Love You Madly. Alex George

kisses me on the cheek. ‘Ah, Matthew, always the gallant husband. Bless you.’ She grinds her cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Are you looking forward to the party?’

      I was, I want to say.

      ‘Yes, I think so. I’m a bit nervous.’

      ‘Don’t be. You deserve to enjoy it. It’s not every day you get to celebrate the publication of your first book.’

      I look at her, my heart cracking. ‘I suppose not.’

      ‘So what have you been up to this afternoon?’ asks Anna as she walks into the bedroom, pulling off her top as she goes.

      ‘Oh.’ I stare at the floor. ‘Nothing much.’

      She takes a dress out of the wardrobe and holds it up to her body. ‘What do you think? Will this do? Suitably literary for you?’

      I look at my wife with anxious longing. ‘It’s perfect.’

      Anna grins, pleased. She puts the dress on the bed and sits down at her dressing table in her underwear, as unselfconscious as a child. She leans towards the mirror, scrutinising her face. I always enjoy watching Anna put on her make-up. She becomes wholly engrossed in these minute manoeuvres – an eyelash curled, a lip discreetly contoured. There is a touching innocence to these focused moments. As she prepares her mask, her defences momentarily come down.

      I am still paralysed by Anna’s deception. ‘Where did you go on your shopping expedition, then?’ I ask.

      ‘Oxford Street, mainly,’ she murmurs through one side of her mouth. ‘The shops were full of terribly dull autumn stuff. And unbelievable crowds. Truly staggering, the number of people. Very few of whom were English.’ She rummages in her make-up tray and extracts a small but lethal-looking multi-pronged device. ‘I had to give directions to a Japanese couple who were looking for the South Bank Centre. Christ knows how they got quite so lost.’ I stare at her. She’s even gone to the trouble of inventing a small story for added effect. This embellishment, this arch adornment of the lie, torments me. God, I think, it’s so easy for her. She lies so well.

      Anna swivels to face me and pouts. ‘What do you think?’ she asks. ‘Am I gorgeous?’

      Is she gorgeous? Anna still renders me speechless on occasion. Gorgeous doesn’t do her justice. She’s exquisite. She’s stunning. Thirteen years in, she still makes my heart do back flips.

      ‘You’ll do,’ I say.

      She smiles. ‘Actually,’ she announces, ‘I have a special treat for you.’ She leans forward and pulls open the top drawer of her dresser. ‘Look what I’ve got.’ Between her thumb and forefinger she is brandishing a fat, tightly wrapped joint, crowned by a deft twist of Rizla paper. She waves the cigarette at me. ‘Shall we?’

      Anna seems utterly unencumbered by her lies. Well, fine. If it’s not going to bother her, I won’t let it bother me. Not tonight, at any rate. I try a small grin. ‘Why not?’

      I follow her out of the bedroom.

      Tonight is the launch party to celebrate the publication of my novel, Licked.

      I have sweated blood over that book. It has taken me three and a half years to write. Licked is part paean, part eulogy, part threnody. It celebrates and mourns the passing of youth’s innocence. It unsparingly charts the descent into the emotional detritus of tarnished middle-age. Using as a central leitmotif my own schoolboy experiences of stamp collecting, the novel’s principal character, Ivo, chooses to retreat into the rarefied, musty world of philately rather than confront the harsh brutalities of life. His stamps, which he cares for like precious, exotic butterflies, are a wonderfully profound metaphor for love. Or, rather, Love. They are beyond price, yet worthless; beautiful, yet useless. The book is funny, sad, gentle, acerbic, enriching, and devastating.

      Now, after years of wandering through bookshops, glancing longingly at what I have come to regard as my bit of shelf space between Nancy Mitford and Iris Murdoch, Licked is about to be published. It has taken me, in total, twelve years and five unpublished novels, but I am finally going to be able to call myself a writer. Henceforth I shall be Matthew Moore, purveyor of literary pearls.

      I have dreamt of tonight’s party, my introduction to London’s literary scene, on every day of those last twelve years. Those dreams have sustained me as I ploughed my lonely furrow through the dark times, when I was annihilated by creative exhaustion, when the well of inspiration ran dry. This evening represents the triumphant culmination of all of those years of solitary work, the apotheosis of more than a decade of determined grind.

      So why did Anna have to start lying to me today?

      Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings. I open the door and Sean, my literary agent, sweeps into the flat, waving a bottle of champagne at me as he goes.

      ‘So,’ he shouts as he walks past me into the kitchen, ‘the big day has finally dawned.’ He puts the bottle of champagne down on the table. ‘I thought we should start the evening off with a bang. Begin as you mean to go on. Get off on the right foot. It’s time for you to turn over a new leaf, Matthew. This is the beginning of a new dawn for you. All your Christmases have come at once.’ Sean turns to look at me with a messianic intensity. ‘It’s time for you to step up to the plate, walk into the spotlight, knock their socks off. Are you ready to be the toast of the town?’

      I lean against the kitchen wall, dazed by the linguistic roadkill that Sean employs instead of conversation. I can feel my spirit being crushed beneath the weight of all those mangled metaphors. ‘Hi, Sean,’ I say.

      Sean flaps a flamboyant hand at me in greeting and carries on. ‘Are you ready to take the bull by the horns, Matthew? Prepared to grasp the thistle in both hands? Are you set to take the plunge?’ He looks around him. ‘Where are your glasses?’

      ‘I’ll get them for you.’ I open a cupboard and pull out three champagne flutes.

      Anna walks into the kitchen. ‘Hi, Sean,’ she says.

      ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ says Sean. ‘You look like a million dollars.’ There is a brief pause as Sean opens the champagne and pours us each a glass. ‘A toast, then,’ he says solemnly. He raises his glass towards me. ‘To Matthew, and his exciting career. Here’s to literary superstardom. And, of course, to Licked itself – the steamiest, sexiest novel about stamp collecting ever written. Cheers.’

      We drink. I let the bubbles pop against the back of my throat. ‘Thanks, Sean,’ I say.

      Sean tilts his head to one side and gazes at me. ‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘Soon everyone will be talking about you. The word will spread like wildfire. Your ears will be burning.’ He smiles as he drinks his champagne. ‘Everyone will want a piece of you. They’ll be after you ten to the dozen, as quick as a flash, faster than the speed of light.’

      ‘Well, I hope so,’ I say. Sean is one of the most successful literary agents in the country. His client list reads like a Who’s Who of famous and successful authors. I’ve never been quite sure why he agreed to represent me. Perhaps I am a speculative play for future greatness. Perhaps I am a tax loss. I haven’t dared to ask.

      Our earlier joint was, in retrospect, a mistake. It has relaxed Anna: she giggles as she chases it down with champagne. I, on the other hand, have become edgy. The fringes of my consciousness have become tinged with a hyper-real buzz. I know the relentless nudge of paranoia is not far behind.

      Fired up by Sean’s infectious enthusiasm, my excitement at the approaching party grows. I know that I’m fortunate to be having a launch party at all. Neville Spencer, my publisher, doesn’t believe in them. Launch parties, he told me, are despicable, shallow affairs, an endless self-congratulatory gravy train of free booze and cliquey back-slapping. Exactly, I replied, that’s why I want one. After hours of squabbling, Neville finally conceded, with considerable bad grace, and promised to look after everything. I just have to turn up. The venue he has chosen is in Shoreditch (sufficiently