Chapter 11 MARCEL
Chapter 11
M ARCEL
Six in the evening.
When he finished the chapter, he switched off his computer and went out to stretch his legs. July had arrived with a vengeance. The air was completely still, and the asphalt gleamed like a pond in the intense sunlight, although New York was still a buzzing hive of movement even in the midst of a heatwave. Wearing a cap for protection, he spent the next forty minutes wandering around the Upper East Side—not the sad, gray part that eventually becomes Harlem, but the rich, white, conservative part. Though it was true that things had changed in recent years—he himself was an example of the increasing number of people in the neighborhood who didn’t fit that description—a stroll along Lexington or Park Avenue was all it took to confirm that the stereotype was still based on a tenacious reality.
Regardless, neither the suffocating heat nor that depressingly familiar state of affairs could ruin his mood. He was euphoric, and for one very simple reason: he was writing again. Not just a couple of paragraphs, but two whole chapters. A surge of energy had inexplicably kept him glued to the keyboard all week. Delving into the miseries of the tormented nineteenth-century crime novelist Jeremiah Silloway had allowed him to rediscover that spark of creativity he had given up for lost. The words poured out effortlessly onto the blank page. He was shocked that he had recovered his excitement working on a story that, in theory, didn’t interest him in the slightest. A story that wasn’t entirely his own and would represent a permanent stain on his career. Despite all that, the desire to write it grew insatiable.
He wanted to write without stopping.
And that was precisely what he had been longing for.
Of course, there was one external factor preventing him from progressing at his own pace: Miss Harris. Why had she shown no sign of life all week? Was she too busy promoting her own novel? If she had time to tweet nonsense or record a ridiculous podcast about romance literature, she certainly had time to write. Not that he had been monitoring her activity on social media. Nothing like that. Well, perhaps a little. Maybe she had run into another mental block, which was a worrying thought. What if the same thing happened every time she started a new chapter? Marcel thought he had resolved the matter with his “motivational” chat the previous Sunday—at least, that’s what he had thought when Siobhan finally handed him a third version of the introduction that met with his satisfaction—but now he was doubting his skill as a mentor.
He needed to light some fires.
What the experts call reverse psychology.
He took his cell from his pocket and texted her as he walked.
Marcel
Will you have managed to write your part before the earth succumbs to climate change and we all have to emigrate to some Martian colony owned by Elon Musk OR DOES MADAM NEED ANOTHER WEEK?
Siobhan replied one minute later:
Siobhan
sorry I’m on it doing all I can
“What? You gotta be kidding ...,” muttered Marcel.
It seemed he hadn’t been forceful enough, so he decided to counterattack with a second, even more incendiary, message.
Marcel
It’s great that promoting your chick lit is so absorbing you don’t have time for the mere mortals around you. Problem is, if you don’t make progress, I don’t make progress. And if I don’t make progress, I become insufferable. So damn well focus and make sure you have your part ready for July 4. No excuses. And another thing: COULD YOU PLEASE USE CORRECT PUNCTUATION?
It wasn’t entirely true that he had to wait for her, not yet anyway. He had only resorted to emotional blackmail to get results.
Siobhan
It would be impossible for you to become insufferable because YOU ALREADY ARE.
Siobhan
Why not do the world a favor and GO TO HELL?
Siobhan
You just don’t get it
Marcel would have liked to ask her exactly what it was he didn’t get, but he decided to leave it. He had pissed her off, and that was positive. Siobhan Harris seemed like the kind of person who operated better under pressure.
“Is that all you’ve got? Please, Britney Spears can write song lyrics with more depth than this,” he had said after reading the second version of her introduction.
He had exaggerated on purpose. Her style wasn’t bad; it just needed pacing and precision. Perhaps he had been too hard on her, but in the end, he was doing her a favor; after all, she was the one who had shown up at his house whining. That day replayed over and over in his mind, and he couldn’t stop it. The moment he opened the door and found her standing there with her bag of books, her constellation of freckles, and all of her fears. He hated to admit that he had lowered his guard. Not only had he helped her; he had also let her enter his study, sit in his chair, and use his computer. And the worst thing was, he wasn’t sure he had done it entirely for his own benefit. Was he going crazy? If Alex knew how much he had ceded to this girl, he would mock him ruthlessly. And he couldn’t help remembering that urge, as stupid as it was impossible to control, to wipe the crumbs of cake from her lips with a napkin. A heat spread across his skin as he recalled that fleeting moment, and his thoughts became explicit enough to make him feel uncomfortable. He blinked hard to free himself of the image branded on his mind and stuck his phone in his pocket.
He needed a distraction.
At Fifth and Ninety-Third, he headed for the Corner Bookstore. Visiting bookstores was one of his favorite pastimes. He loved rescuing classics from oblivion or coming across some little-known work that had been buried at the back of the shelf. Upon entering, he encountered a huge display showcasing his book The End of Days and Siobhan’s With Fate on Our Side .
I don’t believe it. They’ve paired us up already?
He walked up to the display and compared both covers. While his was sober and dark, hers looked like an invitation to a Victorian wedding, with one of those bands used to entrap gullible readers. “The writer of the moment,” he read. He shook his head. He knew this absurd arrangement was down to a Baxter Books marketing campaign. He took a photo on his cell and sent it to Alex, stating, The world is going to shit. Then he picked up Siobhan’s book, flicked through it, and read her biography on the flap.
“Siobhan Harris (Mount Vernon, NY, 1987) studied Communications at NYU. She discovered romance novels at the age of fourteen and became addicted to happy endings. She believes in second chances above all else. She likes summer, traveling, chocolate chip ice cream, taking photos with her friends, and talking about books, particularly love stories.” Marcel gave an ironic laugh. Ice cream, happy endings, second chances ... She was so predictable. He continued reading. “She is very active on Twitter and loves interacting with her readers. She currently lives in Brooklyn and combines writing with her full-time job in a digital marketing company. With Fate on Our Side is her first novel.”
Marcel’s eyebrows arched in surprise.
“What the hell . . . ,” he murmured.
Then it all made sense.
The reason Siobhan hadn’t delivered her section was right in front of his eyes: a full-time job in a digital marketing company. He couldn’t help feeling like an idiot, because he hadn’t even considered that she might have a job. What kind of snob have you become? he thought, reproaching himself. He contemplated the idea of calling to apologize, but his pride prevented him. She could have told me instead of flying off the handle . He let his gaze drift to the author’s photograph for a moment. Siobhan’s eyes were friendly, her mouth voluptuous and perfectly curved. If he was honest, she wasn’t predictable at all. Sometimes she seemed delicate and sweet; at others, like solid steel. She challenged him in a way he found both infuriating and intriguing. After more than a decade exploring the dark side of human nature, few things surprised him. But now some girl who defined herself as a hopeless romantic was causing a kind of fizzing curiosity in him that was proving hard to repress. Marcel remembered that Siobhan had told him her book was based on her personal experience. Then he did something he would never have predicted.
He bought it.
Never say never, or I’ll never read a romance novel in my life.
“This one?” asked the salesclerk when Marcel placed the book on the counter to pay.
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to gift wrap it?”
“It isn’t a gift.”
“Is it for you?”
There was an annoying tone of incredulity in the busybody’s voice.
“Let’s just say I’m doing some research,” improvised Marcel.
“Of course, that makes sense. I thought it was strange, you buying it for pleasure. You don’t fit the consumer profile for this type of book, to be honest. Did you know the author is writing a book with Marcel Black?” He gestured toward the display. “I don’t know what will come of it. It’s quite a strange combination, but publishers will release anything these days if they can make a quick buck out of it. Do you know Marcel Black?”
Yes, moron, like the palm of my hand.
“Vaguely.”
“If you haven’t read anything of his, I suggest you do. He has a really good series about a detective who’s a bit of a troublemaker. You know the kind of thing.” A disturbing sound, something like a pig’s grunt, came out of the impertinent salesclerk’s mouth. “I’m sure you’ll like it better than this immature flash in the pan stuff. What do you say, my friend?”
Flash in the pan? Immature?
Those words felt like a kick in the stomach, and he couldn’t explain why.
It was surreal.
“I think the only thing that’s flash in the pan in here is your intelligence, my friend .”
The assistant gawped at him.
“What?”
“You heard me. And if you don’t want to find a feature in the New Yorker about the prejudice of the staff in this bookstore, you’d better shut your beak.”
Then he dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, grabbed the book, and left, certain that he would never set foot in this establishment again.
He spent the rest of the day wondering what on earth was happening to him.