Joanna Kavenna - The Birth of Love

*

Michael had been drunk after lunch, and in his drunkenness he had become aware that the hours were passing slowly, that his mood had tottered and then descended still further. Sally had arranged this launch party, a robust celebration, and so the evening was shaded in, everything was planned. During the intervening hours, he had tried to stay busy. He read through the reviews, received their barbs. Now he had their phrases in his head, despite Sally’s exhortations. All afternoon he watched the clock slide onwards, as he drank one Irish coffee after another, until his throat was dry. The working day dwindled towards its close. It was an anti-climax. He had been expectant for months, because this was the day he would be judged. He had imagined it would be swift and decisive. But still everything hung in the balance. It would be weeks before the reviews all came in, Sally told him. She added, ‘Anyway, it really shouldn’t matter to you. The important thing, for you, was to get your work published. And you did.’

*

He couldn’t believe her. Instead he drank coffee and thought of his errors, the things he should have revised while he had the chance. That narrator, why did I let him run on so much? Why did I allow him to be so muddled, so vague in his assertions? He had sacrificed so much and even then he had written a bad book, and if he had the chance again he would destroy it. He never had much of a sense of loyalty to his books. He finished them with pride, thought them perfect for a day, a week perhaps. Then he lost faith, by degrees. And yet this book — he had hoped this book was his best, and Sally had said so too. He had called it The Moon , thinking this was a clever title at the time, but now he wanted to tear his book to pieces, because of what they had said.

*

At 3.00 p.m. the phone rang, and Sally said, ‘I forgot to remind you about the radio programme tomorrow. At 9.00 a.m. sharp. You might want to get everything ready before you come tonight. It’ll be live.’ That made Michael feel quite sick; he swallowed carefully.

‘I’m not sure … I don’t think I really should …’

‘Michael, I know. You are very reserved. But this is the only radio interview the publicity people could arrange for you. Katherine Miller is the presenter, and she’s terribly good. She’ll just ask you a few gentle questions about your book. It would help enormously with gaining an audience.’

‘But …’ he said.

‘Now, let’s think about this evening. You should come up to Hampstead for around 7.00 p.m. The launch is a bit of fun. No need to worry about it.’

‘Perhaps I should just stay here, prepare myself for the radio …’

She dismissed his words, before he could finish.

‘Nonsense. There’s something very irritating about writers who don’t go to their own launches. Come out, just for an hour. It’ll cheer you up.’

*

So Sally and good sense had prevailed, and Michael put the reviews on his desk, covered them with a piece of paper, and then he showered and found another shirt. He opened a bottle of wine because he was afraid of sobering up. Standing in his boxer shorts so as not to further crease his suit he gazed out of the window at the current far below and the current seemed more furious and driven than before. He was dependent on the judgement of strangers, on their opinions about him. He would be consigned to something or other, and then they would all forget him. The flood was passing, even as he watched it from his window.

*

He was drunk and calmer than before, when the phone rang. He assumed it would be Sally, or perhaps the publicity woman who had said she would call. Yet it was James again.

‘Ah, you’re still at home,’ he said, in his clipped and chilly way.

‘No, no, back at home,’ said Michael. ‘I was out earlier at a …’ but that sounded defensive, so he stopped.

‘I won’t keep you,’ said James. ‘I wanted to speak to you because I have just been to see our mother. I told her that you were launching your book. One speaks even though she doesn’t really understand. Normally she says very little, or what she says is incoherent. Yet today’— his brother’s voice was softening a little, registering surprise, or something else — ‘well, she nodded a little as I spoke. A reflex, perhaps. When it was time for me to go, she scrabbled with her hands, she wanted to write something. I couldn’t find a pen, so she said I must wish you luck. Then something else, which was garbled. About a story you once wrote for her. He is always writing little things for me, she said — because of course she is confused, she is half in the past, more sometimes, and she asked where you were …’

The taxi was outside, and Michael had to go.

So she clawed his day apart. His small moment, torn to shreds. It was melodrama, possibly, but he was trembling as the taxi conveyed him through the streets, as the driver turned the wheel and spoke loudly on his phone. When they pulled up outside the house he lingered by the door of the cab, unable to shut it. The driver looked at his watch, trying to hurry him away. Yet Michael was thinking, if he got back in, told the driver to take him to King’s Cross, he could be there in a few minutes. He could press his lips against her dusty hand, beg her forgiveness. He could say he was sorry, even if he wasn’t sure he really meant it.

But he paid the driver, and slammed the car door.

At the house he knew it had been a terrible mistake to come. He was welcomed by Lucy-Rose, Sally hovering in the background, trying to orchestrate his entrance, conducting him through the kindly nodding hordes and into the garden. His coat was removed, and someone brought him a glass of wine. He admired the walls covered in elegant prints, the shelves full of interesting books. He thanked everyone; he was indiscriminate.

*

Standing in the garden he saw them assembled. He wasn’t sure who had rallied them, but here they were, vivid in the dusk. Lucy-Rose was saying, ‘A few people couldn’t come, but they said they had heard good things about your book.’

Michael nodded and then, to change the subject, said, ‘Is that an aspidistra?’ and pointed at the flowerbed.

‘Yes,’ said Lucy-Rose. ‘We have a man who does the garden. He cultivates the most extraordinary flowers.’

‘It’s very fine.’

‘Michael, I have to leave in a second, but I wanted to say a brief hello before I went.’ There was a publisher at his shoulder. Martha Williams. She had once rejected a book of his, but now she was here.

‘I do hope things go well for you,’ she said, briskly. When she rejected his book she had written to Sally: ‘Dear Sally, further to our conversation on the phone I wanted to repeat how sorry we are that we could not accept Michael Stone’s novel. We are happy to take commercial risks if we really believe in the quality of the work but somehow we didn’t believe enough. I wish you and Mr Stone all the best in finding a suitable publisher.’ She had dashed that off in a second or two, to soften the blow, or to avoid offending Sally who had been at Cambridge with her. He had read it once and thrown it away. Still he remembered every word. Now she was speaking, in her brisk and terrifying way, her hands moving, her form shapeless within a billowing coat; but he couldn’t follow her words. He nodded as she said something about how she hadn’t had a chance to read his book but she looked forward to doing so, how she had heard something and something else, and he nodded and said, ‘Yes, it has all been … very … surprising.’

*

She shook his hand suddenly, before he had time to wipe it, said, ‘I wish you the best.’ Then she swept away, silk flowing from her ample shoulders. She had a coat the colour of the moon, he thought.