Wild Fiction

‘Genevieve was right, wasn’t she? You made me to replace her and then you lost control. You gave me too much free will and independence. It looks like Genevieve has developed her own sense of uncontrollable independence. What are you going to do about that?’
The author glanced at her but did not say anything. He picked up a biscuit and nibbled the edge of it, turning it in his hand until it reduced to almost nothing and then popped the rest of it into his mouth.
‘I’m going to edit you out. I’m going to cut you out like a malignant melanoma,’ the author said.
‘ “Cut you out like a malignant melanoma”? That is so bloody cliché. That’s all you are. You’re a failed novelist with a list of clichés that you string together while pretending you’re writing a story. I’m so bloody embarrassed to be in this so-called adventure written by you. I have a damn good mind to go off to Retir W. Doog.’
‘Who?’
‘Nothing.’
The author stared at her but she was looking away. Her eyes glazed over as she stared through the trees into the distance.
‘Rebecca?’ the author said.
She continued to stare without acknowledging him.
‘Shall we go home?’ he asked.
She turned her head to the side and looked at him. Her bottom eyelid’s glistened and her face pulled down making her look older. She nodded and a solitary tear flew from one of her eyes and landed on her knee.
They bundled the unfinished Cava and cheeses into one of the plastic bags and dumped it in a rubbish bin. On the way back, Rebecca turned to the author a few times, as if to ask a question, but never did. At Charing Cross Station the author bought The Evening Standard and they caught the 4:27pm to Epsom.
Rebecca read it over his shoulder. He was on pages six and seven when Rebecca’s arm darted out and her finger stabbed at the middle of the page. The title of the article read: Mystery Body Identified.