Peter Lovesey: The Circle

A youngish guy with a rucksack crossed the car park and went in. Long hair, earring, sweatshirt and jeans. Looks human, Bob thought. Not a schoolteacher or a professor. Give it a go, mate. He opened the car door and got out. If I don't like the look of the punters, he told himself, I can say I'm in the wrong room, looking for the film.

Inside, he strolled past the queue at the box office and went towards a door on the left, the only way to go if you weren't there for the film. A blonde in her forties was ahead. She glanced back to check that he wasn't anyone she knew. Deep-set blue eyes and the hint of a smile. Then she stopped, turned round and said, 'Are you a writer?'

Bob cleared his throat. 'Me?'

'It's the writers' circle in here.'

She didn't sound highbrow, and she was pretty in a way that younger women can't be, with creases that promised to be laughter lines asking to be exercised.

'Thought I might look in,' he said. 'See what you get up to.'

'Nothing we can get arrested for, more's the pity, but you're welcome to check. I'm Thomasine O'Loughlin, by the way.'

Fancy handle, he thought, but she seemed like a real person. He followed her into the meeting room where a long table and chairs were set up and nobody was seated yet. Two groups were in conversation. A man in a bow tie was holding forth in a carrying voice.

'No better, no better at all.'

Sounds like a line from Shakespeare, Bob thought. Should I look as if I've heard it before?

'He doesn't know,' the voice went on, as if reading his mind.'I tell you, he doesn't have a clue.'

If this is how they treat visitors, Bob thought, I'm off.

'He put me on some new stuff that sends me to sleep in the afternoons. I'll be back to see him in a day or two — if I can stay awake long enough to make another appointment.'

Smiles all round, even from Bob.

Thomasine was beckoning. 'Come and meet the chair.'

'Why? Is it special?'

'Chairman.'

'Ah.'

The chair wasn't the man with the medical problem. He was in the group at the far end. Catching Thomasine's eye, he stepped forward, a fiftyish guy in a sweater and cords who looked as if he would be more comfortable in a suit. His hair was thick and dark, too dark to be natural. The eyebrows probably were the genuine thing. They popped up. 'A new member?'

Bob tightened inside. The accent was top drawer. 'Just visiting.'

'A friend of yours, Tommy?'

Thomasine laughed. 'That's quick. We met outside the door.'

'Maurice McDade,' the chair said, gripping Bob's hand. 'Do you write?'

'Only a beginner.' Bob gave his name.

'We're all beginners in a sense,' Maurice McDade said. His speech came in bursts with overlong pauses, making him sound excited when the words came. 'The circle only came into being last year. You'd think a town this size would have had one for ages. Nobody took the first step.'

Thomasine said, 'Maurice set it up with the help of two others, Naomi and Dagmar.'

Names so posh that Bob checked where the exit was.

'We're still small,' Maurice said. 'Eleven if they all come. Like a cricket team. How did you hear about us? A recommendation?'

'The website.'

'Splendid. Miss Snow designed that. She'll be so encouraged. We'd better make a start.' He clapped his hands. 'Calling all writers. High time we put our feet under the table.'

Bob watched them find seats. Six women and five men, or six if he included himself. Average age, mid-fifties. One bow tie, five pairs of specs, a hearing aid and a wig. But also a blonde of about twenty who might have strayed in expecting to see the film.

'Before we begin, I'll introduce our visitor, Bob Naylor,' Maurice said. 'He's only taking a look at us this week. If we play our cards right, we could be up to twelve soon.'

Bob summoned a grin. He was to the left of a woman in her forties, hair streaked with silver, who had to be the secretary, already writing down the chairman's remarks. On his other side was the young guy with the earring.

Maurice spoke again. 'For Bob's benefit, I'll repeat my mantra, familiar to most of you by now. This isn't a talk-shop. We're here because we are creative people and we're not afraid to read out what we produce. This way, we are all — what are we?'

A couple of them spoke together. 'Published writers.'

'Exactly, for what is publication but making publicly known? Writing is about communication, so we're not afraid to have our efforts discussed by the others. Any writer should welcome the input of his peers.'

Sounds a pompous prat, but he's doing his best, Bob thought. Give him a chance.

The minutes of the last meeting were handed round by Miss Snow, the grey-haired secretary. Maurice asked if there were any matters arising and Bob thought of a rhyme.

Who fancies Miss Snow?

Anyone fantasising?

What's that down below -

A matter arising?

Cut it out, Naylor, he told himself. This may be the place for one of your rhymes, but no way is it the time.

The man with the bow tie spoke from the other end. He'd found what he called a solecism in the minutes. Miss Snow glared at him.

'And what is that?'

'The misuse of a word.' There was a hint of central Europe in his accent.

'I know what a solecism is,' Miss Snow said. 'I'm asking where it is in the minutes.'

'The foot of page one. "The circle was fulsome in its praise of Mr Blacker's talk." Fulsome is a pejorative word meaning disgusting by excess. Your meaning, in effect, is that we lavished so much praise on Mr Blacker that it made him look foolish.'

Give me strength, Bob thought. How do I get out of here?

'I thought he lavished too much praise on us,' one bold woman said.'I had him down as a toadying sharpie, telling us we all had it in us to write a bestseller.'

Silence dropped like dead leaves in November.

Maurice said, 'Thank you, Naomi. You're never shy of giving an opinion.'

'Shouldn't the minutes say "the late Mr Blacker"?' the man next to Naomi said.

'That is a point,' Maurice the chair said. He took an even longer pause this time. 'Did everyone hear the tragic news of Edgar Blacker?' Turning to Bob, he said, 'Mr Blacker was a publisher by profession, so we invited him to speak to us. He died in a fire at his cottage the next night.'

Thinking he'd better show respect, Bob shook his head and said, 'Dreadful.'

'You don't have to go overboard,' the outspoken woman called Naomi said. 'It's not as if he was one of us. Quite the reverse. He raised the hopes of certain people around this table, making it sound an easy matter to get published. It wasn't what you hear on writers' courses. It was irresponsible. They're beginners.'

'Except Maurice,' Miss Snow said. 'He's publishing Maurice's book.'

'Was,' Maurice said.

Miss Snow reddened. 'Oh. I hadn't thought. What a blow. I'm so sorry. You'll place it with some other publisher, I'm certain.'

'No question,' an overweight man said in a strong, deep voice. 'The cream always rises to the top.' A faint smile hovered around his lips, undermining the compliment.

'Anything else about the minutes?' the chairman said, not wanting to dwell on his personal misfortune. 'In that case, let's move on. Successes. Do we have any successes to report since the last meeting?'

A hand went up. 'A letter in The Lady.'

'Splendid! Well done, Jessie,' the chairman said, and there were murmurs of congratulation all round. 'Did they pay?'

'Twenty-five pounds.'Jessie, a compact, elderly woman in a purple twinset, modestly dipped her head.

'Are you going to read it out?'

'I'd rather not, if you don't mind. It's personal.'

Personal, in a magazine selling in thousands? Bob thought. These people are priceless.

'Yes,' Maurice said, with a raised finger, 'and it's the personal touch that gets the attention of an editor. Write from the heart, and you'll succeed. Any other successes?'