Amy Bird - Three Steps Behind You

I remember, once, Nicole reminiscing about being taught method acting in her student drama days, pre-Adam. A director had told her that if she wanted to act eating an apple, she would first have to practise eating one, savour each tooth indentation, each salivation, finishing it to the core. Only then would the audience believe she knew what it was to truly eat an apple. A tempting proposition. And Nicole’s only useful titbit.

So today, I am embarking on a whole new writerly me. The lobster in its box writhes next to me on the bus seat. I think it appreciates its role in this journey. The other passengers on the bus have been less appreciative, but they will see the true value when my name is a foot high on the Tube billboards. They can say: ‘I once sat on a bus along the North Circular with Dan Millard.’ Adam can introduce me to his friends as his mate Dan, the published author. Except by then I might have changed my name to something catchier. Perhaps Jeremy Bond. That worked for me before. And for Adam.

Back at home I put the lobster on the kitchen surface and take a closer look at it. To me, Dan, the prospect of what’s to come is revolting. I Googled it earlier. I know that if I freeze the lobster first, it will be numb, and feel less pain, but then I’d have to take the knife and slice down through the flesh beneath its grey shell, stopping just before its wide grey tail, containing the roe. I don’t think I have the strength for that. Besides, I will be writing this as Luke, who does not have my empathetic nature. Luke will want the lobster to feel pain. Luke will just seize the lobster, its claws still bound, and throw it into the boiling water. When the lobster tries to escape, jumping out of the too-shallow pan, to slither away, Luke will grasp it firmly and throw it back in again. The flames will rise under the pan until the lobster is red hot. Then, taking it out of the pan, he will twist its claws till they crack, rip off the red-pink shell, stare it in the eyes then take a snarling bite of the flesh beneath and—

Something catches in my gullet. I cough, choking. Spluttering out of my Luke reverie, I see right up in front of my face a pink, cooked, lobster, so close that I can distinguish the little hairs on its antennae. On the hob is a still-simmering pan of water. I stare, amazed. I have entered into the character of Luke so much that I have slaughtered and cooked a lobster all as him.

I smile. All I need to do is write this down. The method is working. The lobster is just the start, of course. But one must begin somewhere.

Chapter 2

Over dinner, I tell Adam about the lobster. Nicole listens too, or at least pretends to, nuzzling Adam’s ear while I’m talking. But I’m not addressing her.

‘It was amazing!’ I say. ‘I’d killed it even before I’d thought about it. This is a real breakthrough. Look, read the piece I wrote on the bus on the way over!’

‘You still don’t drive, then, Dan?’ asks Nicole, as I hand Adam the manuscript.

I shake my head. Now is not the time for Nicole’s irrelevant questions. It is the time to impress Adam with my work.

‘You always said I was the best at writing, Adam. And now I really will be, with the method!’

‘Well, if I said that, I must have meant it, hey?’ he asks, winking at me.

I nod but he doesn’t look at me. It’s okay if he doesn’t remember. I’ll prove myself again, now, get his adulation afresh, when this new work is published. I watch him while he reads. He has a bit of stubble today, blond hairs not quite breaking through, dots instead lining those sharp cheekbones.

‘Haven’t thought of learning?’ Nicole probes. ‘With all those cars at the garage?’

‘I can’t afford to. Besides, it’s so dangerous,’ I reply.

Adam flinches and I notice his eyes move across to the dresser. I see Nicole notice too and her lips tighten. She must hate that photo of Helen, the constant reminder that she is number two. All over the house, there are stills of Nicole from RADA, playing Desdemona, St Joan, Ophelia, all those other classic roles. None after college. I suppose they make her feel young. Or else she really thinks she still looks like that. On the mantelpiece though, it is just Helen. I see it whenever I come round for dinner.

Nicole sees me looking at the photo of Helen.

‘They’ll catch the driver one day,’ she says, kissing the top of Adam’s head. ‘Give you closure.’ She drapes a protective arm around Adam, forming a barrier between him and me.

‘They’ve tried, they failed,’ he says. He kisses her arm but his tone is clipped.

‘I’ve chosen the third-person voice for Luke,’ I say, helping Adam by changing the subject. ‘That way I have more control over him.’ Adam nods, as if he understands.

‘Which novel is this now? Fourth?’ he asks me.

‘Third,’ I lie. There is no need to bother him with the real book three. He is a banker, so his grasp of more, let’s say, boundary breaking art is poor. There are more drinks than books lining the walls of his West Hampstead home, even though he must have emptied most of the whisky in the week after The Accident, before Nicole came along.

Still, even with his banker’s brain, Adam can’t help but notice the dazzle of the lobster paragraph in what he thinks is book three. I’m so pleased with it, I can remember it word for word.

Luke ran his fingers along the hairs on the antennae of the lobster, which blushed as though it had just been caught getting out of a hot bath. Luke examined the little hairs on the antennae. If only he could get that close to a woman, he thought. Then he tore into its flesh .

The bit following on from that passage will be difficult, of course – Luke getting close, to a woman. I’ve never been big on that. Still, I’ll need to man up, apply the method. That’s what he’s cooking the lobster for, you see. To woo her. When she comes to his house.

Nicole is drumming her fingers against the dining-room table. That must be terribly distracting for Adam, when he’s reading my work.

Adam looks up. Good, I think. He will tell her off. Instead, he puts his hand over hers, encircling it, like the twine round the lobster’s pincers earlier. She stops drumming.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘But I put a lot of effort into the risotto. And then Dan turns up already having eaten a lobster, and now you’re too busy reading to eat.’

I catch Adam’s eyes and roll my own, creating a joke out of Nicole’s nagging. Helen used to nag, too. Adam looks away, though, obviously too embarrassed by his second wife to see the humour. Nicole catches the look, glares at Adam, and starts shoving forkfuls of risotto into her mouth. She is looking plump. That explains it.

‘So, what do you make of it, Adam?’ I ask.

I wait for his praise.

‘Same old handwriting from school, isn’t it? Can just about decipher it!’ says Adam, putting the notebook to one side. ‘Still, better than mine!’

Typical of Adam to make these little jokes – it’s part of his charm. He must know how to decipher my handwriting by now, after book two. I know he’s read it, even if he never talks about it. I smile, and move my chair slightly closer to his, so I can point out particular bits in the notebook. I will trace his fingers going over the handwriting, explain to him what it all means.

‘Idiot!’ shouts Nicole, as my movement upsets my plate and the wine next to it, causing them both to splash a red arc over the cream carpet.

I get down on my hands and knees to try to help, at the same time as Nicole descends to the floor. Our heads are almost touching. If I move forward an inch, I could butt her head with my own, see if I meet scalp in that excessive pile of mousy hair.

She looks up at me. I hold her gaze. She looks away quickly, turning her attention to pouring salt on the wine.