Zelda’s Cut

‘Good talk?’ Philip asked her when she arrived home.

‘Fine,’ she said distractedly. The breakfast things had not been washed up, his soup bowl and bread plate from lunchtime were still on the table along with the litter of Philip’s morning: orange peel, a couple of pens, a rubber band from the post, some empty envelopes, some flyers which had been shed from the newspaper. Isobel looked at the room and the work that needed to be done without weariness, without irritation. She looked at it all with calm detachment, as if it were the kitchen of another woman. It was clearly not the kitchen of a woman who had, this very morning, been offered more than a quarter of a million pounds for a novel, lounged on a sofa like a beauty queen and been passionately kissed.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ Philip said, following her gaze. ‘Mrs M. thought she might go off early after staying overnight and I said: “Yes”. I didn’t quite realise …’

‘That’s all right,’ Isobel said. ‘Won’t take a minute.’

She started to clear the table, watching her hands collecting debris, throwing it in the bin, watching herself stacking plates in the dishwasher, adding dishwasher liquid, still feeling on her lips the scorch of Troy’s touch.

‘Did it go well?’ Philip asked again.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. She heard her voice assemble lies. ‘They were very bright, they asked some interesting questions. Then there was a buffet lunch. I saw Norman Villiers. He was doing the afternoon session. He was well, said some interesting things about Larkin. Then I came home.’

‘You should do that sort of thing more often,’ Philip said generously. ‘It’s certainly done you good. You look quite radiant.’

‘Do I?’ she asked, her interest suddenly sharpened.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Glowing.’

Isobel’s hand stole to her mouth, her fingers covered her lips as if their bruised pinkness would betray her. ‘Well, I did enjoy it,’ she said, her voice very level. ‘There was some talk of a series of lectures. Replacing someone on maternity leave. I didn’t say yes or no, but I would like to think about it.’

‘Surely you don’t want a regular commitment,’ he protested.

‘Just a short series. In a few months’ time,’ she said. ‘I might go up and stay overnight and then come back in the afternoon, like today, once a week.’

He rose from the table and stretched. ‘As you like,’ he said. ‘Makes no difference to me. There were a couple of phone calls. The ansaphone took them. I was outside in the barn. I’ve been measuring up. I marked it out with spray paint so you can see the size the pool would be on the ground. And I’ve got on with the drawings.’

‘You have been busy,’ she praised him as she moved towards the door, wondering if it was Troy who had called.

‘I told you it would be an interest for me,’ he said. ‘And I found a swimming pool company who will do it at a discount if we order within four months.’

‘Even so,’ she said, ‘£50,000 …’

‘I’ll show you the figures when you’ve finished work,’ he said, wanting to detain her. ‘But I think you’ll see that if we do it now we can get real value for money. We could always borrow the money, the house could be security for the loan.’

Isobel nodded and went into her study, closing the door behind her. The ansaphone showed two calls. One had left no message, the other was an invitation to judge a minor literary prize. She noted for a moment the disproportionate sense of disappointment that swept her at the realisation that neither call was from Troy.

She rested her head in her hands and looked at the telephone, willing it to ring. One part of her was fully conscious of the absurdity that she was a woman in her fifties, sitting by a telephone like a girl of thirteen waiting for a call from a boy. Another part of her mind revelled in the fact that she was treasuring a kiss, like a girl of thirteen, that the thought of him ringing her made her heart pound, that even Philip, who rarely noticed anything about her, had called her radiant.

She realised that she could ring him. There was no convention that said that she could not initiate a call. She picked up the telephone and dialled the number of Troy’s office. They put her through to him straight away.

‘Isobel,’ he said. She listened intently for an undercurrent of extra warmth in his voice, and found she could not be sure. The uncertainty was as thrilling as if he had told her he loved her. ‘I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to call.’

‘I only just got in,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And then I had to talk to Philip.’

‘Sure. So. What do you think?’

‘Think?’

For a moment she believed he was asking her about the kiss.

‘About the auction, about the book, about letting them sell it as survivor fiction?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I can’t seem to decide. What do you think?’

Troy felt the tense muscles of his shoulder blades suddenly blissfully uncurl. All afternoon he had been afraid that Isobel would stand on her principles, or stand on her pride and refuse to go ahead. Now, at the role of doubt in her voice, he warmed to her.

‘Oh, I think you would regret it all your life if you didn’t take this opportunity,’ he said. ‘It’s just a question of some minor editorial changes and a bit of extra acting. And we saw today how wonderful you are when you are Zelda Vere. It’s just all of that, only a little more.’

‘I don’t know that I can do it,’ she said.

‘I so want you to find the courage to do it,’ he said. ‘I feel like the whole idea is our creation, I feel so proud of you. Writing the book like that, and then creating Zelda Vere. And I do love the deception, it’s probably some terrible psychological flaw in me, but I just love it. I love that we have created her. I loved having her in my house. When you left today I felt quite …’

She waited. ‘What?’ she whispered.

‘Bereft.’

She drew in a sharp breath.

He could sense her concentration on his words, the bright spotlight of her undivided intelligent attention. ‘I would be so disappointed if we didn’t go ahead,’ he said, dropping his voice to a low, seductive whisper. ‘I’ve enjoyed it so much this far. The shopping, and the dressing, and the …’

‘The?’

‘Warmth.’

Her hand was at her mouth again, touching her lips. ‘All right,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll do it. But you must promise to be with me. I can’t do it on my own.’

‘I’ll be with you,’ he swore. ‘Every single step. I’ll be there. Every step of the way.’

Troy heard her whispered ‘goodbye’ and put the telephone down. He was conscious that in that one telephone call he had earned £20,000 and who knew how much more? But he knew himself well enough to recognise that he was feeling more than an entrepreneur’s enthusiasm for a good deal. There was something about Zelda Vere and about Isobel’s transformation into Zelda which was pulling at him: some deep, genuine attraction.

‘She is sexy,’ he said softly to himself, thinking of Isobel in the blonde wig and the pink mules. ‘Who would have believed it? Who would have dreamed she could have walked like that and sat like that?’ He looked over at the silent phone. ‘Who would have believed she could kiss like that?’

Troy took the opening call from the first publishing house at 9 a.m. prompt. They bid £200,000 as they had promised they would. Troy made a note of their bid and kept his voice calm and impersonal. When the second publishing house telephoned he told them the bid already made, and they went to £205,000. The third publishing house dropped out straight away but the fourth bidder went up another five thousand. The calls came in throughout the day but by two o’clock there were only two major publishers left in the bidding and the price was £335,000.

‘I tell you what I’ll do,’ said Susan Jarvis of Justin and Freeman. ‘I’ll offer £350,000 and you tell me yes or no. I can’t go higher than that.’

‘I’ll tell you “Yes” now,’ Troy said quickly, knowing that the rival publishers would not go over that. ‘Miss Vere liked you so much, I know that you would be her preferred publishers.’

‘It’s a deal then,’ Susan said with quiet pleasure. ‘Would you tell Miss Vere that we’re very happy. Can I telephone her?’

‘I’ll ask her to phone you,’ Troy said. ‘She’s very protective of her privacy, as you can understand.’

‘Oh yes,’ Susan said. ‘After all that she’s been through. I understand perfectly.’

‘Yes.’ Troy grasped at the straw. ‘She won’t take phone calls unless they’re cleared, and she won’t release her address, of course.’

‘So how are we going to do publicity?’ Susan queried. ‘We’ll need a big publicity tour.’