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Authors: Derek Farrell
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“That’s not what I meant. I just...”
What ? I asked myself. You just what? You just did what you always do when faced with someone too gorgeous for words: you just made a tit of yourself .
“You heard that?” Mouret jerked his head at the door where Jenny had just left with Caz.
“A bit of it,” I admitted.
“Thing is,” he said, sipping from the scotch, “much as it pains me to admit, Lyra might actually have a point. I can’t help wondering what on earth I’m doing with these people. Morgan has ruined his daughter by giving in to every demand she’s ever made, and Lyra...” he dragged from the cigarette again and shook his head sadly.
“So what are you doing here?” I asked and his eyes narrowed even further.
“My agent might ask the same question,” he replied. “She wanted me to write a follow-on to the first book. More about how vile the abuse had been and how redemptive the Mouret’s had been. But I didn’t want to; I’d told that story and wanted to tell another one. Then a few things happened: I met Jenny; I fell in love and, within a year, both of my adoptive parents died.”
“Jesus.” I gasped, swigged from the vodka, gagged, had a coughing fit and felt wretched for pulling up this poor man’s tragedy once again. “What happened to them?” I asked, unable – despite feeling so bad – to suppress my natural desire to have details .
“Car accident,” he said, sipping the scotch and draining the glass. I reached for the bottle and topped his glass back up.
“Go on.”
“Not much to tell. We have – had – a holiday place in Corsica. They went out one night, dad had had too much to drink, driving back to the villa, he missed a turning and they went off the edge of a cliff. Mum died instantly. Dad was airlifted to Nice and survived, but his heart was broken. He’d had a dodgy ticker for a few years and I guess all of this just broke it. He had a heart attack about nine months later.”
I carefully sipped my vodka as he opened the fag packet, offered me one – which I declined – selected and lit one for himself and then, his eyes squinting against the smoke, continued his story: “So, I’d met Jenny, I’d fallen in love and I’d lost the only two people who’d ever been a family to me. I guess I was looking for another family and when Morgan suggested the Lyra book, it just sort of felt right .”
“What did Lyra think about the idea?” I wondered aloud.
“Ah,” he held the glass to me in a silent toast, “That we may never know. What counts is that, whatever her initial thoughts, Foster managed to convince her that it would be a good idea. I’ve been working with her every single day – shadowing virtually every aspect of her life for the best part of the past six months – ever since she came out of the hospital and, up until today, she seemed to have bought into the idea. Then Leon Bloody Baker shows up and suddenly I’m not quite Marcel Proust anymore.”
“So what do you think is gonna happen?”
He shrugged, “Not sure. Morgan’s right, of course; she’s already had an advance and I’ve already had my cut of that. And if there’s one thing I know about Lyra, it’s this: she hates returning money. Her biggest regret about that debacle last year wasn’t that she had a breakdown in front of a theatre full of people; it was that the tickets had to be refunded because she didn’t get far enough into the show for it to be declared a full performance.”
“She’s something,” I said.
“Yes,” he admitted, “she’s definitely that.”
The clock ticked. Outside, a van went by, it’s gear change feeling like the bridge of a dance track and from somewhere inside the pub, the floorboards creaked.
An intense sadness seemed to have overtaken him and I was debating whether to come around to his side of the bar, put my arms around him and hug him close in an effort to make him feel better when he spoke again.
“Did you ever spend your
What ? I asked myself. You just what? You just did what you always do when faced with someone too gorgeous for words: you just made a tit of yourself .
“You heard that?” Mouret jerked his head at the door where Jenny had just left with Caz.
“A bit of it,” I admitted.
“Thing is,” he said, sipping from the scotch, “much as it pains me to admit, Lyra might actually have a point. I can’t help wondering what on earth I’m doing with these people. Morgan has ruined his daughter by giving in to every demand she’s ever made, and Lyra...” he dragged from the cigarette again and shook his head sadly.
“So what are you doing here?” I asked and his eyes narrowed even further.
“My agent might ask the same question,” he replied. “She wanted me to write a follow-on to the first book. More about how vile the abuse had been and how redemptive the Mouret’s had been. But I didn’t want to; I’d told that story and wanted to tell another one. Then a few things happened: I met Jenny; I fell in love and, within a year, both of my adoptive parents died.”
“Jesus.” I gasped, swigged from the vodka, gagged, had a coughing fit and felt wretched for pulling up this poor man’s tragedy once again. “What happened to them?” I asked, unable – despite feeling so bad – to suppress my natural desire to have details .
“Car accident,” he said, sipping the scotch and draining the glass. I reached for the bottle and topped his glass back up.
“Go on.”
“Not much to tell. We have – had – a holiday place in Corsica. They went out one night, dad had had too much to drink, driving back to the villa, he missed a turning and they went off the edge of a cliff. Mum died instantly. Dad was airlifted to Nice and survived, but his heart was broken. He’d had a dodgy ticker for a few years and I guess all of this just broke it. He had a heart attack about nine months later.”
I carefully sipped my vodka as he opened the fag packet, offered me one – which I declined – selected and lit one for himself and then, his eyes squinting against the smoke, continued his story: “So, I’d met Jenny, I’d fallen in love and I’d lost the only two people who’d ever been a family to me. I guess I was looking for another family and when Morgan suggested the Lyra book, it just sort of felt right .”
“What did Lyra think about the idea?” I wondered aloud.
“Ah,” he held the glass to me in a silent toast, “That we may never know. What counts is that, whatever her initial thoughts, Foster managed to convince her that it would be a good idea. I’ve been working with her every single day – shadowing virtually every aspect of her life for the best part of the past six months – ever since she came out of the hospital and, up until today, she seemed to have bought into the idea. Then Leon Bloody Baker shows up and suddenly I’m not quite Marcel Proust anymore.”
“So what do you think is gonna happen?”
He shrugged, “Not sure. Morgan’s right, of course; she’s already had an advance and I’ve already had my cut of that. And if there’s one thing I know about Lyra, it’s this: she hates returning money. Her biggest regret about that debacle last year wasn’t that she had a breakdown in front of a theatre full of people; it was that the tickets had to be refunded because she didn’t get far enough into the show for it to be declared a full performance.”
“She’s something,” I said.
“Yes,” he admitted, “she’s definitely that.”
The clock ticked. Outside, a van went by, it’s gear change feeling like the bridge of a dance track and from somewhere inside the pub, the floorboards creaked.
An intense sadness seemed to have overtaken him and I was debating whether to come around to his side of the bar, put my arms around him and hug him close in an effort to make him feel better when he spoke again.
“Did you ever spend your
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