‘I thought I’d start somewhere.’ Arthur follows suit and takes a Rhubarb and Custard for himself.
‘Suits you,’ I say and he tucks the sweet between his teeth to smile.
‘You always know that you wanted to write?’ We both resume our work as he speaks. It feels less strange this way, as though we’re not sat alone in a lamplit room and I’m not spending intimate time with him outside of my contracted hours for his grandmother. At least if we work, we have an excuse.
‘Nope.’ He flicks his gaze to me briefly. ‘When I was at school, I wanted to be a professional egg and spoon race athlete.’
‘Oh yeah?’ His soft chuckle fills the high ceiling of the room for just a moment. ‘And how did that work out for you?’
‘I did my knee in when I was twelve. Could have gone all the way if I’d have been fit.’
‘I can see it now, headlines on all of the papers:Beatrice Norton, world champion.’ I nod, amused that he’s goingalong with it. ‘Imagine all of the riches you could have had!’
‘Yeah, so, a year 8 PE injury crushed that dream. It was around that time that I was looking for a career that requires sitting down all day and settled on writing.’
‘And ended up with two jobs that have you on your feet all hours of the day. I never had you down as lazy. I always just assumed you were one of those people happily up at the crack of dawn raring to go.’
‘God, absolutely not. Every morning is a sheer test of will. All of my days off are spent horizontally. Only momentarily sitting upright to dunk a biscuit in my tea. And even then, I’ve perfected the art of only having to lift my chin to do it.’
‘In your Christmas pyjamas, of course?’ His smirk tickles as it hits me from across the table and I shake my head to try and dispel some of the simmering feeling that overcomes me for a moment.
‘Always the Christmas pyjamas.’
‘So why did you end up with two jobs doing things you don’t particularly care for?’ he asks, suddenly serious, and I crunch through my sweet at the surprise.
‘Who said I don’t care for them?’ I compose myself quickly.
‘Perhaps care was the wrong word.’ He taps the stubble on his chin, trying to think of a way to rephrase his disarming question. ‘Why settle for something other than your dream? It’s obvious you’re talented, why not stick it out in London?’
Scoffing, I try to balance my emotions before I sayanything I regret. ‘You know that talent alone can’t guarantee your success, right?’ I can’t help but release a sarcastic laugh. ‘I could be the best writer in the world but if I have no close friends in high places, if I don’t have my parents’ millions to support me in between jobs, it isn’t a viable career for someone like me.’
My bitterness comes out a little stronger than I had anticipated and I can see from how Arthur shrinks a little into himself that he’s regretting his choice of conversation. Now I’ve started, though, I can’t stop. ‘I had other jobs down there too, but have you ever tried to be creative when you’re exhausted from a shift or you’re living paycheque to paycheque and you just don’t have the energy to think?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He sinks into his chair and my regret begins to grow. The truth is, I could have coped, I could have stuck it all out, but it just didn’t seem worth it after I lost Tommy. But no one will know that. For all my friends and family know, I’m just another working-class girl who was chewed up and spat back out by a career in the arts. It’s easier to believe, and it’s easier to explain.
‘You can’t help who you are, just as much as I can’t.’ I sigh, my excitement for writing soured as I lay my pen down in the crease of my notebook. ‘What is it like? Having famous parents?’ It’s my turn to ask the uncomfortable personal questions.
‘I don’t know any different.’ He shrugs, tapping away on his keyboard, though I suspect he isn’t actually writing anything at all. ‘They’re good parents. I’ve always had everything I’ve needed. I don’t see them much when they’re working but they always made sure to take me to awardsshows and things. Though, the older I’ve got, the more I hate those.’
‘How come?’
‘Lots of people, lots of cameras. You can’t pick out a wedgie without a hundred people seeing you, at least.’
‘You should probably find some better-fitting pants then.’ He flicks his eyes up from his screen to chuckle at me.
‘I hadn’t thought about that, cheers.’ It’s Arthur’s turn to shake his head. ‘I just find it all so false. Everyone desperately trying to be noticed by all of the people around them, or people forcing themselves to be gracious in defeat even though they want to scream and cry. Everyone acting all pally for the cameras and then walking away without a word once they’re gone. They’re places filled with people who pretend for a living, so none of it feels authentic.’
‘Then you get New York where all the oldies in the pub can’t help but tell you their life stories and how they feel about things that don’t even concern them. All within the first five minutes of meeting you.’
‘I like that.’ Work takes a back seat for him too as he closes the lid of his laptop to give his full attention to the conversation.
‘And that’s exactly how I can tell you’re not a local.’ I’m reminded of the number of hours I’ve lost listening to various residents discussing someone’s controversial choice of new windows, or the exact coordinates of potholes, not to mention the assortment of opinions on relationships and haircuts of people who frequent the corner shop.
‘I was thinking …’ he begins, looking nervously at thearray of pages scattered across the table, ‘everyone knows everyone around here, right?’
‘I reckon the folks round here know me better than I know myself. Or at least they’d like to think so.’
‘Exactly, so I was thinking, we should get them involved, listen to their stories and work them in somehow. Make this project something that the whole village get to see themselves in.’
