Chapter 20
Mallory
‘I’m sick of having to have sex to buy a sandwich,’ he says. The church hall falls silent.
He stands to go.
‘Please stay,’ a woman asks him gently. ‘You belong here.’ He looks at her, his eyes filling with an anger so deep, so guttural, that when he lets out his scream, even the characters in the pictures crowding the walls seem to recoil – his pain too much for the room to take.
It ricochets around the circle, piercing each person with its desperation.
And he leaves, slamming the door, back into the abyss.
I close the draft and open my emails.
Stanley Maier.
Stanley was my editor for Shallow Embers. He now works in adult fiction as editor-in-chief. He was in his fifties when I knew him, and he always told me that if something came to mind, I should get in touch.
I check the time. Ronan texted me to say he would be at the pub a little longer than he’d thought, and that I should order a takeaway for us.
I open a fresh email.
Hi Stan,
I know it’s been a while, I hope this finds you well.
No. Delete.
Hi Stan,
I have an idea for a new book.
Yes. To the point.
After some time of being uninspired, I wasn’t sure I would ever write again.
I have, however, recently found myself in a position where I’m finally feeling creative.
I am aware this email is unsolicited – but I’m currently unrepresented by an agency and wanted to contact you directly.
I hope you don’t mind me getting in touch. I still had your email on file.
I’ve been looking into the darker corners of society and have come across a world that I feel has the potential to really capture people’s attention and open up their eyes.
I have attached the first fifty pages. I would love it if you could find the time to read this blind – without any prefacing – and give me your opinion. I will continue writing, as the narrative is slowly unveiling itself to me.
Thank you.
I look forward to hearing from you,
Mal Maddox
I press send, wait to hear the confirmation whoosh noise, then close the laptop and slide it back into the dresser drawer. I go upstairs, into the bedroom, and pick up a book. I lie down, pretending to read, until I hear the door go.
‘Hi, honey!’ Ronan calls from the hallway.
‘I’m upstairs!’ I shout back.
‘The Deliveroo guy was outside! I’ve got the food!’
‘Oh, perfect!’
I lift myself up from the bed and pull on my pyjamas. I go downstairs to see Ronan stood at the sink, in his cords and oversized shirt, with his messy hair.
‘Hi, baby,’ he says. ‘How was your day?’
‘It was great,’ I say, advancing towards him with my arms outstretched. ‘I stayed in and read. I feel so much better.’
‘You didn’t go to Joanie’s?’ His brow furrows. Shit. ‘The hamper was gone from the car.’
‘I threw it out,’ I say casually. ‘It was getting stale. And I just wanted to be by myself today.’
His eyes linger. Then he gently places his hand on my shoulder, the pressure of his fingers making me feel momentarily safe. ‘That’s great. I’m so pleased to hear it.’
I smile, a real one. ‘Thanks for our talk earlier. It meant a lot to me.’
‘I’m glad. It did to me too.’
And tonight, we do what we usually do. We sit together on the couch and watch the first few episodes of a subtitled Scandinavian thriller, our legs pressed together on the couch.
Every now and then, he will turn to me, and mouth I love you, and I will reciprocate.
I am not able to focus on the screen, even though I stare straight at it.
Instead, I think about us. I think about the time we met, the Airbnbs in the Cotswolds, the music we used to listen to, the joy I felt in those early months, until I didn’t.
Until it changed. I think about the way in which my mother told me he was the best thing to happen to me, that I was lucky, that he was out of my league.
‘Mal?’ he says, as the credits of the second episode roll.
‘Mmhmm?’
He takes the control and flicks the button so the TV goes black, then turns to me. ‘So what do you think?’
‘I think it was quite predictable—’
‘No,’ he says, smiling. ‘What do you think about the baby.’
The baby.
To him, it already exists.
His eyes glow expectantly, as I fight the thump I feel deep in my stomach. Right where the baby will be.
‘I think yes,’ I lie.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mal,’ he says, shuffling towards me, taking my hands in his. ‘Mal, you are going to be a wonderful mother. We are going to be a wonderful family. You are so special. You were made for this.’
‘You think?’
‘Of course. The writing, the counselling – it’s all led its way to this. You were made to be a mum, to be here, to look after our child.’
It’s hard to lie with three words. But I am getting used to it. ‘You are sweet.’
We go upstairs.
Afterwards, he places a hand on my stomach, until he falls asleep.
I gently move his arm, pick up my laptop and tiptoe into the bathroom. Sitting on the closed toilet seat, I open up my computer and see the message waiting for me. Stanley Maier.
Mal,
Hi. It’s been a while. When I saw your name come into my inbox, I was glad. It fell on an usually quiet Saturday evening, so I was grateful to take a look. I always wondered where you had got to. A copy of Shallow Embers still sits proudly on my bookshelf.
I read what you sent. It’s good. Very. On trend with what is selling.
Digging into the way poverty affects addiction isn’t new, but what is refreshing is this look into the underbelly of a dark world for gay men – the ‘chemsex’ world – a place that clearly holds a lot of trauma.
I think it’s something people would be interested in reading about – framed as a ‘modern boy succeeds against all the odds’ type of story.
And championing diversity is really important for us here.
Your style is good, and I enjoy the characters.
They aren’t likable, but that’s on trend these days.
The plot needs more danger. Can you do that?
Raise the stakes, put Liam in real peril.
And mine his inner world, his emotional life.
He cannot be two-dimensional. It is currently feeling a little that way.
If you can get to the core of him, Mal, then we can talk properly.
A couple of other things to check in with before you proceed – namely authenticity.
Addiction is a tough nut to crack, particularly by someone who perhaps themselves has little experience.
And, of course, writing a 22-year-old homosexual is in itself something to be careful with.
I know you have the ability to write whatever your imagination lends itself to – it is just important we have a gauge on where the impetus to write this particular character comes from.
Perhaps you have been inspired by a cousin, a friend? All worth considering.
If you could let me know, and send me more of the manuscript by the end of the month, then we can begin our work together in earnest. Feels like this could be a good one to pitch at Frankfurt Book Fair.
In the meantime, if you’d like to send chapters as you go, I’d be happy to read and offer feedback.
Well done.
Best,
Stan
He likes it.
Stanley Maier likes my book.
Could this... work? Is my ticket out of here in these pages? In Liam’s story?
End of the month. Three weeks. Three weeks.
I quickly type my reply.
Dear Stan,
A joy to hear from you, after all this time. And so quickly! I’m so glad you’re taken with the concept – I thought you might find it interesting.
When it comes to the authenticity – yes. I have myself been struggling with addiction since the publication of Shallow Embers, hence my writing hiatus. However, with the help of twelve-step recovery and meetings, I am now gladly sober.
As you might remember my brother – Nick – died when I was twenty. The reasons behind why he took his own life were always shrouded in confusion and pain, but I have always known his sexuality, and my parents’ inability to accept it, took its toll.
I can of course put Liam in more peril. The stakes in this book are very important. I want the reader to understand just how hard reality is for him. He deserves to be seen.
Leave it with me.
More soon,
Mal