Wild Fiction

‘So what did you get up to?’ Genevieve asked him in the car on the way back. Her speech was slurred and she had her hand on his shoulder.
‘Just ran some errands, saw my publisher, went to the bank and looked in a bookstore.’
‘That was quick. What’s in your briefcase? You don’t have a copy of that elusive manuscript Wild Fiction that you won’t let me see, do you?’ She lent down, pulled the briefcase out from under the seat, and opened it.
‘Don’t, that’s private, it’s personal.’
‘We’re married darling, there’s nothing secret between us.’ She fumbled with the envelope that she had pulled out. She tried to undo the wire clip at the top but could not get it undone. ‘Bloody hell. Why do they make these things so bloody complicated?’ The author glanced between the road and her attempts at opening it. Her nose was inches from the clasp as she fiddled with it with her fingernails. He smiled to himself and rested his right arm on the window.
‘Open dammit,’ Genevieve said to the envelope. The author looked straight ahead at the traffic. He was smiling until he heard the ripping of paper. When he turned his head again the bonds lay spilt on the floor in front of her.
She picked up one of the bonds and studied it. The bond flapped dangerously in her limp wrist. The wind, rushing over the open topped car, threatened to rip it out of her hand and have it shredded by the following cars. Her head lolled from side to side; the seat belt prevented her body from falling forward. ‘Are these what I think they are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they real?
‘Yes.’
‘This is an awful lot of money,’ she looked across at him before her eyes closed and she slumped back in the seat. The author pulled over and replaced the bonds in the briefcase and under the seat. The loose bond was held surprisingly fast by her unconscious body’s hand. The rest of the journey was a lot quieter.
He hoisted her floppy body onto his shoulder and carried her legs first up the stairs. There was a dull thud as he rounded the corner. He could not look back but knew that he had just hit her head against the banister. He dumped her body onto their double bed and examined her head. There was a small swelling where it had smacked against the railings.

Chapter 34

The author picked up his briefcase and took it into his study. Rebecca was sitting at his computer staring at the screen.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m reading my story,’ she said turning around and looking at him. ‘My but you look smart.’
‘It’s my story. How did you get into it anyway? It’s password protected.’
‘I guessed the password. You’re predictable in your choice of passwords,’ she smiled back at him. ‘I’ve made some corrections - your spelling is atrocious.’ She paused, ‘I have a question for you. Why does your style change so much from one part to another?’
‘Boredom mostly. Boredom counts for many things in the story. Also, time constraints. Sometimes I’m too busy. When I’m bored with the story or too busy then I just leave it, sometimes for months. When I return to it, I have to re-read the last bit before I can continue. I’ve also changed in the interim. I’ve read other books, met other people, and forgotten what style I was last using. It all adds up and then creates the style changes.’
‘Do you think this is acceptable?’
‘Acceptable to whom?’
‘The reader of course. I’m a pawn in this chess game of yours. You manipulate me in your thoughts. The changes you throw at me confuse me but that doesn't matter. The readers concern me. They’re the ones who are going to remember the way you wrote about me. They’re the ones who will determine my immortality. If they don’t remember me and think about me day and night I’ll cease to exist.’
‘The reader needs to do one of three things to ensure your immortality. They need to talk, think, or read about you. When this book hits the bookstores, it’s going to go straight to number one on The Times best-seller list. Translated versions will abound and soon you'll have Chinese pictographs floating out of your mouth.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. Stephen Spielberg will be knocking down my door requesting the movie rights the following week.’
Rebecca smiled, ran her fingers through her hair, and tied it back in a ponytail.
‘So what am I doing when you’re not writing?’