After all, like it or not, they had to get this book written.
He exhaled slowly.
“I need caffeine. And I’m guessing you do too,” he said.
Siobhan nodded, visibly relieved, and entered the apartment. At his indication, she left the bag of books next to the door and followed him to the kitchen, where she sat on one of the metal stools around the island while Marcel got the coffee ready. He selected another capsule, a balanced arabica blend, and inserted it into the machine.
“I must seem ridiculous to you.”
“One of the most common mistakes a new writer can make is assuming that just because you’ve written one novel means you can write another.”
“Is that supposed to encourage me?”
“Would you rather I sang you the Muppets song?” he replied. He turned around and placed a steaming coffee in front of Siobhan. “I’ve given you a load of sugar. I know how much you like it.”
“How considerate.” Siobhan held the cup between both hands and took a sip. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Marcel furrowed his brow. “I didn’t think we were that close.”
“We aren’t. I just need to vent to someone who understands. And since you’re the only writer I know, I’m afraid that person is you. I’m sorry for you, Mr. Black. If you’d been lucky enough to get tangled up with Danielle Steel or Nora Roberts, I can assure you they wouldn’t have come knocking at your door.”
“You’re breaking my heart, princess,” he said. He let out a theatrical cry of pain and shrank back with his hand clasped to his chest before bursting out laughing; he had to admit, the girl was witty. He perched at the island and said: “Go ahead, I’m all ears.”
Siobhan took a deep breath before plunging in.
“ With Fate on Our Side was based on my own relationship. She is me. And he’s ... my ex. We broke up last year.”
Fascinating. A character-shaping kind of tragedy .
“I changed the ending so the protagonists ended up together; you know, happily ever after and all that. The rest was based pretty much on real life. I assume you have no intention of reading my novel, so you won’t mind if I give away the plot. I met Buckley in college, like in the book; I fell for him right away, like in the book; we moved into a Brooklyn apartment with all the charm of a Soviet missile base, like in the book.” At that point, she sighed in frustration, a buried sadness in her expression. “And, like in the book, he just abandoned me one day, with a note stuck to the refrigerator. He also left me a bunch of debts, but I decided to leave that part out.”
What a jerk. And what kind of a name is Buckley? God, it’s pathetic, thought Marcel, making an effort to hide his disgust.
“The difference between the novel and what happened in real life is that Buckley never came back. And even now, I still don’t understand why he left.”
He felt like saying, “You see, Siobhan? Love is an illusion. One day it’s blooming, and the next it’s all frosted over.” But he decided to keep that verbal ammunition for another time.
“But you still believe in happy endings.”
“A story that ends well is a story that never ends.”
Marcel could discern in her glittering pupils the fire of a powerful, uncontainable passion. Seeing that, he was overcome by the feeling that he was gravitating too close to the edge of an active volcano.
“I expect you’re enjoying all this,” Siobhan said, without lifting her gaze from the coffee cup. “I know how much you hate me.”
Something resembling guilt tore at his conscience. After a brief silence, he replied:
“ Hate is too strong a word for someone I’ve only known a couple of weeks. What is it exactly that concerns you?” he said to change tack.
“What if I can’t do it? I went along with all this quite happily, believing I knew what I was doing, but it turns out I don’t have the faintest idea. You were right: I’m just a third-rate wannabe writer. What the hell was I thinking when I signed that contract? I’m clearly not capable of writing anything that isn’t based on my own stupid personal experience.”
She seemed genuinely distressed.
Good lord.
Why is she baring her innermost fears to a stranger?
Why me?
“The thing is everything in literature is personal. Any detail from reality can be reshaped to become an essential element in a novel. A conversation on the subway, a newspaper headline, a still from a movie, or the last words of a loved one before they die.”
Pause.
For a moment, Marcel’s mind flew to the labyrinthine undergrowth of his own past. His heart was pounding; a brutal reminder of the fragile state of the levee holding his own emotions at bay.
Siobhan’s gentle voice brought him back to the present.
“I read An Ordinary Man. ”
“Really? I thought you weren’t interested in crime fiction.”
“I’m not. But someone once said you need to know your enemy.”
“Not ‘someone.’ It was Sun Tzu. In The Art of War. ”
“I knew that. Don’t you want to know what I thought?”
“No. I’m not interested in opinions, good or bad.” A half-truth. “Readers tend to read the book they want, not the one you wrote.”
Judging by the expression on her face, Siobhan didn’t seem particularly convinced by that argument.
“So why do you do this, then?”
“Because I have a publishing contract that makes me a shitload of money?”
“Oh come on! I’m not buying that. There must be more to it.”
Marcel tensed. His reasons were too personal to divulge lightly. Even so, there was something in her innocent gaze that invited him to share confidences with her.
“Because the act of writing gives structure to the chaos of existence itself. And believe me: there’s nothing so agonizing as having a story inside you that you haven’t told yet.” With that phrase he had revealed much more than it first appeared. “What about you?”
Siobhan threw her head back and frowned as she pondered her response. The light fell on the curve of her throat; to Marcel, the view was magnificent.
“I suppose ... it’s nice to be able to play tricks on destiny once in a while.”
“That sounds like a good reason,” he agreed, without averting his gaze.
She smiled. A wonderful smile.
He felt off-kilter, confused, out of place. A sudden weakness devastated every last muscle. He had let down his guard for a second, and Miss Harris had disarmed him with her crushing frankness. It was clear you couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or could you? What was happening here? He didn’t know, although the sensation felt like walking along a ridge of shifting sands: if you stepped in the wrong place, you would sink irrecoverably.
Which was a problem.
“Well, that’s enough fairy tales for today, princess. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it properly.”