‘And publishers are no better.’ He turned onto Trongate, carving a swathe through commuters and desultory schoolchildren, warming to his theme. ‘Do you recall that book about penguins?’
‘Which one?’ The previous year the book charts seemed to be awash with talking penguins, magically realistic penguins, melancholy penguins, there had even been an erotic penguin.
He slapped a hand against her manuscript. ‘My point exactly! One book about penguins sells half a million copies and suddenly you can't move for the waddling little bastards.’ He stopped, slumping against a doorway. His shoulders heaved like a longbow drawing and loosing. ‘The giants are gone,’ he said sadly.
Giants? Penguins? Was every day going to be like this? He set off again at a lick.
‘So many modern editors neglect the great legacy they have inherited. They are uninterested in language or, god forbid, art; and would prefer a mediocre novel they can compare to a hundred others than a great one that fits no easy category. They care only about publicity and book clubs and film tie-ins.’ He spat out the list as if it curdled his stomach. ‘Most editors are little more than cheerleaders, standing on the sidelines waving their pom-poms.’ He turned to her. ‘I have no pom-poms,’ he growled. Then thumped a palm against his chest. ‘I care. I care about the work. I care about your novel.’
He stopped again and she felt she ought to fill the silence that followed. ‘Thanks,’ she said brightly.
Duval cocked his head and looked thoughtful. ‘Of course, it is not a good novel.’
Sonofa—
‘But it could be.’ He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘So I say this to you now, without apology. From this moment, Jane, we will spend every waking hour together until I am satisfied. It will be hard. Lengthy. I will make you sweat.’
Uh, could he hear himself?
‘I will stretch you. Sometimes I will make you beg me to stop.’
Apparently not.
‘I do this not because I am a sadist—whatever you might have heard—I do this to give an ordinary writer a chance to be great.’
That was terrific, she was impressed—moved, even—but could he not give the ‘ordinary writer’ stuff a rest?
They came to a busy intersection. Pedestrians streamed past them. At the kerb the drivers of a bus and a black cab loudly swapped insults over a rear-ender; the aroma of frying bacon fat drifted from a van selling fast food. He ignored them all, shutting out the traffic and the smells and the noise, for her.
‘I promise that no one has ever looked at you the way I shall. Not even your lover.’
Jane swallowed. ‘I don't have a lover,’ she heard herself admit. ‘Right now I mean. I've had lovers, obviously. Not loads. I'm not, y'know, “sex” mad. I don't know why I brought up sex. Or why I put air quotes round it. I'm totally relaxed about … y'know … sex. And yet I just whispered it. Very relaxed. I think it's because you're French. You're all so lalala let's have a bonk and a Gauloise. Oh god. I'm so sorry about … well, me, Mr Duval. Should I call you Mr Duval? It sounds so formal. Maybe I could call you Robert.’
‘You could,’ he said, ‘but my name is Thomas.’
‘Thomas! Yes. I knew that. I was thinking of the other one. From The Godfather? Played the accountant.’
‘Tom.’
‘No, it was definitely Rob—oh, I see. Tom. Short for Thomas. I had a friend called Thomas. Well, when I say “friend” I—’
‘Stop talking.’
‘Yes. Yes, I think that would be a good idea.’ She dropped her head, stuck out a foot and screwed a toe into the pavement.
‘OK,’ he declared. ‘Now our work begins.’
And with those words the months spent at her desk writing for no one but herself were at an end. Now they would embark on a journey of discovery, together, to prepare her novel for … Publication. Suddenly, the sacrifices seemed worth it: losing touch with friends, turning on the central heating only when the ice was inside the windows, baked beans almost every day for three months straight, all to reach this pinnacle of a moment.
‘Do you want a roll and sausage?’ asked Duval.
‘Do I want a—?’
He marched off in the direction of the fast-food van.
‘Morning, Tommy,’ the owner greeted him. ‘The usual?’
‘Aye, Calum, give me some of that good stuff.’ Duval took the sandwich, then showed it excitedly to Jane as if he were a botanist and it a new species of orchid. ‘And not just any sausage, oh no. A square sausage. See how it fits so perfectly inside the thickly buttered soft white bap? Genius! But then, what else would one expect from the nation who gave the world the steam engine, the telephone and the television? This is why I love the Scots. Now, a soupçon of brown sauce.’ He squeezed a drop from the encrusted spout of a plastic bottle, patted down the top of the roll and sank his teeth into it. Paroxysms of delight ensued. ‘And to think that France calls itself the centre of world cuisine.’
She wasn't entirely sure he was joking. And then she realised. He'd gone native.
‘You must try one. I insist.’ He clicked his fingers as if he were ordering another bottle of the ’61 Lafite.
Moments later she stood peering at the sweating sandwich in her hands, and beyond it, Tom's grinning face.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now we begin.’
Ten minutes later they sat beside one another in the window of a café next door to his office. Between them lay the ziggurat of her manuscript.
‘Jane,’ he said softly, ‘there is no need to be nervous.’
‘Nervous? Me? No-o-o. Not nervous.’ A coffee machine gurgled and hissed, only partially masking the spin cycle taking place in her stomach. ‘OK, a little bit nervous.’
He smiled. ‘It's OK.’
It was then she realised what was making her nervous. He was being nice to her. The heat had gone out of his fire and brimstone, his voice, typically tense with anger, now soothed like warm ocean waves.
‘Usually I need a run-up before I start editing,’ she said. ‘Y'know: tea, a walk, regrouting the shower.’
‘Or we could just begin?’
‘What, no foreplay?’ Even as she spoke them she was chasing after the words to stop them coming out of her mouth. But it was too late. He gave a small laugh, the sort of laugh your older brother's handsome friend might give his mate's little sister. Jane's embarrassment turned to disappointment. ‘So, where d'you want to start?’
‘Call me crazy, but we could start at the beginning.’
‘OK.’ She nodded rapidly, appearing to give his suggestion serious consideration, hiding her mortification
