Amy was asking her final question: what were the most important attributes for an author to have?
‘A wayfaring mind. Nothing should be beneath our attention. And stamina. You have to hang on in there.’
‘But you were successful straight off,’ said Brian, rudely emphasising the personal pronoun.
‘I was fortunate. Even then, in a way, one is always back to square one. Each new book is started from scratch. And of course success can antagonise. Critics come gunning for you. My historical novels come in for quite a bit of flack.’
‘I was wondering . . .’ Although Sue had taken a deep, calming breath her voice still quaked. ‘Have you had any experience at all with children’s books?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I paint, you see . . . pictures.’
Pictures eh? How amazing. Brian’s thoughts were ruefully plain as he made equalising eye contact with their guest. What can you do with them? He said, ‘I suggested she start with a few short stories or poems but she wouldn’t have it.’
‘How wise. They’re almost impossible to sell.’ He smiled encouragingly at Sue. ‘What are the paintings about?’
‘A dragon called Hector.’
‘And does he eat people?’
‘Only thin ones. He’s on a diet.’
‘I love it!’ Max gave a splendid and apparently quite spontaneous laugh and Sue’s confidence was persuaded into a brief florescence. Not that the play group did not regularly fall about when she described Hector’s adventures but, as Brian said when she had first told him, what do a bunch of kids know?
She looked across at her husband tapping his chin with his index finger, thin lips moving slightly - a sign that he was polishing up some pithy, controversial dialogue. But as he leaned forward Honoria lumbered into the vertical.
‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m hungry. And I’m sure Mr Jennings must be too.’
There was a swell of apologetic murmuring. Amy took a plate and napkin to their guest. Gerald came to life, murmuring ‘coffee, coffee’, and almost ran into the kitchen, followed closely by Rex.
Honoria, having quickly constructed for herself a tottering tower of assorted goodies, returned to her seat, saying loudly as she passed Brian, ‘Your mouth’s open.’
Brian, furious at having been once more cheated of his moment d’estime and convinced he heard the words ‘common little man’ floating back over Honoria’s shoulder, snapped his jaws together. The circle broke up. Laura went to help with the coffee and found Gerald and Rex deep in animated conversation. They were patently disturbed when the door opened and Gerald frowned so forcefully that she immediately withdrew.
In the drawing room people had changed seats. Amy and Sue had moved closer to Max, who was nibbling on a cream-cheese wheel, to pose problems they had been too shy to ask about publicly. Laura glanced over what was left of the food. There was nothing she really fancied. In any case she was still experiencing a faint queasiness - a sensation she knew from experience would be with her until she was well away from Plover’s Cottage. She cut a fragile slice of Sue’s carrot cake and turned away quickly from the sight of Rex’s de Montargis pralines. They looked like the varnished brains of tiny mammals and she could not possibly envisage putting one into her mouth.
Brian, far from defeated and biding his time, sat, a well-filled plate on either knee, listening to the oh-so-predictable questions. Did Max work regular hours? (Nine till five.) Did he rewrite much? (Everything. All the time.) Did he start with plot or characters? (Indivisible. The characters are the plot.) Did he do much research? (As little as possible. Preferred an educated guess. Often wrong.)
At this point Gerald and Rex appeared with two cafetières and jugs of milk which they put on the sideboard already laid with cups and saucers. Honoria cried ‘At last,’ as if the pair were a couple of tardy waiters.
Amy left Max Jennings’ side at this point to fetch him some coffee and Brian seized his chance. Slipping into her place, he began to describe his thrice-weekly drama sessions.
‘. . . building rather than writing a play, which I regard frankly as a totally passé word. Not to say elitist.’
‘Which word?’
‘Pardon?’
‘“Building”, “writing”, or “play”?’
‘Oh. “Writing”.’
‘I see.’
‘We work in a very loose, inspirational way. Rapping, improvising, free association. We are talking totally knife edge here. You hit the ground running at my rehearsals, believe me, or you are out. O.U.T., out.’