The Immaculate by Mark Morris Page A

get all starry-eyed when he talked about his work or they treated him like a freak. Some of his friends still could not accept that writing was his job, that it was what he did for a living. Sometimes they would say, “Hey, Jack, I’ve got a day off on Thursday. Do you fancy a game of squash?” If he told them he had too much work to do, they would look puzzled for a moment and then say, “Work? Oh, you mean writing your stories. Yeah, but you can do that any time, can’t you?”
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
    â€œPardon?” said Jack.
    â€œWhether you work in publishing. If it’s a secret it doesn’t matter.”
    â€œOh . . . no. Sorry, I was miles away. I . . . sort of work in publishing.” He leaned forward a little and subconsciously lowered his voice. “Actually, I’m a writer.”
    The woman looked at him a moment as though waiting for him to elaborate, then she replied, “You mean a working writer? You do it full-time?”
    Jack nodded.
    â€œThat’s great. What do you write?”
    â€œWell . . . mainly horror, fantasy, science-fiction . . . that kind of stuff.”
    He expected her to recoil, to turn up her nose; it was the reaction he got from most people. However, she said again, “That’s great. What name do you write under?”
    He always hated this bit. He would say his name and she would give him a blank look and there would be embarrassment all round. “Jack Stone,” he said quietly.
    â€œYou’re joking! Oh my God, I read
Song of Flesh
earlier this year. I liked it so much I went out and bought
Bleeding Hearts
and read that, too. And now I can’t wait for
Consummation
to come out in paperback. November, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes,” said Jack, surprised and delighted. “Beginning of November. I think Cormorant want to cash in on the Christmas market.”
    â€œCormorant?”
    â€œMy publisher.”
    â€œOh, yeah, right.”
    The woman beamed at him and Jack smiled back. He hoped she wasn’t going to get all reverential. He lowered his eyes to his plate and scooped up a forkful of chicken and tagliatelle. The sauce was beginning to congeal a little. As he raised the fork to his mouth, the waitress arrived with the woman’s food. Jack glanced up, and a sauce-laden gobbet of chicken slid off his fork and into his lap. “Oh, shit,” he groaned. The creamy sauce left a white smeary trail on the crotch of his jeans. Opposite him he could hear the woman trying to stifle her giggles.
    â€œBloody hell,” said Jack when the waitress had gone, “I knew that would happen.” He wiped at his crotch as surreptitiously as he could with a wad of napkin.
    â€œNever mind. What’s a few stains between friends?” She raised a piece of chicken to her lips and began to chew it daintily. God, thought Jack, she’s gorgeous.
    â€œNot exactly cool though, is it?” he said ruefully.
    â€œThank goodness. People who think they’re cool are normally utter prats.”
    Jack shrugged. Probing in what he thought was not an unsubtle way, he asked, “I’ll bet I’m not quite what you expected, though, am I?”
    The woman raised dark eyes to look at him. “How do you mean?”
    Jack reddened a little. “Well . . . my books are . . . I mean, they’ve been
described
as . . . sort of . . . you know . . . nicely written, subtle, complex . . . evocative, sensual, all that kind of stuff. And yet look at me: a clumsy oaf who throws food all over himself.”
    The woman had stopped eating and was looking at Jack half-smilingly, waving her fork in the air. “Are you fishing for sympathy or compliments?”
    Jack felt his blush deepening. “Oh, Christ. See what I mean? Subtle as a house brick. I think I’ll just crawl under this table until you’ve gone.”
    The woman put another forkful