‘I’ll treasure them both,’ you replied, tucking the penny away with your crane.
You were soon back to talking about Henry Winter again. Your favourite subject. As I half listened, I couldn’t stop thinking about October O’Brien’s untimely death, or how you seem to care more about Henry’s writing these days than you do about your own. There are plenty of horror stories in Hollywood, and I don’t mean the ones that get made into films. I’ve heard them all. Maybe I should just be grateful that you’re a screenwriter who is still getting work; it’s not always the case, and the competition is fierce. Some writers are like apples, and soon turn rotten if they don’t get picked.
You poured the rest of the wine into your glass and drank it.
‘You wouldn’t worry about my career so much if you cared more about your own,’ you said with slurred words, and not for the first time. I wanted to smash the bottle over your head. I love my job at Battersea Dogs Home. It makes me feel better about myself. Maybe because – like the animals I spend my time caring for – I too have often felt abandoned by the world. It’s rarely their fault that they are unloved and unwanted, just like it was never mine.
‘I’m sure I could write something just as good as you, or Henry Winter for that matter—’
‘Yes, everyone thinks they can write until they sit down and try to do it,’ you interrupted with your most patronising smile.
‘I care more about the real world than indulging fantasies,’ I said.
‘Indulging my fantasies paid for our house.’
You reached for your glass again before realising it was empty.
‘Tell me about your dad,’ I said, without really thinking it through. You put the glass down with a little too much force; I’m surprised it didn’t break.
‘Why are you bringing that up?’ you asked without making eye contact. ‘You know he left when I was a toddler. I don’t think Henry Winter is secretly my long-lost father, if that’s where you were going—’
‘Don’t you?’
Your cheeks turned red. You leaned forward before replying and lowered your voice, as if you were worried who might hear.
‘The guy is my hero. He’s an incredible writer and I’m very grateful for everything he has done for me, and therefore us. That’s not the same thing as imagining him as some kind of surrogate father.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re trying to say—’
‘I’m not trying to say anything, I’m telling you that I think you’ve developed some kind of emotional attachment to the man… it’s like an obsession. You’ve abandoned all your own projects to work night and day on his. Henry Winter kickstarted your career when you were down on your luck, so yes, you owe him some gratitude, but the way you now constantly seek his approval whenever you write something new is… at best needy, at worst narcissistic.’
‘Wow,’ you said, leaning back as if I had tried to physically hit you.
‘You should believe in yourself enough by now to know your work is good without needing him to say so.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Henry has never said he likes my work—’
‘Exactly! But it’s so obvious – to him and everyone else – how desperate you are for him to endorse you in some way. You need to stop secretly hoping that he will. He rarely says anything kind about other writers’ work – he rarely has a kind word to say about anything or anyone at all – just accept the relationship for what it is. He’s an author, you’re a screenwriter who adapted a couple of his novels. The end.’
‘I think I’m old enough to make my own choices and choose my own friends, thank you.’
‘Henry Winter is not your friend.’
When we left, I didn’t break the uncomfortable silence to let you know that I’d spotted Henry sitting a few tables away from us in the restaurant. He was hard to miss, wearing one of his trademark tweed jackets and a silk bow tie. His white hair was thinning, and he looked like a harmless little old man, but the piercing blue eyes were still the same as always. He’d been watching us the entire time we were there.
You continued to talk about him all the way to the Library Hotel, my words on the matter forgotten almost as soon as I’d said them. From the gleeful look on your face, anyone would have thought you had spent the day with Father Christmas, rather than a book-shaped Ebenezer Scrooge.