The Players by Gary Brandner Page B

uncomfortable on the right-hand side. He took several minutes to read through the pamphlet on traffic laws and look at the map. When he was ready he started the engine and moved cautiously away from the curb.
    Luckily, there was little traffic at this hour on a Sunday. Mike drove slowly and carefully down the Strand to the turnoff for Waterloo Bridge. As he eased across the bridge and south toward St. George’s Circus, Mike kept his mind busy thinking,
keep left, keep left, keep left
.
    By the time he had passed the warehouses of Southwark and the small, dust-colored dwellings on the outskirts of the city,” Mike was becoming more at ease driving on the opposite side. While this allowed him to relax his grip on the steering wheel and unclench his teeth, it also allowed him to think about other things.
    The cars on Motorway A1 were well spaced out, so Mike fell in behind a Morris Minor that was cruising along at a comfortably slow pace. He did not want to think any more about Paula just now, so he let himself think about Lorraine.
    At first he had found it flattering when Lorraine had referred to him as a
writer
in her own vocal italics when he thought of himself strictly as a reporter. Later on he put the word in proper perspective when he understood that Lorraine also thought of herself as a
writer
, having taken a number of creative writing classes. The instructors invariably told her she had a rare insight. At Lorraine’s insistence, Mike had read some of her early efforts. They were formless, introspective stream-of-consciousness pieces, utterly amateurish in conception and execution. Only once did he try to honestly criticize her work. That time Lorraine had gone into a sulk that lasted the better part of a month. She never asked his opinion again, but continued to send her pieces off to “little” magazines, from which they always returned without comment.
    Meanwhile, Lorraine appointed herself Mike’s number one critic and literary adviser. It was she, he realized much later, who goaded him into writing a novel in the first place. Her main reason, as far as Mike could tell, was so she could introduce him at parties as “my husband, the
author.”
    The actual writing of the thing had been sheer torture for Mike. Although he let himself be convinced that he wanted to be a novelist, he grew to hate the damn book. Lorraine’s practice of nightly reading aloud what he had written during the day was especially painful. He knew the book was going badly, but he also knew Lorraine’s comments were worthless.
    It was during this period that their sex life dwindled to an occasional joyless coupling. Lorraine expanded her critical opinions to include his performance in bed. The results were what might have been expected.
    Perversely, Mike had felt vindicated when the published novel sank without a ripple. Lorraine never forgave him.
    The sound of a horn brought Mike back to the present with a start. While daydreaming he had drifted over toward the right-hand side of the road, and an oncoming lorry had given him a warning blast of the air horn. Mike wrenched the steering wheel and veered back to his own side.
    Shaken, he turned off at the next opportunity to a narrow road that meandered off between low, gentle hills of green grass speckled with wild flowers.
    There was no one ahead of him on the new road, nor to the rear, except for a green car that turned a couple of hundred yards behind him. It seemed to Mike that the same car had followed him for some time, but he gave it no further thought.
    The job, that’s what he should be thinking about. Tennis. Wimbledon. To do the job they were paying him for he would have to get beneath the surface action. Let the other reporters write about the scores and the turning points of the matches and what Player A’s past record is against Player B. People expected more from Mike Wilder. They expected more depth, and they expected a hatchet job.
    Mike frowned at the thought that he