for Rowan, a man who was too old for me and didn’t want me anyway?
‘I think I’m a bit depressed. I’ll be OK.’
‘You know we’re always there. Come and stay in London if you like.’
‘Thanks. I might do,’ I said, although I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford the train fare or explain to Christopher why I was going.
‘Vi told me once that if you ask the sea for help it never fails you. I tried it a few times. It does make you feel better. You can just ask the sea for help and see what happens, or, alternatively, you can give it your problems. It’s big enough to take them, after all. You could choose some large stones, make each one represent one of your problems and throw them in the water.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably sounds a bit hippy for you. I know you’re more down to earth than we are – but sometimes you just need something to help you focus and let things go.’
‘Thanks, Frank. I’d feel too self-conscious doing it now, but if things get any worse I’ll certainly think about it. I’ll go to Slapton Sands when I get home. There are lots of big stones there.’
On our last night in Scotland we all got drunk on sloe gin, and Claudia and I started recounting the most ridiculous Zeb Ross proposals we’d ever rejected, including one for a novel narrated by a cat, and another where one character turns out to be a manifestation of the Buddha.
‘What was that really weird Zen story from that manuscript?’ Claudia asked me.
‘There were quite a lot,’ I said.
‘The one with the psycho old woman who burns down the monk’s hut.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘That narrows it down. How did it go?’
‘There is an old woman who looks after a monk while hemeditates for twenty years,’ Vi said. ‘Is this it? She gives him food and water and makes his clothes and eventually sends a prostitute to throw herself at him because she wants to see what he does with all his wisdom. He’s taken a vow of chastity, but will he be tempted? The monk says something poetic to the prostitute about an old tree growing on a cold rock, and tells her there is “no warmth”. When the spurned prostitute tells of this, the old woman is angry that she has supported someone who after twenty years has not learned compassion. Then she goes and burns his hut down.’
‘Yes. I hated that one,’ Claudia said.
‘Why?’ I said. ‘I liked it.’
‘It doesn’t tell you anything useful,’ she said. ‘All it says is that this psychotic old bitch has got this poor monk in her clutches and has resorted to violence because he isn’t exactly what she thinks he should be. It’s a horror story, really, of someone who sets out to ruin someone’s life, like an obsessive stalker.’
‘Only if it’s seen from the monk’s perspective,’ I said.
We drank a bit more, and then Claudia reminded me of the manuscript about a teenager who takes up gardening and accidentally grows lots of carnivorous plants that speak to her all the time and become her only friends. We both started giggling and trying to remember terrible lines from it, like ‘We’ve been growing since the beginning of time, Melissa!’ or ‘You too will taste the exquisite blood of the bluebottle and become one of us!’
Then, out of the blue, Vi said to me, ‘My God, Meg. When exactly are you going to realise that the world is more complicated than a predictable formula? You’re so scared of taking things seriously, it’s no wonder you can’t get on with your real novel.’
If she hadn’t begun by using my name I would have assumed she was talking to Claudia. It was the first time she’d ever said anything to me that wasn’t supportive, kind or indulgent. I didn’t react to it very well.
‘I am so sick of this,’ I said back, before I’d really thought about what I should say. ‘Don’t you realise that anyone can put together a story that has no shape? Anyone can make up a few random actions and string them together. Children do it
‘I think I’m a bit depressed. I’ll be OK.’
‘You know we’re always there. Come and stay in London if you like.’
‘Thanks. I might do,’ I said, although I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford the train fare or explain to Christopher why I was going.
‘Vi told me once that if you ask the sea for help it never fails you. I tried it a few times. It does make you feel better. You can just ask the sea for help and see what happens, or, alternatively, you can give it your problems. It’s big enough to take them, after all. You could choose some large stones, make each one represent one of your problems and throw them in the water.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably sounds a bit hippy for you. I know you’re more down to earth than we are – but sometimes you just need something to help you focus and let things go.’
‘Thanks, Frank. I’d feel too self-conscious doing it now, but if things get any worse I’ll certainly think about it. I’ll go to Slapton Sands when I get home. There are lots of big stones there.’
On our last night in Scotland we all got drunk on sloe gin, and Claudia and I started recounting the most ridiculous Zeb Ross proposals we’d ever rejected, including one for a novel narrated by a cat, and another where one character turns out to be a manifestation of the Buddha.
‘What was that really weird Zen story from that manuscript?’ Claudia asked me.
‘There were quite a lot,’ I said.
‘The one with the psycho old woman who burns down the monk’s hut.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘That narrows it down. How did it go?’
‘There is an old woman who looks after a monk while hemeditates for twenty years,’ Vi said. ‘Is this it? She gives him food and water and makes his clothes and eventually sends a prostitute to throw herself at him because she wants to see what he does with all his wisdom. He’s taken a vow of chastity, but will he be tempted? The monk says something poetic to the prostitute about an old tree growing on a cold rock, and tells her there is “no warmth”. When the spurned prostitute tells of this, the old woman is angry that she has supported someone who after twenty years has not learned compassion. Then she goes and burns his hut down.’
‘Yes. I hated that one,’ Claudia said.
‘Why?’ I said. ‘I liked it.’
‘It doesn’t tell you anything useful,’ she said. ‘All it says is that this psychotic old bitch has got this poor monk in her clutches and has resorted to violence because he isn’t exactly what she thinks he should be. It’s a horror story, really, of someone who sets out to ruin someone’s life, like an obsessive stalker.’
‘Only if it’s seen from the monk’s perspective,’ I said.
We drank a bit more, and then Claudia reminded me of the manuscript about a teenager who takes up gardening and accidentally grows lots of carnivorous plants that speak to her all the time and become her only friends. We both started giggling and trying to remember terrible lines from it, like ‘We’ve been growing since the beginning of time, Melissa!’ or ‘You too will taste the exquisite blood of the bluebottle and become one of us!’
Then, out of the blue, Vi said to me, ‘My God, Meg. When exactly are you going to realise that the world is more complicated than a predictable formula? You’re so scared of taking things seriously, it’s no wonder you can’t get on with your real novel.’
If she hadn’t begun by using my name I would have assumed she was talking to Claudia. It was the first time she’d ever said anything to me that wasn’t supportive, kind or indulgent. I didn’t react to it very well.
‘I am so sick of this,’ I said back, before I’d really thought about what I should say. ‘Don’t you realise that anyone can put together a story that has no shape? Anyone can make up a few random actions and string them together. Children do it
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