‘Please don’t be offended,’ he drawled, reaching his chubby fingers into his mouth, removing a morsel from one of the canapés that had lodged itself between his teeth and examining it for a moment with the intensity of a forensic scientist before flicking it to the carpet. ‘I don’t read women either and I make sure to say so in every interview as it always ensures that I receive the maximum amount of publicity. The politically correct brigade loses their collective mind and before I know it I’m on the front of all the literary pages.’
‘You’re a controversialist, then,’ I said.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m a fiction writer with an expensive apartment overlooking Central Park West. And I need to sell books in order to pay the co-op fees.’
We talked for ten minutes or more but I struggled to find common ground with him. I recalled a memoir of his that I had read some years earlier where he listed in graphic detail the many homosexual encounters of his youth and young adulthood, meetings that seemed almost sordid in his perfect recall. He was the type of writer I thought of as a professional queer, one whose nature defined both his public persona and his work, and that was something that had always made me uncomfortable.
‘And I see you have a handsome young friend travelling with you,’ Dash said finally, smiling lasciviously and winking at me. ‘I noticed him earlier staring by the El Grecos and I simply had to go over to introduce myself. He was too beautiful to ignore. He recognized me immediately, which of course made my day, and told me that he was your assistant. Lucky old you.’
Before I could reply, I caught sight of Maurice entering the room at last, locked deep in conversation with a lady novelist, a previous winner of The Prize, and as they stood there, she squeezing his hand tightly as they conversed with passionate intent, I felt a surge of jealousy. I longed to grab him by the arm and make a quick exit from the Prado but of course such a thing would have insulted my hosts.
‘There he is,’ said Dash, turning around now and following the direction of my eyes. ‘Where did you pick him up, anyway? He’s pretty as a peach but also very street, don’t you think?’
‘I didn’t pick him up anywhere,’ I replied, trying to control my irritation at his vulgarity. ‘He’s simply a young writer who helps me out from time to time, that’s all.’
He seemed to enjoy my discomfort. ‘You remind me of my Aunt Gloria,’ he said. ‘She’s long dead now, of course. The poor dear couldn’t bear any talk of sex. She had a stroke halfway through reading my first novel and ended up in hospital for the rest of her life. I don’t know if it was the book that brought it on but I’ve always rather hoped that it was. But tell me, Erich, is he submissive, this young assistant of yours, or dominant?’
I looked at him again, longing for the lunch to begin in order that it might sooner come to an end, and claimed not to understand what he meant.
‘Oh, don’t be disingenuous,’ he said. ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. What’s his name?’
‘Maurice,’ I said, and he threw back his head and laughed.
‘Of course it is! You couldn’t make it up! What a shame your name isn’t Clive. And does he charge you by the day or is he one of those agreeable boys who’s happy to give you everything he has as long as you open enough doors for him? You’ve certainly brought him to the right place, that’s for sure,’ he added, looking around at a room that had by now filled with writers, editors and literary taste-makers. ‘I imagine he’ll be very grateful tonight.’
‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ I told him. ‘For heaven’s sake, he’s just a boy. We’re friends, that’s all.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘You’re at least forty years older than him. You can’t possibly be friends. If he’s not giving you what you want, then you should throw him back where you found him and find someone who will. Creative-writing courses are full of accommodating boys who have no scruples when it comes to such things. Believe me, I should know.’
A moment later, lunch was called and to my further annoyance I found myself seated at some distance from Maurice, sandwiched instead between the marketing director from my publishing house and the editor of a literary magazine. He, on the other hand, was placed next to a handsome young Spanish writer who had published three novels in three years, the most recent of which had been a major international success. They spent almost the entire meal locked in conversation, laughing fitfully from time to time, but he never turned in my direction once. And when he took his ever-present notebook from his bag and started to scribble something down that his companion had said, it was all I could do not to pick up the salt cellar and fling it in his direction.
Later that evening, as was our custom, we spent an hour in the hotel bar, where I tried not to allow my dark mood to overshadow our time together, although perhaps it was obvious that I was annoyed for he asked whether anything was wrong.
‘Why should it be?’ I said. ‘It’s been a perfectly pleasant day.’
‘You just seem a little out of sorts, that’s all.’
‘It’s tiredness, nothing more. You enjoyed yourself, though? You seemed to be having a wonderful time at lunch.’
‘I loved it,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘All those writers! I felt like I was one myself.’
‘You are one,’ I insisted, despite the fact that he had given me nothing new to read in some time.
‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘Not until I finish my novel. Actually, not until I publish my novel.’
‘Well, you have to start one to finish one,’ I said.
‘Oh, but I have!’ he told me. ‘Didn’t I mention it? An idea came at last. A plot. And I just sat down and began writing.’
‘I see,’ I replied. ‘And are you going to tell me what it’s about?’
‘Not just yet,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The thing is, I’m superstitious about things like that. Do you mind if I just keep going and don’t say too much about it for now?’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ I said, even though I minded a great deal. ‘Do whatever makes you happy. And your companion at lunch, the Spanish novelist. Did he offer you any advice?’
‘We weren’t really talking about books,’ he said.
‘Then what were you talking about?’
‘His wife, mostly. And his mistresses. He has a number of them.’
‘I’m surprised you could bear to listen to all of that.’
‘He gave me his card and told me to look him up if I’m ever back here.’
‘You certainly know how to collect us, don’t you?’ I asked. ‘Writers, I mean. Don’t you ever long for someone a little less accomplished? A friend your own age, perhaps? Although I suppose it would be unwise to let yourself be distracted from your work.’
‘I’m happiest on my own,’ he told me. ‘And if I wanted companionship—’ He broke off and pointed over my shoulder towards the foyer. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Look who’s just walked in.’