Free Brought to Book by Anthea Fraser Page A

the interruption, which occasionally happened. So he went off as usual, eager to get back to work after the break. But when he came home that weekend he was a different person, moody and depressed, and when I asked what was wrong, he swore at me. I was really upset – it was so unlike him.’
    She sat for a moment, gazing into the fire, and the tape machine registered the minutes of silence. ‘It couldn’t have been the block at that stage,’ she went on eventually. ‘It was too soon; it often took him a week or two before things started to fall into place. But
something
must have happened. He shut himself in the study and hardly spoke to me all weekend, and for the first time I wasn’t sorry to see him leave again on Monday. I hoped whatever it was would have blown over by the end of the week, but he didn’t come home for a month. There’s no phone at the cottage and he’d switched off his mobile, so I couldn’t contact him. I thought he must be immersed in writing, and tried not to worry.
    â€˜Then, one Friday, he just turned up, and I was shocked by his appearance. He’d lost weight and looked positively haggard, and it seemed he hadn’t been writing at all, and had no idea whatever for his next book. I tried to convince him that it didn’t matter; we were comfortably off and he’d no
need
to write ever again, but he wouldn’t accept that. He said it was like being only half alive.’
    â€˜Did he go back to the cottage?’
    â€˜Yes, every week; he walked for miles in the countryside, which had always helped before when he struck a sticky patch, but with no luck. It went on all through that autumn and winter, and into the spring. By that time, I almost dreaded his coming home; I used to pray each week that by the weekend he’d have started writing, but I could tell the minute he got out of the car that he hadn’t. And of course when May came and went, the publishers started asking for the next manuscript, and he was invited to London to see his editor. He was very sympathetic and suggested various remedies, but none of them worked. Then, when a new book didn’t appear that November, the fans began writing and the pressure became even worse. Theo had always answered his fan mail, but now he didn’t know what to say.
    â€˜Eventually, I insisted on a round-the-world cruise. I thought the complete relaxation and change of scene might help. He did put on a bit of weight and looked less drawn, but no new plot materialized.’
    She bent to throw another log on the fire. It must have been damp, because it hissed and sputtered, causing Gus, asleep on the rug, to twitch his ears. Rona waited, pen poised and tape silently turning.
    â€˜So we came home,’ Meriel resumed, leaning back in her chair. ‘And in August Theo went back to the cottage as usual, and I dreaded the old routine starting again. But one weekend there was a marked change in him, a kind of – febrile excitement. He wouldn’t commit himself, but I couldn’t help hoping, and after staying away over several weekends, he at last told me he’d started on another book. I was ecstatic – I remember opening a bottle of champagne, thinking it was the end of all our problems.’
    â€˜But it wasn’t?’ Rona prompted, when she came to a halt.
    Meriel shook her head. ‘If anything, he was even worse, flying off the handle at the slightest thing. I was at my wits’ end to know what to do with him.’
    She stood up suddenly, rubbing a hand across her forehead. ‘Would you mind if we stopped there? It’s – been more of a strain than I thought, talking about it, and I’m developing a headache.’
    â€˜Of course. I’m sorry, you should have told me.’ Rona switched off the tape.
    â€˜No,
I’m
sorry. It’s my own fault; you warned me it would be difficult. I’ll be all right by tomorrow, though, if