Love You Madly. Alex George
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I want to do that?’
I hesitate. ‘It’s just that, I don’t know, a book launch without any actual books seems a bit peculiar.’
‘Well, I’m very sorry, Matthew,’ says Neville sardonically. ‘No books.’
There is an awkward pause.
‘This is certainly less run-of-the-mill than most book launches I’ve been to,’ remarks Sean doubtfully. ‘I love it, though. It’s gritty. It’s real. It has a certain je ne sais quoi.’
‘It’s a disaster, is what it is,’ I retort.
‘A working launch,’ suggests Anna.
‘Ha ha,’ I say, unamused.
‘We’re all out to launch,’ says Anna.
‘All right, sweetheart,’ I say.
Anna points at Patricia, then at herself. ‘We’re ladies who launch.’
Now Sean decides to join in.
‘There’s no such thing as a free launch,’ he says, looking very pleased with himself.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter.
‘Anyway, cheers,’ says Neville ill-naturedly. ‘Here’s to Licked.’
‘Hear, hear,’ agrees Sean. ‘Congratulations on publication.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I mumble.
‘Yes, well,’ says Neville.
We lapse into silence.
‘So, yeah, anyway,’ says Sean. ‘I just love the book.’
I look at him. He hasn’t read a word of it, I know. ‘Really,’ I say.
To my surprise, Neville agrees. ‘Me too,’ he declares. ‘It’s like, what, Anaïs Nin meets Stanley Gibbons.’
I look at him quizzically. ‘You think?’
‘Definitely.’ Neville takes a swig of beer. ‘Nobody else has published anything like it. Whatever else it may be, it’s different.’
‘Thanks,’ I say uncertainly.
‘And November’s a great time to be published,’ enthuses Sean. ‘The book will be in the shops well in time for Christmas.’
At the thought of Christmas and its attendant retail excesses, Neville shudders visibly. We stand about chatting in a desultory way. Anna listens to the rest of us talk, languidly smoking. In the absence of anything better to do, we all begin drinking too much.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ says Anna after a while. ‘I’m off for a pee.’ As she leaves, I turn my attention to Patricia, who is telling us of the squabbles between three Hollywood starlets, who each want to play the lead in the forthcoming film adaptation of one of her books. The story is met with amusement by Sean and Neville, but I am so overcome with bitterness that I can barely muster a smile. Waves of bilious jealousy froth within me. Hollywood? I don’t even have any bloody books at my book launch.
Some time later, Anna has still not returned. My mind drifts as I begin to wonder what could possibly be taking her so long. Suddenly this afternoon’s worries crowd back in on me again. Why did Anna lie to me about her shopping trip? What is she trying to hide? Before long I can no longer ignore the relentless prod of my suspicions. With a mumbled excuse I break off from the group and go in search of her, fearful that I might be missing something – what, I do not know.
I go to the back of the pub. In front of the women’s toilets, I hover uncertainly, wondering what to do next. I can’t very well just barge in. The thought of Anna’s clandestine trip to the cinema this afternoon needles me insistently. I am paralysed by indecision. My spirits, astonishingly, contrive to dip even lower than they already were.
‘Hello,’ says Patricia into my ear.
I spin round. ‘Patricia,’ I gasp.
Patricia eyes me with interest. ‘What are you doing out here?’ she asks, pointing at the door to the ladies’ lavatory. She smiles. I stare at her big teeth.
‘Ah.’ My mind goes blank. ‘Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to ask you a question.’
She folds her arms across her chest. ‘Be my guest.’
I stare at her, unable to formulate a thought. Then, inspiration strikes. ‘It’s about your name. That is, your pen name. Your pseudonym. Your, um, nom de plume.’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, I’ve always wondered. Of all the thousands of names you could have chosen, why did you go for Candida?’ I swallow. ‘Was there, you know, a reason for naming yourself after a fungal infection?’ I attempt a look of serious enquiry.
Patricia draws herself up to her full height and looks down at me through her melting dark eyes.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she says.
To my relief, the door to the toilet opens and Anna comes out. ‘Look, don’t worry,’ I say hastily. ‘Wasn’t important.’
Anna sees me and smiles. ‘Hi.’
‘Anna,’ I breathe. ‘There you are.’
‘I think I’ll just –’ says Patricia, frowning. She turns and pushes open the door to the lavatory.
I wave weakly at her disappearing back.
‘What are you doing out here?’ asks Anna, slipping her arm through mine and giving me a squeeze.
‘I, er, oh, just chatting with Patricia.’
‘Well, come on,’ says Anna. ‘Let’s get back to the party. We’re missing all the fun.’
‘OK,’ I say, my nerves electric.
The rest of the evening passes without further incident. There are no big scenes, no dramas of note. Anna and I finally fall into a cab at about eleven o’clock. As I sit next to her, watching her laugh, I feel myself torn in two. I don’t want this moment to end. I want to stay within the cocoon of this taxi and keep the outside world at bay. This is all right; this will do just fine. But the journey will end, this moment of sanctuary will pass, and then I will have to square up to my wife’s lies.
Anna chats on, unaware of my anxiety, pulling on a cigarette. Her shawl slips as she talks, revealing a bare shoulder, vulnerable in its nakedness. I hold her hand, and watch her talk.
Anna and I have been married for five years. We lived together in glorious, highly enjoyable sin for six years before that, and dated each other for two years before that. A grand total of thirteen years, so far. We have gently graduated from each stage of togetherness to the next, merging our lives in new levels of delicious interconnectedness. There were the obvious things – our paperbacks mingling together on the bookshelf, the joint bank account – but the real intertwining took place in a more private sphere: the reassuring warmth of our collective history, a mutual repository of memories; each other’s favourite jokes fondly tolerated; the solace of shared values; the bliss of unreserved intimacy.
After we left university, we got a place together in London. While Anna spent her days at law school, I did the housework and worked on the first of my five abysmal, unpublished novels. We had only just enough money to survive, but we were young, and in love. We didn’t need much, except each other.
While I remained at home, still seeking the elusive formula for that critically-acclaimed-yet-phenomenally-successful first novel, Anna began her job in a large City law firm. Ten years on, she’s still there. She specialises in non-contentious corporate work, which consists of an apparently never-ending list of gnomic acronyms – M and A, HBOs, IPOs, and the rest. It baffles me how someone as sharp,