Based on a True Story E-Book

Elizabeth Renzetti

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 379

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

It might not have happened precisely that way... Fresh out of rehab, badly behaved diva Augusta Price has one last chance to turn her life around. Her memoir, Based on a True Story, has become an unlikely hit, and she's going to use that fame to start afresh. But Augusta is her own worst enemy. Augusta discovers that her former lover is planning a tell-all book of his own. Enraged - and concerned that perhaps her version of events may not have been the most accurate - Augusta decides to ensure that her story is the only one that will see the light of day. Aided and abetted by Frances, her newly employed ghostwriter, Augusta finds her way back to California, and to her lost love. It's time to face up to her past: something that will be the making - or breaking - of Augusta Price. Hilarious, honest, and unforgettable, Augustawill find her way into your heart - and steal it, and all your vodka.

Leseprobe

Based on a True Story

First published in the United States in 2014 by House of Anansi Press Inc.

Published in trade paperback and e-book in Great Britain in 2014by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Elizabeth Renzetti, 2014

The moral right of Elizabeth Renzetti to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

Jacket design: Kathryn Macnaughton

Text design and typesetting: Alysia Shewchuk

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

E-book ISBN: 978 1 78239 552 2Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78239 551 5

Printed in Great Britain.

CorvusAn imprint of Atlantic Books LtdOrmond House26–27 Boswell StreetLondonWC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

For Doug, who gave me the title and much more.

“Her heart was broken perhaps but it was a small inexpensive organ of local manufacture.”

— Evelyn Waugh, The Loved One

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Acknowledgements

About the Author

one

It was not the first time she’d been asked to leave a clinic. Augusta huddled into her coat as the wind cut across the porch. The nurse who’d come to say goodbye remained inside, as if afraid to leave the safety of the foyer. One hand held out in farewell, the other on the handle of the door. The paint was peeling down the side, Augusta noticed. The other clinics had been much smarter than this.

She took the outstretched hand, their cold fingers meeting. This nurse, Jennifer, had been her sole friend and ally over one long week, which should have been two.

“We’ll not see you here again,” Jennifer said.

“No,” said Augusta. “You’ll not see me here again.”

“Well,” said the nurse, “you know you can always ring me, any time, if you do feel yourself slipping. My mobile’s on there.” She fished a card from the pocket of her blue tunic. Augusta looked at it, and realized with some surprise that the nurse she’d been calling Jennifer was in fact named Claudia.

The door inched shut, and Claudia turned back inside to tend the drunks and wastrels who knew how to obey rules. Augusta watched her go. She really should have made more of an effort to hide the pills, but who knew that her roommate would be such a quisling? She walked to the curb, where a minicab sat idling. Someone had drawn a penis in the dirt on its side, elephantine testicles dangling below.

“My chariot,” she said. A copy of the local newspaper tumbled along the pavement and wrapped itself around her ankle. “Walthamstow Shopping Centre to Celebrate 25 Years,” read the headline on the front page. Walthamstow, boil on the neck of London. Where she’d begun and, against all best efforts, where she had washed up.

She kicked the newspaper aside and reached for the door of the minicab. Alma Partridge sat in the back, wrapped in an ancient fur as stiff as a sarcophagus. Augusta slid in beside her, inhaling the mingled smells of her old friend’s musty coat and the driver’s luncheon kebab.

Alma gave him an address in Camden, and he pulled out into traffic. After a moment, Alma placed a dry and papery hand over Augusta’s. “You look well, my dear. How was the sanatorium?”

Augusta closed her eyes against the pain of the last afternoon light. “It was fine. Fewer meetings than usual, thank Christ. But, if you really want to know, a bit on the cheap side. Thin gruel.”

She felt Alma’s hand withdraw. “Perhaps if you had stayed the course it would have proved more useful.”

Despite herself, Augusta laughed. “You have a positively maternal gift for the barb, Alma. How I missed that when I was inside. All they spoke about was vulnerability and forgiveness and reaching out and recovering one’s footing.”

“Not such bad things.”

“And journey, as a verb.”

Alma shuddered. “That is disgraceful.”

With an effort, Augusta wrenched one eye open. “I am grateful that you came to collect me, darling. Really. You are my dearest friend.”

“I am your only —”

Augusta brought her hand up. The broken tip of one fingernail dangled like an unlatched gate. “I am well aware. It does not bear repeating.”

Each retreated to her own corner in rankled silence. “No photographers outside when I left,” Augusta muttered. “I thought the rags loved this kind of filth. Fallen celebrities.”

Alma raised one pencilled brow at the word “celebrities.” She said, “I believe what they’re searching for is the unexpected fall.” She ran a hand through her nimbus of white hair, coaxing the sparse strands higher.

As the car sped south, the lights of shops and restaurants glowed in the gathering dusk. It seemed that every second window advertised a pub quiz, pitchers of draft on sale, discounted trays of shooters.

“So,” Augusta said brightly. “Drink?” She felt Alma stiffen next to her, and reached to clasp her friend’s hand. “A joke, darling. Merely a joke.”

two

The answering machine shuddered to life when Augusta pressed one gummy button. Amazing that it still worked. She had a ridiculously sentimental attachment to the thing. Once, after she’d spilled a drink on it, it had expired with a sigh. She’d found a man in Kentish Town to fix it, and when she placed it on the shop’s counter he’d looked at it as if she’d presented him with an ear trumpet.

“Has this been out in the rain?” the fix-it man asked, as he poked its innards. “It’s completely sodden.”

Aren’t we all, Augusta’d thought, but had merely smiled.

“Augusta? Are you back from holiday?” The answering machine made everyone sound like Orson Welles. Even the high-pitched voice of her agent, David, came out as a bass rumble. “Looking forward to breakfast next week. Bright and early, don’t forget. There’s a journalist from the London Advance who wants to do an interview about the book, now that it’s coming out in paperback. Lovely timing, it was starting to fade a bit. Another little push, my love.” His voice took on a wheedling quality and she clicked the message to a halt.

Across the room, her book stood out on the shelf, its title, Based on a True Story: A Memoir of Sorts, set in neon-green type. The publisher had favoured this vulgar display over her protests, arguing that a more tasteful colour would have been, in essence, false advertising. Neither she nor her agent had expected the book to do as well as it had, but they had stumbled by accident into a fad for the unearned memoir. A newspaper excerpt featuring Augusta’s ecstatic encounter with a shaman had given the book a certain momentum leading into the holiday season. Augusta did not delude herself that its minor success equalled literary merit: the first week it landed on the bestseller list, Based on a True Story was sandwiched between the confessions of a disgraced DJ and the autobiography of a badgers’ rights activist.

She wished her father could have lived to see the book published. Giovanni was certain of very few things: one, that the only books worth reading had been written by men who’d worked by candlelight, and two, that his daughter’s trajectory, from a young age, was toward hell in a handbasket. But Giovanni had been in his grave for more than twenty years. She imagined her father marvelling from above, or more likely below, at the improbable mid-life success of his only child.

Although the book was soon to appear in a new edition, her sojourn in rehabilitation had prevented her from doing any publicity. God bless David for drumming up an interview now. The Advance was a rag, but it was read by half the commuters on the Tube every evening.

Rehab. What a loathsome word. It suggested new fabric on a knackered sofa. She went and stood by the window. Below, the Regent’s Canal shimmered dark and oily in the towpath’s lights. A couple sat on the bench at the water’s edge, kissing, and she watched them for a moment. Two weeks ago, she’d hurled a tin of tomatoes at a couple rutting in the shadows, but that was a different time. It was the drink that had powered her throwing arm. There was no drink in the flat now; Alma had seen to that. She’d even found the shampoo bottle filled with Amaretto.

Odd that David had mentioned her book, but not the role that would return her to her rightful place in the public eye. Augusta cast a quick eye around the room: Surely she’d left the Circle of Lies script here when she’d left for the clinic? That morning had been ever so slightly shrouded in fog.

No matter. She’d find it and make the lines her own before they met for the first table reading. It was a good role, a small one but with meat on it. There was Channel 4 money behind it, which meant there might even be a car and driver. David had sworn to her reliability, practically in his own blood. Back in front of the camera. Useful. It would make all the difference.

One message in seven days. It was not a pleasing number. Should she even bother checking her email? Augusta sat at her desk, where Alma had piled a week’s worth of post. There was a hysterical taxation notice from Revenue and Customs, which she dropped in the bin, and a flyer for a new Thai takeaway, which she placed in the top drawer.

A fine film of dust covered the two photographs that sat on her desk. The first showed Augusta and Alma in the week they’d met, thirty-two years before. Augusta had been little more than a child, and Alma already well into middle age, with a lifetime of roles and men behind her, equally chewed to gristle. They’d starred in a dreadful pantomime in Cromer, the December sea wind lifting Alma’s enormous wig every time someone opened the stage door. The actor playing Widow Twankey was a crème de menthe drunk, gassing the matinee crowds with great minty bellows.

The other photo . . . with the corner of her sleeve Augusta wiped away the thin layer of grit. Such a handsome boy, her son, with serious dark eyes that reminded her of an unplaceable someone. Could she still call him “son” when they hadn’t spoken in seven years? Perhaps there was a statute of limitations on these things.

She placed the photo back on her desk and walked back to the tiny nook that served as a kitchen. The silence in the flat was unnerving, and she reached for the answering machine. Perhaps there was a reward at the end of David’s message. Augusta hit the play button again.

His voice broke the stillness, a welcome presence. He gave the time and place of their meeting, and offered a few tantalizing details about mutual acquaintances. In the time she’d been away, one surgery had gone badly awry, and two marriages had crumbled.

Augusta stood half-listening, wondering if a glass of water would do anything for her thirst, when a name pierced her reverie. Her stomach lurched. She spun toward the answering machine, breath caught. She couldn’t possibly have heard what she thought she’d heard. Sobriety was playing evil tricks.

With a shaking finger she jabbed the rewind button and David’s voice rose again. She sank into a chair, unseeing, as he spoke the awful words again: “Speaking of publishing, I heard some news from California. Did you know your old mucker Ken Deller’s writing a book? I think it might be about you.”

three

Steam hissed from the silver machine on the café’s counter. Augusta turned to glare at it. In her day, coffee makers had been discreet things, properly overshadowed by massed rows of liquor bottles. While she’d been preoccupied they had grown vast, bristling with levers and wheels and dials, tended by white-aproned acolytes.

It was not the Soho she remembered. Where were the tarts and the toilet traders? All gone. Once, many years before, in the dregs of a May night, Augusta had seen someone who looked very much like Francis Bacon having a pee against a tobacconist’s on the corner. Now it was a shop selling reusable luncheon containers.

She was lost in a memory of the bottles that used to stand behind the bar in a magical skyline when a voice pierced her thoughts: “So, there were just a few other things I wanted to ask . . .”

Augusta focused on the girl who’d been sent to interrogate her. Was she from a newspaper? A magazine? No, the women from magazines displayed military precision in their grooming, every hair terrified into place, shoes and nails gleaming. This one was smudged around the edges.

“I wanted to ask you about the time you worked at the greyhound track in Walthamstow,” the girl said. “When you were young.”

“That long ago?” Augusta said, and the girl ducked her head. Her eye caught the empty bottle of Montrachet on the next table over. Two gin-blossomed City boys had made short work of it. How awful would it be to order a brandy at lunch? Brandy was what they drank at Oxford. It barely qualified as a spirit.

She tore her eyes away from the empty wine bottle. She’d been five days without a drink, each of them hard-won. As she slipped into her cold bed every night, she told herself that she had just climbed Kilimanjaro in a wheelchair, and congratulated herself on a lack of self-pity. The girl sitting across from her, nervously tugging a strand of dark hair straight, knew nothing of her struggles. She was a pretty, fine-featured thing, but did herself no favours with a Marks & Spencer cardigan sized for a rugby prop.

Augusta smiled. “A stunning place, the dog track. Such glamour, very East End. Wide boys and their ladies, the women all had mountains of hair and smelled of Youth Dew. I was just a pot girl, collecting glasses at the end of the night, but if you caught the eye of one of the smooth types he’d peel off a tenner and stick it down your top. Depending on how well he’d done on the dogs.” She tipped her water glass up, drained the last drops. “Of course, it’s all gone now. Possibly it’s a Poundland today.”

The girl leaned closer. Her fingernails, newly varnished and even more recently bitten, tapped the cover of the book that lay on the table between them. On the cover of her memoir Augusta looked as if her eyes doubted what her lips were saying. She knew she seemed younger in the photo than she did in person.

“Princess Margaret really came to the dog track one night?”

Augusta traced the ring her water glass had left on the table. “I think she liked a little slumming. A bit of rough and then back to Kensington. She ordered a double gin with ice, and then sent it back because the ice wasn’t cold enough. A memory I shall take with me to the grave.”

“That was incredible, that part. I mean, the Queen’s sister at a dog track in Walthamstow.”

A smile spread slowly across Augusta’s face. “You’re wondering if any of it’s true,” she said. “I suppose I opened myself up to that, given the book’s title. Not that it matters. It’s entertainment, darling.”

The girl’s pen scratched on her notepad.

“Oh, for God’s sake, child, don’t write it down! Leave some things to your readers’ imagination. The resonant space between the lines.”

“But I don’t get paid for the spaces.”

For the first time that afternoon, Augusta laughed. “Then you need to negotiate a better deal, Stella.”

“Probably I should,” the girl said. “I’m not very good at that end of it.” She paused for a moment and said, in a rush, “It’s Frances, actually.”

“Ah. And I’ve been calling you Stella all afternoon.”

“No, you called me Jacqueline once. But it’s kind of you to look for a more interesting name.”

Augusta shrugged. “Why paint the walls cream when they could be orange?”

Her eyes were drawn to the door, where an elderly lady wearing a fur coat that looked suspiciously like orangutan struggled with a shopping trolley. Outside the café, pedestrians scurried along the narrow Soho pavement, intent on phones rather than feet. Taped to the window of the sex shop opposite was a cardboard sign, its message written in blue felt-tip: ARTISTS MODEL UPSTAIRS. NO APPT NECESARY. DOOR IS OPEN. A sign on the townhouse next door, neater and more official, said: THIS IS NOT A BROTHEL. The last surviving bit of old Soho, flashing its grimy wares at the tourists.

The waitress arrived at their table. “Ladies,” she said, picking a hair off her apron. “Anything else?”

“A cappuccino for me, please,” said the girl. “Augusta, would you like something?”

Augusta knew that she should join the sorority of coffee drinkers to signal that her afternoon, too, was packed with purpose. The thought of a coffee made her stomach heave. A single brandy would smooth the wrinkles from the day.

She hesitated a moment. Alma’s voice in one ear. The distinctive throb behind her left eye urging her in the other direction. No one knew her here. Certainly not this girl. Alma’s voice won; Augusta made a note to ring her and tell her of this victory.

“I’ll have a coffee,” she said. “One of the disgusting ones filled with milk.”

* * *

The book lay between them; its pages bristled with yellow sticky notes. Frances tugged it closer, panicking, for a moment, at the thought that Augusta might open it to see the notes she’d scrawled inside: Page 24: She gets Tylenol 4s from her doctor? Is there even such a thing as Tylenol 4s?!? Maybe only for celebrities! Page 62: Steals pills from her father. No way!! Page 117: Can you really put a tab of acid on your eyeball? Ask.

But she hadn’t asked, not yet.

The woman across from Frances bore little resemblance to the fiend in the book’s pages. A grain of rice was stuck to her bosom, framed in the reckless V of a not-nearly buttoned blouse. Faintly glittering eyeliner drifted from the corner of one brown eye. There was a slight trembling in her hands.

Ask the question, Frances whispered fiercely to herself. Just ask the question.

“I hope I’m not keeping you too long,” the girl said. “I’ve just got a few more questions.”

“And I hope I’ll have the answers.” The dull pain behind Augusta’s eyes began pulsing along to the sound of the Thompson Twins on the café’s stereo. Every song that played brought her back to the 1980s.

Their coffees arrived, and Augusta began shovelling sugar into hers.

At this, Frances plucked up her nerve. “Now that you mention it, there are some pretty glaring — I guess you’d say omissions —” Her courage fled as a cloud crossed Augusta’s face. “That is, there are things that are brought up . . . and are never returned to . . . which might be considered important, or at least relevant, and painful I suppose . . .”

Frances reached for her coffee, in order to drink instead of babble. Augusta gazed at her in silence, as she might have watched a thief slowly twist at the end of a rope.

“Your son, you only mention him once, I think, and I was wondering why —”

Augusta pushed her chair back. “The story I told is the one I wanted to tell. There wasn’t the need to drag the whole world into it. You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Frances?” She balanced carefully on her orange-velvet platforms and pushed off from the table. With a wriggle, she inched her skirt a fraction lower and tottered away.

Was she gone to the toilet or just gone? Was that a strop? What the hell was a strop, anyway? No interview subject had ever left Frances’s table in dudgeon, high or low, although once she had accidentally made a famous children’s author cry by mentioning her husband’s resemblance to Marty Feldman.

Twisting in her seat, Frances looked for the waitress. Time to collect the bill and skulk back to the office to admit she had botched an interview and had failed to get an answer to the one question that might have given her a nice scoop. Time to face Stanley’s scowl and, worse, his disappointment.

Stanley Pfeffer, features editor of the London Advance, was the man responsible for Frances’s increasingly outré daily assignments. When a pop star was found on a farmer’s stolen tractor with six times the legal limit of alcohol in his blood, Frances had been dispatched to the pub to see if it was possible to get that drunk without falling into a coma. She swam in the Serpentine in December to test new data about hypothermia from the University of Edinburgh.

“You’re a godsend, Frances,” Stan would say as she filed her latest story. “I can’t get that lot to do anything except scratch their arses, and even then they ask for overtime.”

He’d shown a faith in her that no one else ever had, encouraging her at work in the morning and in the pub in the evening, where they sat and moistly reminisced about the good old days of newspapers, which Stanley remembered vaguely and Frances not at all.

A scraping noise caused her to look up, and there was her subject — crimson lipstick fresh and rust-red hair minimally neatened — taking her seat again at the table. An unspoken accord hung in the air: Let’s try this again, shall we? Frances flipped open her notepad, searching for something anodyne to settle the mood.

“So you grew up in Walthamstow? I read somewhere that you said, ‘I was born to leave.’ Was it really so bad?”

“I take it that you’ve never been, Frances. Really, for your own sanity, it should remain that way.”

“But it’s the suburbs, isn’t it? Nice houses and parks?”

Augusta’s laugh turned into a small burp, which she caught with the back of her hand. “It’s not America, darling. There were no cheerleaders bouncing around. The houses were tiny. Wet. They were so tiny and wet that the men would build themselves sheds at the bottom of the garden and spend all their time hiding from their women, doing God knows what. It was misery in a glass.”

Her voice drifted off, and she turned a strained smile on Frances. “Where did you grow up? Your adorable accent tells me it wasn’t London or environs.”

This was the moment Frances always dreaded. The English asked where you were from, professing an interest, when really their minds had already calcified around a set of assumptions: Look at her, with her shiny teeth, even though she grew up on pop tarts and marshmallow sandwiches. Got her first passport at thirty. Wears panties that say “Property of Jesus.”

“I’m American,” Frances said, and regretted how defensive she sounded. “From California.”

At the word California Augusta sat up straight. For a moment she said nothing, merely stared with an unnerving intensity. All at once Frances knew what a gazelle at a watering hole must feel like knowing there’s a leopard hidden nearby.

Finally Augusta said: “Do you happen to know a fellow called Kenneth Deller?”

Startled, the girl shook her head.

“He used to be a journalist. Before your time, I imagine. He was old school, as you young creatures like to say. Proper Fleet Street. Christ, listen to me, I sound like I flew here on a biplane.”

“I’d like to hear about him. I love stories from those days.” Frances brought her spoon up to her lips, licked it clean. “I’ll bet he smoked.”

For a moment Augusta couldn’t formulate a response. “Yes, darling, he smoked. He smoked in every possible way.”

Even speaking his name filled her with bitterness. But sitting here in Soho brought back warmer memories, a sliver of light against the blackness of her current mood. She’d first met Kenneth in a Chinese restaurant on the next street over, when Soho was still filthy and worthy of love. That interview had started out much like this one, over lunch, and ended four days later in Salford, not one word ever appearing in print. It had been her first interview, conducted shortly after a punk production of Hamlet had lofted her from obscurity. Her reading of Ophelia trailed outrage in its wake.

When Deller showed up thirty minutes late at the Golden Fortune on Greek Street, Augusta had been on the verge of leaving. He sailed in on a cloud of Bell’s and Benson & Hedges, his towering yellow quiff nearly bringing down the sign over the door that offered thousand-year-old duck egg.

“How lovely to meet you, finally,” Augusta said as he arrived at her table and stuck out a giant pink paw in greeting. She ignored it. “No, you can keep your hand. I’ve got two of my own, and I’m thinking of using one of them to give you a good slap.”

“Ooh,” he said, unperturbed. “Get her.”

He sat down anyway, unfolding long legs into the aisle so she couldn’t escape. Augusta had never understood this male drive for territoriality, the way they spread their arms and legs as if they were ferns battling for every inch of sunlight.

Kenneth Deller lit a cigarette and watched her with an entirely unembarrassed grin. Augusta wondered that his hair didn’t catch fire. It spread majestically upwards in defiance of gravity, a great blond cloud billowing above the horizon of his cheeky grin. From top to bottom he was a one-man fireworks display: the golden flare atop, the tight lavender shirt, the deeper mauve of his corduroy trousers. He was ridiculous. Augusta had never seen a peacock outside of a zoo, and couldn’t take her eyes away.

“So, my girl,” he said, leaning in close. “Tell me your story, Miss . . . Augusta . . . Price.”

He tapped the back of her hand three times with his finger. Under the scotch there was another, vaguely sweet, chemical smell. It reminded her of her mother, the rare occasions her parents treated themselves to a night out at the Lord Palmerston. Hairspray, that was it. She pictured his bathroom, the spare canisters of Elnett in the cupboard, the ashtray balanced on the edge of the tub. Until that moment she’d been terrified, her first proper London interview and who knew if she’d muck it up? Then the fear fled. He was just like the boys she’d grown up with, only slightly more orange. And lavender.

Not for the last time, she made a decision in a second that could have benefited from a few minutes’ scrutiny.

“Do you know what, Kenneth? I’m not sure I’m in the mood for Chinese.”

He flashed a smile that had clearly served him well before, and stubbed out his cigarette. Stuffing his notebook into a shoulder bag more vibrantly patterned than anything Augusta owned, Deller reached for her hand. Stay where she was and salve her wounded pride, or follow the man with the orange flowered handbag? It seemed an oddly momentous decision.

“And so I followed him, darling,” Augusta told Frances, watching a waitress squeeze past with a carafe of wine. “We ended up down the street at the Pillars of Hercules. Do you know it? Gruesome place. It always smells like they’re pulling cat piss from the taps. Anyway, we got chucked out because Kenneth decided that the barman was ogling my bosom — I had misplaced a button or two over the evening, truth be told. My hero decided the only way to save my honour was to challenge the poor barman to a duel, armed with a wretched old cactus he’d found withering in a corner.”

The girl turned up her hands expectantly. “And? Don’t leave it there. Then what?”

“Well, the cactus was ancient, but somehow it had obtained quite a keen cutting edge, and how was Kenneth to know the barman was a hemophiliac?” The girl made a sound of horror or delight, and scratched a note on her pad.

They had fled through the night, hand in hand, Deller’s ridiculous orange bag banging against his hip. At one point, skittering down the wet pavement of Brewer Street, they’d tried to help a dustman upend a rubbish bin into the back of his truck.

“Oi, mate,” the dustman said, gently removing the overflowing can from Deller, who reeled under its weight. “Them’s a job for professionals.”

“It was sage advice,” Augusta said. “Some things are meant for professionals. I wish I’d actually listened to that even once in my life.” Her gaze was lost in the distance. “That particular interview went on for four days, and we ended up in Kenneth’s brother’s bedsit outside Salford. Not even Salford proper, you understand.”

“Whoa,” the girl breathed.

Enthusiasm always made Augusta nervous; she could never tell when it was authentic. But the girl seemed genuinely thrilled with the story.

“So,” Frances began and halted. “Did you . . . and Kenneth . . .”

“Did we sleep together? My God, of course we did. We were in Salford, did I mention? For four days. In November. There was no heating, darling. Once we’d stolen all of his brother’s ten-pence coins there was nothing to do but get under the covers.”

Ten-pence coins? Frances wondered if this was some strange method of British foreplay. If so, where did the coins go?

“Of course, he turned out to be a bastard of epic proportions. And a fraud. He’s reinvented himself as some sort of love guru in your home state.” Her lip curled. “Mr. Romance, my arse.” Abruptly she stopped, as if she’d suddenly realized who she was sharing a table with. She placed her handbag on her lap and snapped it shut.

“That story’s not in your book.” Frances reached over to check that the Record button was still lit on her tiny silver machine.

Augusta shrugged. “I felt like a tailor when I was writing it. The art is all in the cutting. And I hardly wanted to give Kenneth Deller the satisfaction of one more go-round between my covers.”

four

The newsroom smelled, as always, of cold coffee and yesterday’s air. Even when a rare breeze blew in off the streets of Farringdon, the office of the London Advance maintained the freshness of a Victorian coffin. Look closely and you’d see claw marks on the ceiling. Frances never looked.

In the corners of the newsroom, derelict printers occasionally spat out sheets of paper that no one collected. The grey vinyl floor was scabbed with cigarette burns, even though smoking had been banned for a decade — at least officially. A burnt tinge to the early-morning air spoke of a different reality for the late-shift reporters, whose lawlessness was overlooked as compensation for their punishing, and increasingly irrelevant, hours.

Frances slumped into her chair, temples pounding. The profile of Augusta sat open on her computer, a creature half-wrestled to the ground. Every time she felt she’d pinned part of her subject, Augusta slithered from her grasp. Frances wasn’t used to this kind of frustration: normally, she wrote blithely, quickly, as confident with words as she was cautious in life.

She suspected that Augusta had sold her a counterfeit bill of goods, yet she was having trouble mustering a suitably indignant response. An actress had a tentative relationship with reality. So what? It was entertainment, darling. The heresy of that thought startled Frances, and she sneaked a look around the newsroom to see if anyone had noticed the traitor in their midst. Facts were her path; truth was the way. In the ten years she’d been writing down other people’s words, she had never questioned this basic assumption.

Frances ground her palms into her eyes. It was almost four o’clock. Stanley would be escaping the afternoon meeting any time now, cheery or despondent depending on how his writers’ stories had fared. His armpit stains frequently spoke of woe.

Lately his crankiness had been unleavened by any lighter mood. Each day brought dire rumours about the paper’s fate — a new owner with deep pockets, said the optimists, while the half-empty brigade insisted they’d heard rumours that the whole operation would soon be moved online and staffed from a call centre in Tobago.

Pushing her chair away, Frances crouched above her desk to scan the newsroom. There was the usual spurt of near-deadline activity, not a buzz exactly, but more of a stuttering, as if the very cold engine of an ancient car had been coaxed to life.

Her email provided no relief from the day’s anxieties. A message from Human Resources invited her to a stress-busting workshop on the first floor: Please be reminded that lunch is not provided during the Lunch and Learn sessions.

A note had arrived from her mother during the night. Mid-afternoon in California. Frances pictured her sitting by the kitchen window overlooking the ocean, the half-sized appliances neatly wiped down, a cup of fair-trade coffee by her elbow. A moment of peace while Frances’s father napped. Frances skimmed the email, wincing at its muted admonition: I wish you could find time to come and visit. I know how busy you are, but Daddy would love to see you while his good moments are still frequent.

She jerked around as the chair next to her gave a wheeze. “You missed the cake,” said her desk mate, Sue.

“There was cake?”

“The last of the purge. Arthur’s leaving today.”

Frances peered across the newsroom at Arthur, a cardiganned hobbit who’d been the Advance’s literary editor for as long as anyone could remember. (“Arthur buggered the Bard,” read the graffiti in the men’s toilet, or so she had heard.) The newspaper was culling the herd in a desperate attempt to fend off insolvency. Long-serving journalists had been invited in for a quiet chat with management and told that their contributions, while invaluable and magnificent, were not what the Advance needed in an era of linked digital strategies. Arthur and his fellow veterans were each given a large envelope marked Voluntary Severance Protocol. And a cake.

“Arthur’s older than evil,” said Sue.

“No,” said Frances, “he’s exactly the same age as despair.”

They watched as the literary editor hoisted his Penguin bag over his shoulder. Stacks of books covered the surface of his desk, and more were piled on the floor around it. Surely he can’t mean to leave them all behind, Frances thought. But he was already halfway out the door, radiating the bliss of the freed hostage.

He raised a hand: “The wallpaper is killing me,” he said, and disappeared.

There was silence as the Advance journalists considered this latest loss, the perilous state of their careers, the attrition of the industry they loved. Then, as one, they rose and began to trot toward Arthur’s desk.

“Come on,” said Sue, who was already out of her seat. “Free books!”

Frances followed, because she would follow Sue anywhere. The Advance’s television columnist was her dearest friend in London — her only friend, it sometimes seemed. A single mother to three fractious children, Sue allowed all the mischief she denied herself at home free rein in the newsroom. At sixteen she’d escaped from a tiny town in Wales whose name had been bled dry of vowels.

The hordes had already descended on Arthur’s desk by the time Frances and Sue arrived. Like ants, they took whatever they could carry. Frances noticed the crime editor walking away with a slab of a coffee-table book called People of Antwerp. Most of the mystery novels were already gone. Poetry and politics remained.

“I feel terrible for Arthur,” Frances whispered to Sue. “It’s like we’re taking the pennies right off his eyes.”

“Mmmm,” said Sue. “Do you need a stapler?” She pulled out a hardcover from a teetering stack and held it out to Frances. “Augusta Price’s memoir. Didn’t you have to interview her?”

Frances did not need another reminder of the story that sat, limply half-written, on her computer. She was busy extricating a biography of Lord Beaverbrook from a pile. Stan will love this, she thought, her heart thudding at the idea of handing it to him.

Sue began leafing through Based on a True Story. “I forgot she was still alive, until I read that excerpt in the Mirror. Was it true, that business about the shaman? Christ. The things that woman’s survived. Is she still a drunk, or did one of those stints in rehab actually stick?”

Frances tucked the Beaverbrook biography under her arm; maybe she would see Stan at the pub later. He usually joined them for a drink.

“Did you know Augusta Price isn’t her real name?” Frances asked. “She was born Anna Maria Ferragosto.” She took the book from Sue. “But she doesn’t write about that. Or lots of other things that happened to her. The book’s hogwash, if you ask me.”

“Hogwash,” said Sue. “You really have to stop fouling the air with your profanity or Stan’ll wash your mouth out with soap. Although,” she said, feigning interest in a guide to gluten intolerance, “you might enjoy that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I forgot. I’m not supposed to notice that you fancy Herr Big Arse.”

“He does not have a big ass,” Frances said indignantly. “He’s just a bit pyramid-shaped.”

It was humiliating enough to have a crush on her boss; that it was obvious to her colleagues was a mortification beyond words. Frances began to leaf through the Beaverbrook biography, although her thoughts lay in the past, when she’d arrived at Stanley Pfeffer’s office door two years earlier, clutching a message of introduction from a mutual friend and a sheaf of clips she’d written for the Bakersfield Californian.

Pfeffer was barking at someone on the phone when she entered his office, and she stood nervously by his desk until he muttered, “Bye then, Mum,” and hung up. He turned to face her, and waved toward a chair. He needed a haircut, and it looked as if he shaved with a chainsaw, but he had friendly, tired eyes and she liked him immediately.

He asked after their mutual friend, and flipped through the stories she’d carefully culled to showcase her strengths, stories about drought, foreclosures, homelessness. She noticed, with alarm, his eyes begin to glaze. He neatened the stack and pushed it back toward her. “Why’d you want to work here anyway?”

Frances flipped through her stock responses — change the world, make a difference — but she feared he would just sneer at her. Earnest American. The answers she’d rehearsed in the hotel mirror had evaporated. Her mouth was dry.

Pfeffer’s phone rang, but he ignored it. “I mean, leave California for this —” he flapped a hand at the ash-grey sky outside his window. “You’d have to be mad.”

Frances sensed a door closing before it had even opened. She blurted, “Journalism may kill me, but it’ll keep me alive while I’m doing it.”

He leaned forward sharply, cocking his head. “What was that?”

“It’s just something Horace Greeley said. He was an American newspaper editor.”

“I know who he was.” Pfeffer gave her a small, sideways smile, and she realized he was younger than she’d first thought. “Greeley was high minded,” he said. “They called his newspaper the ‘Great Moral Organ.’” He studied her, as if trying to solve a puzzle with no clues. “Are you high minded, Frances?”

She couldn’t look away. Tentatively, she said, “Only if I’m required to be?”

He burst out laughing and rocked back in his chair. “Good. Because those sods out there all want to write about the plight of the downtrodden. I need somebody to find stories people might actually want to read.”

Frances thought about the four-part series on corruption in the sewage-treatment industry that she’d written in Bakersfield.

“That’s me,” she said. “Only the stories that people want to read. Sex and death and animals.”

Stanley rubbed his jaw. “It’s your choice. The hours are crap and the pay’s worse. The pub downstairs is all right, though.”

He turned back to his computer and Frances realized, with a giddiness that filled her from head to toe, that he was offering her a job. It turned out to be a short-term contract with no benefits and no security, repeatedly renewed, but it didn’t matter. Suddenly every morning was a doorway; every day sped by.

“There’s your love now,” whispered Sue, and Frances elbowed her, keeping her eyes on the senior editors leaving the meeting room. Stanley hurried past them, head between his shoulders, brows creased as he scanned a printout. His prematurely grey hair looked as if it housed a family of badgers.

For once, Stanley didn’t turn to her and ask about her story, or share a sarcastic remark about the newsroom’s collective laziness. Frances felt an odd shiver run down her back, but shrugged it off. She was being ridiculous. The purge was over.

A tobacco-rich voice spoke in her ear, making her jump. “We’re sold to the Russians. It’s the dole queue for us.”

“The fuck we are, Gareth,” said Sue. “I’ve heard nothing about it.”

The office messenger had sidled up to them, and now he picked up a book from Arthur’s desk. “This intel’s pretty good,” he said. “Some KGB fucker looking for an investment in London. He’s bought the paper and he’s going to give it to his kids to run. Run into the ground, innit.”

Normally Gareth could not be induced to stir from his post at the back of the newsroom, where he sucked in an unending stream of Twitter feeds, aggrieved rants to radio call-in shows, and texts from dodgy friends in Peckham, then spat them back out as undisputed truth. It was troubling that he considered this gossip sterling enough to deliver in person.

“First thing,” he said, “they gonna fire half the editors and reporters. Then they find someone to do it cheaper overseas. Next thing you know, bam” — he slammed his fist on Arthur’s desk, making them both jump — “all your stories about East Enders are being written in Bombay.”

“Mumbai,” said Frances, not really listening. A terrible feeling had come over her.

“Bollocks,” said Sue, but she sounded uneasy. More than half her time was spent writing about East Enders.

Thick as he was, Gareth somehow sensed their distress. “Never mind,” he said, and plucked a copy of Heat magazine off Arthur’s desk (“Porky Princess’s Shame-Stain Saturday!”). “Taking the piss out of celebrities. That’s where the money is.”

They walked back to their desks in silence. Frances slid into her seat. She tried not to imagine her future as an arctic slide through failure toward death. There were two months left on her contract, and it had never occurred to her that it wouldn’t be renewed. It wouldn’t make any sense for Stanley to let her go, would it? She was the equivalent of slave labour — cheap as chips. The newspaper didn’t even pay her benefits.

An atavistic sense of preservation told her she should probably get out of the office as quickly as possible. She was just rising from her chair when she saw the door to Stanley’s office swing open. Even from where she was standing, she could see that a Niagara of worry had spread under his arms and down his sides. Without stopping to talk to anyone, he made his way to her desk, eyes on the floor.

Not good, whispered a voice in the back of her head. Not good at all. Miss Bleeker? Do you think you could come into the office to discuss the test results?

Stan stopped at her desk, and clawed one hand through his hair so that it stood like a cockatiel’s crest. He managed a smile, and that was when Frances’s chest tightened. Nurse? Could you leave us alone for a moment?

“Hello, Frances,” he said. “Do you think I could see you alone for a moment?”