Free The Editor's Wife by Clare Chambers Page A

rid of it fast enough.’
    She asked if she could use the bathroom, and while she was gone I went into the kitchen to make coffee, remembering too late the croissants which I’d put in the oven to warm some half an hour earlier.
    â€˜Look at that,’ I said on her return, showing her their charred remains. ‘That was supposed to be elevenses. Sorry.’ I flipped them into the bin, where they lay, curled, like fossilised seahorses amongst the garbage.
    â€˜That’s OK,’ she said, as I came in, carrying two mugs. I had told her to make herself at home, an invitation which she had interpreted as permission to browse my bookshelves. ‘I had a truckers’ breakfast before I left. Bacon, eggs, fried bread, the works. I’ve only got five more weeks of eating for two, so I’m making the most of it.’ She gave me a quick, wide grin.
    â€˜That’s not long,’ I said, as she installed herself on the couch and unpacked a folder, pen and miniature tape recorder from her bag.
    â€˜That’s why I’m trying to get as much done now as possible. I know it won’t be easy when the baby’s arrived.’
    â€˜Why Owen Goddard, of all people? He’s a bit obscure.’
    â€˜Obscurity’s the new celebrity. Didn’t you know that?’
    â€˜But how did you come across him in the first place?’
    â€˜I did my PhD on Ravi Amos.’ Her eyes slid to mybookshelves, where several of his works were displayed. ‘I came across some interesting correspondence.’
    â€˜I see, yes, I suppose there would have been.’
    â€˜Which brings me to this letter.’ From her file she produced a folded A4 sheet of thin typing paper, embossed with the distinctively uneven Courier font of my old Imperial typewriter, the descenders all amputated, and the full stops almost piercing the page. Below the few lines of text was my name, in the large flamboyant scrawl of someone practising for the day he’ll be signing autographs. She passed it across.
    Dear Owen and Diana
    Thank you so much for the cheque. It’s incredibly generous of you.
    I remembered labouring over the phrasing. I had absorbed the idea from my parents that in thanking someone for a gift of money it wasn’t the Done Thing to mention the exact sum involved. This was one of many strange edicts, like never eat out on a Monday, which I internalised over the years, without ever really understanding.
    I only hope that some day I’ll be in a position to return some of the kindness you’ve shown me. In the meantime, all I can do to prove my gratitude is WORK HARDER.
    Your friend
    Chris
    â€˜Does it ring any bells?’ Alex asked.
    â€˜Oh yes.’ My head hadn’t stopped chiming since she’d made contact.
    She put down her empty coffee cup and picked up the tape recorder. ‘Do you mind if I use this?’ she asked, her thumb on the switch. ‘I can’t do shorthand, and my notes always look so sparse when I come to look over them later.’
    â€˜Whatever’s easiest. Like I said, I haven’t got masses to tell.’
    She squeezed the button and put the machine on the table between us.
    â€˜I first met Owen when I was twenty-three,’ I said, self-consciously, one eye on the microphone. ‘Or was it twenty-four?’ Already I was fluffing my lines! ‘Nineteen eighty-five, anyway. I sent some pages of a novel I was working on to Kenway & Luff, and Owen sent me a nice, encouraging letter back. Which I’ve got here.’ I handed it over.
    â€˜Oh great.’ She scanned the contents quickly. ‘Is it OK if I get it copied? I won’t lose it.’ I nodded and she put it in her plastic folder and snapped the popper shut.
    â€˜No hurry. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years. Sentimental. I suppose it was the first bit of encouragement I’d ever had.’
    â€˜So did you arrange to meet at that point