financial company, her reading tastes had changed. It was as if she were trying to exclude him from that side of her life: the side where she held down a respectable job in an office full of Guardian readers...
About an hour later he decided to go upstairs and clean the bathroom. Might as well utilise his time productively, and God knew the job needed doing. If he didn’t get into the habit of carrying out these little household chores, he knew he would grow increasingly idle. He wasn’t even in the mood to write—he kept saying to Annie that he was “between novels” but the truth was he had invested everything in the one novel he had sent to a list of literary agents gleaned from the internet one slow, dull afternoon over a month ago.
Putting all his eggs in one basket... It was a line he’d cringe at if he read it in a book, and he certainly wouldn’t use it in his own writing. But, like most clichés, the phrase served better than any he could concoct himself.
He put the coffee cup on the draining board and headed for the door, his mind caught up in dreams of literary stardom. Reaching out, he grasped the door handle and turned, but the door didn’t open. It stayed jammed in its frame, not budging an inch. Puzzled, Nick twisted and turned, turned and twisted...but he could not open the door.
After countless minutes engaged in this increasingly futile endeavour, he began to sweat and his fingers ached as if he’d bruised them. He moved away from the door, rubbing his hands together, and sat down at the table. He stared at the door. The locked door: the locked door that didn’t even have a lock. He felt bewildered and strangely hurt, as if this was yet another example of how the world was conspiring to shut him out. Or, as in this case, to shut him in.
Nick waited a few minutes and then tried the door again, but the same thing happened. The door, he reasoned, must have got stuck in the wooden frame. Something in the mechanism had broken and become lodged in the latch or something.
He went to the back door and pulled the handle. That too was locked. Agitated now, he took his key from his pocket and tried to unlock the back door. But nothing happened: the key just spun in the lock, as if it was meant for another lock altogether.
Fear nudged up close to him in the small kitchen, pressing its nose against his face. This was insane—things like this didn’t happen, not in the real world and not to normal, everyday people. Once again he tried the doors; and once again they remained shut.
Nick sat down at the table and stared at his hands. Wide fingers, broad knuckles: the hands of a car mechanic, not an artist. Why the hell had he even thought someone would be interested enough to want to read his novel?
Later, Annie came home and walked blithely into the kitchen. The door leading out into the hall—the one Nick had been unable to open for hours—opened with ease.
“What’s up? You don’t look like you’ve moved since lunchtime?” There was humour in her voice, but with a hint of irritation at its edges.
“I...you’re not going to believe this, but I’ve been stuck in here since you left.”
Annie stood framed in the doorway. Her weight was balanced neatly on one hip, and she stared at him with a cool detachment. Her lips were curled up into a disbelieving little half smile. Her blonde hair shimmered beneath the bright overhead kitchen light. She looked smart and sassy, like a TV lawyer, in her Dorothy Perkins suit and shiny shoes. “Don’t talk shite,” she said, ruining the illusion.
“I’ve been having some trouble lately. With doors.” Said aloud, it sounded stupid. Nick wished he’d kept it to himself.
Annie moved into the room, went to the sink and filled the kettle. “What are you on about? Trouble with Doors...isn’t that the title of a book or a play, or something? Something by Pinter?” She stood facing the kettle, waiting for it to boil and no doubt enjoying her
About an hour later he decided to go upstairs and clean the bathroom. Might as well utilise his time productively, and God knew the job needed doing. If he didn’t get into the habit of carrying out these little household chores, he knew he would grow increasingly idle. He wasn’t even in the mood to write—he kept saying to Annie that he was “between novels” but the truth was he had invested everything in the one novel he had sent to a list of literary agents gleaned from the internet one slow, dull afternoon over a month ago.
Putting all his eggs in one basket... It was a line he’d cringe at if he read it in a book, and he certainly wouldn’t use it in his own writing. But, like most clichés, the phrase served better than any he could concoct himself.
He put the coffee cup on the draining board and headed for the door, his mind caught up in dreams of literary stardom. Reaching out, he grasped the door handle and turned, but the door didn’t open. It stayed jammed in its frame, not budging an inch. Puzzled, Nick twisted and turned, turned and twisted...but he could not open the door.
After countless minutes engaged in this increasingly futile endeavour, he began to sweat and his fingers ached as if he’d bruised them. He moved away from the door, rubbing his hands together, and sat down at the table. He stared at the door. The locked door: the locked door that didn’t even have a lock. He felt bewildered and strangely hurt, as if this was yet another example of how the world was conspiring to shut him out. Or, as in this case, to shut him in.
Nick waited a few minutes and then tried the door again, but the same thing happened. The door, he reasoned, must have got stuck in the wooden frame. Something in the mechanism had broken and become lodged in the latch or something.
He went to the back door and pulled the handle. That too was locked. Agitated now, he took his key from his pocket and tried to unlock the back door. But nothing happened: the key just spun in the lock, as if it was meant for another lock altogether.
Fear nudged up close to him in the small kitchen, pressing its nose against his face. This was insane—things like this didn’t happen, not in the real world and not to normal, everyday people. Once again he tried the doors; and once again they remained shut.
Nick sat down at the table and stared at his hands. Wide fingers, broad knuckles: the hands of a car mechanic, not an artist. Why the hell had he even thought someone would be interested enough to want to read his novel?
Later, Annie came home and walked blithely into the kitchen. The door leading out into the hall—the one Nick had been unable to open for hours—opened with ease.
“What’s up? You don’t look like you’ve moved since lunchtime?” There was humour in her voice, but with a hint of irritation at its edges.
“I...you’re not going to believe this, but I’ve been stuck in here since you left.”
Annie stood framed in the doorway. Her weight was balanced neatly on one hip, and she stared at him with a cool detachment. Her lips were curled up into a disbelieving little half smile. Her blonde hair shimmered beneath the bright overhead kitchen light. She looked smart and sassy, like a TV lawyer, in her Dorothy Perkins suit and shiny shoes. “Don’t talk shite,” she said, ruining the illusion.
“I’ve been having some trouble lately. With doors.” Said aloud, it sounded stupid. Nick wished he’d kept it to himself.
Annie moved into the room, went to the sink and filled the kettle. “What are you on about? Trouble with Doors...isn’t that the title of a book or a play, or something? Something by Pinter?” She stood facing the kettle, waiting for it to boil and no doubt enjoying her
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