Chapter 59
Mallory
I only half hear the question because I’m too busy looking at her teeth.
‘Where did the inspiration for this incredible story come from?’
She has such perfect, Malibu teeth. It feels odd because she has an accent still, from the UK.
I think it’s Brummie – somewhere in the midlands definitely – but it is being overruled by a lot of Californian rhotic Rs and vocal fry.
I was thinking of getting Invisalign myself, but I’m waiting for the publication payment to come through.
The book sold in the USA for five times the amount it sold here, so I know I’m going to be OK, but it just doesn’t feel quite real yet.
Like the money won’t hit my account. Like someone will do something to prevent it from happening.
But it is real.
I am here.
I am answering all of her questions perfectly. And people are laughing. People are hanging onto my every word. A little like when I was in that AA meeting all that time ago, but this is different. This is my AA meeting, with my people.
Bookaholics.
Yes!
I’m a little giddy. The adrenaline is coursing through me, as if I am in a film on fast forward. They are filming this, actually. I was told by the publishers. They are filming it so they can use snippets of it for their awards promotion.
‘That’s a great question,’ I say. I have practiced this answer, so many times.
Thankfully the publisher gave me a list of points P.K.
would bring up, and this was point number one.
I had recurring intrusive thoughts of me spontaneously saying, I googled it drunk in the bathroom, and Reddit told me what to do, which put the fear of God into me.
So I prepared the answer to a tee. ‘Inspiration is such an interesting thing. I have written books before and friends have read them and said, Oh my gosh, Mal, that character is so like you. But at the time of writing it, I had no idea. I genuinely couldn’t see myself in them.
In fact, I could have sworn the opposite.
So what I’ve come to realise is that the inspiration, I think, for all my characters, goes back to my own childhood. Often to my own shadow.’
I did a bit of reading around shadow work for my counselling course. It ties in nicely here.
I have been waiting to say that bit for so long.
And when I ran it past Stan and Meghan and Gina and the team, they all loved it.
And seemingly, so does Paula. Because she is earnestly nodding. ‘So interesting that writing these books is an act of therapy in itself,’ she says. ‘Eking out the subconscious.’
Someone in the audience makes an mm sound, which, unexpectedly, creates a pang of what I can only interpret as jealousy inside me.
Paula got an mm. I’m not sure I have got one of those yet. Unless I didn’t hear it...
‘So...’ she goes on, and I can see in her eyes that the mm has buoyed her.
‘If this goes back to your childhood...’ She smiles knowingly, this new confidence turning her out to face the audience in a way that says, Don’t worry – I’m not letting her off the hook with that answer!
which elicits a pre-emptive laugh from a few of the more astute audience members.
Damn, she’s good. She’s so good. They love her.
‘Let’s go back to your younger years, if that’s OK with you? ’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ I say. I keep my eyes on Paula, noticing the shade of lipstick she is wearing is some kind of orange, which frankly is a little bold.
But also, somehow, on her, very chic. I ready my voice, to be assertive and vulnerable all at once.
‘I think there is this pain in me, this pain that has been there for a very long time. And I have spent so much of my life trying to avoid that pain.’ I pause, for a fraction of a second, just long enough to hear an mm.
An mm for me this time. ‘Whether it be through relationships, work—’
‘Writing,’ Paula cuts me off.
‘Right!’ I say, pulling it back to myself. I was going to get there, Paula. ‘Writing. Literally avoiding myself by escaping into a fantasy world.’
‘But so much of this isn’t fantasy, isn’t that right?’
I pause. Not because I’m thrown, but because I want to appear considered. Next to her. Who is so considered. I want to be the underdog of considered. I want to surprise people with how considered I come across, next to her. ‘No. A lot of it is based on real life.’
‘I mean, it’s needless to say that the therapist – Mandy – is based on you.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s a given.’
‘Because you are a therapist.’
‘I am. Well, I was. I’m a little busy now.’
Laughter. People laugh. At me. Well, with me.
‘And Mandy is a searcher. Desperate for a way out.’
‘Yes. She is. She has that compass within her.’
‘It’s incredibly brave, what she does. She goes through a lot, throughout the book.
And it’s almost overshadowed by the pain of the other characters.
Almost. But it remains, a haunting undercurrent.
It is the thread that ties it all together.
Her pain.’ Wait. Didn’t I... didn’t I think that in the cupboard?
‘The way the dynamic between her and Richard is written is incredibly chilling.’
My brain suddenly wobbles.
I feel... odd.
A little off, all of a sudden.
Like I am momentarily freefalling.
I blink a few times.
No. I’m fine. I’m completely fine.
‘Thank you,’ I say, but my brain is hesitating, lingering on what she just said: the pain is the thread.
And then I hear something. A chair screeching against the floor, somewhere at the back of the room.
A latecomer, perhaps. I squint into the audience.
I can just make out their faces, all glaring back at me, hopeful, ready to be inspired, to learn – from me.
‘And you have been quite forthcoming that the nature of the relationship between Richard and Mandy is something you have experienced yourself.’
I go immediately cold.
Not because of what she said. But because—
Oh my God.
Is that...?
He’s here.
Oh, God.
When I wrote to him, I told him we shouldn’t see each other—!
Paula is looking at me oddly. Because I am not answering her. But I can’t – I can’t remember what she said... Why is he here? ‘And what about the other characters?’
My hands have gone completely numb.
I can’t quite see his face. It’s too dark.
God, I hope...
I hope he’s... I’m not—
‘Mal?’
It might not be him. Is it him? Perhaps it’s the stress.
The stress of everything. I have been stressed.
This whole thing has been incredibly stressful, come to think of it.
And I have just spent a concerning amount of time in a store cupboard hallucinating dragons and dead people, so it could just be—He moves, and I catch a better glimpse.
It’s not him. This person’s hair is a totally different colour. This person is blonde. Leo is not blonde. And this person is chunkier. He has more weight on his bones. Leo was a skeleton.
Thank God.
Thank God.
I’m safe.
Aren’t I?
They look very similar.
I rub my eyes.
My head. It hurts.
‘I think many people would be interested to know who the character of Liam is based on,’ Paula says, as if she is living directly in the centre of my mind.
‘I...’ I look back at Paula, and something inside me stalls. I want to stand up. To stand up and walk down the centre aisle, out of this building, and disappear.
What am I doing here?
I feel my face flush. It is incredibly hot – like it was in the cupboard with the dragons.
A burning, erupting inside me. I realise, I think I’m about to burst into tears.
There is a flicker of something in Paula’s eyes.
She can see I’m struggling, and that it’s from more than the emotional weight of our performance.
That something is happening to me that feels off script. She suddenly looks nervous.
‘I don’t know if I can...’ I say, and glance back at the boy.
It is undeniable.
It’s him.
He’s here.
He’s dyed his hair.
Paula can tell something’s gone very wrong. I see her eyes flash down to the prompt card in her hand, wondering if she should help me. Wondering if this silence, this stalling, is all part of the narration. The story.
‘He’s based on your brother, isn’t he?’
The silence that follows feels like it might eat me alive.
It is a ‘Yes’ that I finally say. I try to go on, to search for the rehearsed response.
But I can’t find the words. They have completely escaped me.
Dried up. I pick up the glass of water and take a sip, as if it will replenish them, but nothing comes.
He has his arms folded.
I can see his eyes now.
Go on, they say. I dare you.
‘I know this is difficult,’ Paula begins again, trepidation in her voice. ‘Your brother really struggled, didn’t he?’
My mother. My mother is staring at her feet. ‘I...’
Saying this was fine, in the bathroom mirror.
Saying this was fine, with my flat white in the park.
Saying this was fine, in the letter I wrote to Leo.
After everything.
But now.
This.
Now.
Here.
It all feels incredibly real.
‘My brother...’
But he did struggle. Nick did struggle. And I have spent my life avoiding myself.
I have spent my life avoiding my own pain.
I’m not lying, not at all. ‘Yes,’ I say, but it sounds thin.
He did. This is not a lie. ‘Yes,’ I repeat, with more conviction.
‘He struggled a lot. With being gay, and the shame that brought him. With drugs. He struggled a lot with drugs. And with himself. His story deserves to be told, and the pain of what he went through deserves to be shared. I wrote this book for him.’ I look directly at Leo.
‘And for anyone else that can relate to that struggle.’
‘Of which...’ Paula says gently, ‘There are so many. In fact, what struck me most when reading this story, was that Liam is an everyman. He is all of us.’ She stops, to allow the profundity of her words to land.
‘Like Mandy, his inner world is so rich, so deeply raw, that you can’t help but relate. ’
‘I hope so,’ I say. ‘I really do.’
‘And – as you so shrewdly write in the closing scenes...’ She turns out to the audience, pre-empting their collective groan.
‘Don’t worry!’ she says, putting her hands up like a thief caught with their loot.
‘I promise – no spoilers will be given...’ I hear the collective, grateful sigh.
‘But one of the overarching messages of the book is so simple, yet so important. We are all the same,’ she says.
‘And we are. Underneath all the behaviours we have individually built up to remove ourselves from feeling – we are all pain, we are all shame, we are all guilt, we are all deeply and honestly human—’
‘We are all scared,’ I add.
‘Yes,’ Paula says, almost excitedly now.
‘Yes. We are all petrified, and trying not to look it.’ She looks out to the audience.
‘Who can relate to that?’ People shuffle about nervously.
‘Show of hands, please.’ A few eager ones dart straight up.
But then, one after the other, more are raised, until the whole audience has a hand in the air.
‘I rest my case,’ Paula says. Except the boy’s.
The boy’s hand is not in the air. I want to ask Paula if she can see him.
To make sure. To make sure he is real. ‘You tap into something in all of us.’
‘I just wanted to write what people are scared to talk about – the deepest parts of ourselves – and I think – well, I hope... that that’s why readers are connecting to the story.’
Paula turns to them again. ‘For those of you reading it, or those who have finished: are you? Are you connecting?’
There is applause.
Applause for me.
‘I’m glad you’re connecting to Mal and Leo,’ I say, when it dies down.
Silence. I glance at Paula. She’s pulling a face. She looks a little confused. A little shocked. ‘Sorry?’
‘What?’
‘Who are Leo and Mal?’
Oh wait. Oh God. ‘Oh! No. Liam and Mandy.’ Oh, God.
Quick. Quick – think. ‘Those are just nicknames. Ignore me.’ She pulls another face.
Shit. What was it that Meghan said? If all goes to shit, go to the reading.
‘Maybe I should read an excerpt?’ I hear a few mutters.
I turn towards the sound and face the crowd.
‘Would you like that?’ I ask. And they all say yes at once.
I pick up the book. I can see how much my hands are shaking.
I wanted to do a part from the middle, but I’m struggling with the pages, fumbling with them, and I can hardly see the words...
‘Oh, I think just the opening bit, if that’s OK with everyone? ’
‘Of course it’s OK,’ Paula says gently, then, very quietly, so only I can hear, ‘Take your time, Mal. We’re all here for you.’
I exhale slowly and nod. ‘I just wanted to say, for anyone who hasn’t read it, that ultimately, this book is a story of survival.’
I begin to read.
And when I am done, and I look back up, he is no longer there.