Zelda’s Cut

He shook his head. ‘You have to really be in touch with the readers’ dreams,’ he said. ‘That’s what they’re so good at. It’s all emotions, it’s all gut consciousness. It’s not the sort of thing you do. You write from the intellect, Isobel.’

‘I could do it,’ she persisted. ‘I could tell you the sort of story right now.’

He smiled at her, welcoming any change in tone which would move her away from the horror of the initial shock. ‘What would you call it?’

‘Devil’s Disciple,’ she said promptly. ‘Son of Satan. Something with the devil in it, that’s what they all want, don’t they? To believe that there are Satanists and that sort of nonsense?’

‘That’s true,’ he conceded.

‘It would be the story of a young woman who has to earn money, a huge sum of money, to pay for her sister’s operation. Something, oh, complicated. But something that we’ve all heard about.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Bone marrow transplant. The sister is near to death and only this experimental operation would save her.’

He nodded, smiling.

‘They’re twin sisters,’ Isobel said, improvising rapidly. A lock of hair had become detached from the neat bun, her cheeks had flushed. The waiter poured more wine. ‘They’re twin sisters and the younger sister discovers that a Satanic cult will pay exactly the sum of money they need for a girl who can prove she is a virgin, who will allow anything to be done to her – for one night.’

The waiter hovered, bottle in hand, openly listening.

‘Go on.’ Troy was intrigued.

‘She is examined by a doctor, she is indeed a virgin, and then she walks towards the large house in the country for the cult to use her as they wish for twenty-four hours.’

Troy leaned forward to listen. The woman on the next table leaned too.

‘They use her sexually, they tie her up, they cut her with their silver knives so that her body is tattooed with occult signs, then they lie her on the altar and she thinks they are going to slit her throat at dawn. Scented smoke wreathes around her, they give her a strange-tasting drink, a man, a dark and handsome man, comes slowly towards her with his silver knife held before him …’

Troy hardly dared to speak. The waiter poured more wine for Isobel, like a fee for the storyteller.

‘She wakes. It is broad daylight. She can remember only the faces of the thirteen people of the coven. But in her hand is a cheque for her sister’s treatment.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Troy whispered. The woman on the next table and the waiter were rapt.

‘She walks from the house, she goes to bank the cheque.’ Isobel paused for dramatic emphasis. ‘The cheque is no good. There is no such name, no such account. She has no money. Her sister dies in her arms.’

‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed the waiter involuntarily.

‘She swears complete revenge against the thirteen members of the coven.’

‘Too many, too many,’ Troy whispered.

‘Against the five members of the coven,’ Isobel corrected herself, hardly breaking her pace. ‘She goes to the police but no-one believes her. She decides to hunt each one down individually.’

‘Very Jeffrey Archer,’ Troy muttered to himself.

‘There are two women and three men. Each one she tracks down and then ruins. Social shame, bankruptcy, death in a car crash, their house burned down, and then she comes to the last man, the leader of the cult whose cheque was no good.’

The waiter removed their plates as an excuse to linger at their table.

‘He has reformed,’ Isobel said. ‘He is a changed man, the leader of a charismatic Christian church.’

‘Television,’ Troy whispered.

‘He’s a television evangelist.’ She improved at once on his hint. ‘He does not recognise her, he welcomes her to join his flock. She has the decision: should she believe in his genuine reform and help him with the wonderful work he is doing with the – ’

‘Homeless children,’ Troy suggested.

‘Homeless abused children,’ Isobel supplemented. ‘Or should she pursue her revenge against him? Is he, in fact, still an evil man, who has just seized power over these helpless children in order to abuse them further? She joins the cult to discover the best way to destroy him, but then she finds that she has fallen completely in love with him. What will she do?’

‘What does she do?’ the waiter demanded. ‘Oh, excuse me!’

Isobel came to herself, tucked back the stray hair, drank a sip of water. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I always have difficulties with the endings,’ she said.

‘My God.’ Troy leaned back in his chair. ‘Isobel, that was fantastic. That is a fantastic story.’

She looked primly pleased. ‘I told you I could do it,’ she said. ‘It is a matter of choice for me – I choose to write well rather than to churn out dross. I have pride in my work. I like to do the very best that there is, not thick books of nonsense.’

The waiter stepped back from the table, the woman at the next table gave Troy a little smile, mouthed the word ‘Fantastic’, and returned her attention to her lunch. Isobel took a sip of wine.

‘But if fine writing doesn’t pay the bills?’ Troy suggested.

There was a long pause. He watched her brightness drain away. She twisted the stem of the wineglass, her face suddenly tired and heavy.

‘I have to consider Philip,’ she said. ‘It’s not just me. If it were just me I could sell the house and reduce my expenses. I would never compromise with my art.’

Troy nodded, concealing a rising sense of excitement. ‘I know that…’

‘But Philip may never get any better, and he may live for many years. I have to provide for him. He was talking only yesterday about converting the house in case he can’t get upstairs.’

The waiter brought their main course and set the plate before Isobel with ostentatious respect. Troy waited until he had reluctantly stepped out of earshot.

‘I thought you said he was fine.’

She smiled, a sad little smile. ‘I always say he’s fine, hadn’t you noticed that? There’s no point in complaining all the time, is there? But it’s not true. He’s ill and he’ll never get any better, and he may get very much worse. I have to provide for him, I have to think about the future. If I were to die before him – who would look after him? How would he manage if I left him with nothing but debts?

Troy nodded. ‘A big commercial book could earn you – I don’t know – a quarter of a million pounds? Perhaps half a million with foreign sales too.’

‘That much?’

‘Certainly £200,000.’

‘Would it be possible for me to write such a book, a commercial book, and no-one know that it was me?’

Of course,’ Troy assured her. ‘A nom de plume. Lots of writers use them.’

Isobel shook her head. ‘I don’t mean a nom de plume. I mean a complete concealment. No-one is ever to know that Isobel Latimer has ever written anything but the finest of writing. I couldn’t bear people to think I would write something so …’ She hesitated and then chose a word which was almost a challenge: ‘So vulgar.’

Troy thought for a moment. ‘We’d have to create a false client account at the agency. A bank account in another name, in the name of the nom de plume. I could be the main signatory, and draw the funds for you.’

She nodded. ‘I’d have to sign the contracts in the false name?’