Written in Blood by Caroline Graham

being told, Mr Jennings—’
    ‘Max, please.’
    ‘Max. That we should only write about what we know. Isn’t that a bit limiting?’
    ‘I don’t think it’s meant to be taken in the narrow, literal sense. One can know things - quite wild, fantastic things - to be true in the imagination.’
    ‘You mean like science fiction?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘Also, whenever I’m writing a scene I keep thinking of other ways that might be better. And I never know whether to stop and start again or carry on.’
    ‘I’m afraid that’s par for the course. Writers spend their lives haunted by discarded alternatives.’
    How tactful he was, Laura thought, glancing briefly at Max’s engaged, intelligent profile before turning her attention back to Gerald. Plainly something was wrong there. Very wrong indeed. His body, balanced on the very edge of the sofa, was curved in the shape of a half hoop and taut as a drawn bow. His face was impassive, but Laura sensed, from the knotted cords in his neck, that it was kept thus only by the most tremendous effort. She realised as well that although, like the rest of them, his head was turned in Max’s direction his eyes were fixed at a point on the wall beyond Max’s shoulder. One of his shoes, Veldschoen, conker-bright with a pattern of punched holes in the toe cap and gingery laces, tapped urgently on the carpet.
    Looking at him, loving him, Laura became aware from the familiar churning of her stomach that nothing had changed. Faithless he might be, but she was still in his thrall, as she had been from that first moment. She would just have to accept the blonde. End up probably like the baron’s wife in Balzac’s Cousine Bette , dying in her bed of love starvation while he tumbled the maid downstairs. Dragging her attention away she saw that Max was, momentarily, watching her. Then knew that this quick bright observance had led him to understand her feelings exactly. Annoyed and resentful she stared hard at him in return, letting her displeasure show.
    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.