Excerpt

That Age

London - 1990

Abbey was at that age.

This was the time in one’s life when growing up was something that happens to other people, but you had the nagging feeling that maybe—just maybe—you might be other people, too. You started to think about what you wanted to do when you got there; not the whimsical flavour of the month (princess, astronaut, movie star, superhero), but for realsies.

What made it different from those other times was that you weren’t fully aware of it happening, otherwise it was just another game of make-believe. That age only became clear in retrospect.

One of the signs was a discomfort with one’s own name. Not because of any teasing they might have received, but because one day someone would call them, and it sounded like a child’s name.

Or perhaps this didn’t happen to everyone. Perhaps it was just Abbey. Her proper name was Abigail, but only her mother ever called her that. She thought about using her given name instead, but Abigail sounded stuffy (and worse, old).

So she was still Abbey, she was at that age, and she was in her grandfather’s attic.

The last time she had been here, she was interested in finding pictures, but old photos hadn’t been as interesting as she’d hoped. She didn’t know anyone in them and they didn’t really tell a story. At least the encyclopedias stored in the corner (missing K and R) let you know what the pictures were.

She loved the encyclopedia. It made her feel smart. She could proudly recite the Theory of Relativity, but since she didn’t know what a square was she always said, “Eee Equals Emm See Two” when she tried to impress people. She also didn’t have the foggiest idea how mass, energy, or light could possibly be put together, let alone split apart. Didn’t a flashlight have all three of those things? Why didn’t they explode when you shook them?

Being in your grandfather’s attic was, as everyone knows, like being in a time machine. But you have to be at the right age to really appreciate it. Had she been younger, she might have just played with her imaginary friends in historic eras inaccurately gleaned from old films. Had she been a bit older, she might have wondered how much everything was worth instead of what they meant. Older than that and she might not have bothered with the attic at all (since only kids did that sort of thing) and by the time she was old enough to take an interest again, most of it might have been sold or lost or forgotten.

Abbey, however, was at the right age. That age.

When she saw a locked metal chest under some cardboard boxes, her heart skipped a beat, even though she had no idea what was inside.

It looked like an oversized lunch box laying on its side, with two clasping locks and a carrying handle in the front. It was smooth and featureless, but big enough to hold a dinner for two. Grandpa was big, but not that big.

Abbey tried to force the box to reveal its secrets. It was old, she knew that much. It made her think in black and white. She fiddled with the latches until they gave way with a squeak. The outer case separated like a time capsule.

It had been so plain and unassuming a moment ago; it could have been anything. Now, with the shell stripped away, there was no doubt as to its purpose.

Row upon row of round buttons lay before her. Above them were dozens of long metal teeth, and a strip of ribbon that stretched from one spool to another. She opened the box on top, which was full of yellowed paper. The cover page was blank except for a title.

There was no paper in the typewriter, but she’d seen how these worked on TV. She managed to feed a sheet in and roll it into position. Abbey carefully touched the F button, and pressed down hard.

CHACK.

The typebar stuck halfway. She flicked it back, then pressed the key a few more times.

CHACK CHACK CHACK CHACK

The paper was only slightly dented; the ink had dried long ago. It didn’t matter. It was perfect in spite of its flaws. Perhaps even because of them.

Abbey pulled the sheet out. She looked at the yellowed page and read the title:

 

Last Dance at The Kitten Club

By J.D. Hammond

 

Curious, she took the next page out of the box. The page was filled with words crossed out and handwritten corrections:

 

 

 

Abbey was at that age, and she had found herself a future.

 

Desperate Times

London- 2010

 

Right up to the point where she was shoved out of the New End Theatre, Abbey had thought the interview had gone rather well.

Truth be told, it hadn’t been so much an interview as an ambush, straight out of a movie. She had a smug, satisfied look on her face. The kind she imagined hard boiled reporters had after they nailed someone to the wall. Getting tossed was like a badge of honour.

Then she lost her footing, stumbled on the stairs and fell flat on the cobblestone road. A moment later, a leather-bound notebook struck the back of her head like a Frisbee.

With as much dignity as she could muster, which wasn’t much, Abbey ignored the gawking looks of those gathered on the patio to discuss the evening’s play. Before anyone could offer her a hand, she brushed herself off, tucked her notebook under her arm, straightened her back, and walked off.

Once out of sight, she gritted her teeth, rubbed her left shoulder, and opened the notebook. At the bottom of her list of compiled facts and the questions she had asked, she jotted down two words: No Comment.

The Camden Weekly was a small local paper. Respectably old (over fifty but under a hundred) it had never used more than two of the floors of its Pratt Street location. With the digital revolution, that number had shrunk down to one. It was about to shrink a little more.

John Watkins opened his office door. Of the dozen staff at their desks in the press room, nine were in advertising and only three were actual reporters. Such were the times.

“Abbey,” said Watkins. “Come inside, please.”

He sat at his desk and waited. Abbey walked in with her back a little straighter than usual. Her expression said she’d gladly take a cigarette, but please, skip the blindfold. Watkins hid a smile. Abbey wasn’t British, but she did have the stiff upper lip bit down pat. He decided to spare her the preamble; she knew what was coming, and he respected that.

“I’m sorry, Abbey, but I’m going to have to let you go.”

It turned out that upper lip had been built on a foundation of sand. Abbey’s eyes widened. She began to speak, stopped herself, then left the office. Watkins stayed put. She probably needed a moment to compose herself.

Watkins’s computer pinged. It was an instant message.

Abbey001 says: Why?

Watkins raised an eyebrow.

JWatkins_CW says: What are you doing?

Abbey001 says: I’m sorry, sir. I’m not very good at confrontation. I feel I can better express my thoughts this way.

Watkins looked out the office window at Abbey, who was trying to hide behind her computer. Her bright red hair crowned the monitor like a shallow flame.

JWatkins_CW says: This is ridiculous. Get back in here now.

Abbey001 says: I’d really rather not, sir. I thought this would be about the interview at the New End Theatre, and I was prepared for that. I wasn’t ready for this, however. Am I fired because of the interview?

JWatkins_CW says: Get in here or we will discuss this in the press room in front of everyone.

A moment later, Abbey was back inside. Her hands were shaking. He told her to take a seat and offered her a cup of tea. Abbey shook her head. Watkins sat on the corner of his desk, hoping to appear more friendly and casual.

“This isn’t just about the interview,” he said. “Granted, the owner said you were a disruptive influence and didn’t want you to review there anymore. The director demanded I sack you. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t listen to such complaints, but…” He sighed. “You put me in a tough position. There are such things as libel laws in this country, and some people are willing to sue at the drop of a hat if they feel slandered. It’s happened before. We can’t afford that kind of trouble.”

He waited for that to sink in before he continued. “Also, The Camden Weekly can’t afford three reporters right now. You were the last one I hired, so I’m afraid you’re the first one I have to let go.”

Perhaps he should have stopped there—it was reason enough. But at some point, Abbey was going to try to find another job writing, so she deserved to know the truth.

“And your writing needs a lot of work.”

Abbey looked at him as if he’d shot a puppy right in front of her.

“Abbey, I’m telling you this because someone has to. Technically, you’re fine. Spelling, grammar, punctuation, you’re better than I was at your age. But your journalistic style…” He shook his head.

“I don’t understand. When you hired me, you said I had potential.”

“Exactly. Potential. The problem is, you write everything as if it’s bloody War and Peace.” He walked to a corkboard on the wall where he kept his favourite examples. “‘In the long years since the Battle of Britain, never have so few done so much for so many in such a simple yet meaningful way.’ Remember that?”

Abbey said, “I was trying for a bit of a poetic touch, I admit—”

“You were writing about a church fête.” Watkins found another. “‘The cries and wails of the damned haunt all those who enter these bleak halls…’”

Abbey squirmed.

“I believe that was a piece you wrote about the RSPCA, correct?”

Abbey opened her mouth to defend herself, but the words died on her lips.

Watkins softened his tone. “It’s not what you want to say that’s the problem. It’s how you choose to say it. How many times have I told you that? Lord knows this place isn’t The Guardian, but I take my job seriously. Most of what you give me I have to slash to the point where I’m almost re-writing it. Whenever I think you might have caught on and let the next article slide, I end up with something like the Bob Dylan concert… And now this.”

He sighed again. “I meant what I said about your potential, but I doubt you’ll find another editor in London as indulgent as I am. If you want to find a job at another paper, I suggest you start writing like a reporter, not a poet dying of tuberculosis.”

Abbey nodded. “Do I have two weeks?”

Watkins shook his head. “I’m sorry, it’s the recession. I’m paying the bills month by month instead of quarterly. Part of the reason I have to let you go is I won’t be able to cover all of this month’s expenses if I don’t.”

Abbey nodded again. “Is that all?”

“I suppose it is. Of course, I’d be happy to give you a reference, but…”

“But I should learn to write like a journalist first.”

“You know how, you just refuse to do it.”

Abbey got up and shook Watkins’s hand. “Thank you. I’m glad to have had the chance to work here. If there is nothing else, however, I’d like to go.”

“Certainly.”

Watkins allowed himself a smile as she left. He was glad she hadn’t taken his criticism personally. It was a good sign that she could be so professional about this; it meant she had a chance of making it in the business.

Watkins’s computer pinged. He checked the message, looked out the window at Abbey leaving with a cardboard box, and shook his head.

Abbey001 says: Twat.

Abbey stretched out on the sofa, netbook on her belly, searching the job sites. She wasn’t worried. She always set aside ten percent of her pay and could live off her savings for a few months while she looked for a better job.

She refused to see this as defeat. It was an opportunity. She knew she wasn’t a good journalist, but that was because journalism was so damn dull. To her, the difference between writing an article about a double homicide and the marital benefits of Viagra was largely a matter of who paid you. There was no depth, no poetry, no substance. It was just information.

Her flatmate, Leia, was fencing on their Nintendo Wii. “Maybe you just don’t get it,” she said.

Abbey tried to listen, but it was difficult when a six-pound ball of hair, claws, and hate was attacking your foot.

What she had written about the RSPCA had been true, at least to her eyes and ears. By the time she left the shelter, they had one less prisoner on death row. Later, she discovered the little bugger had belonged there.

She’d considered calling the black and white cat Mr. Target. He looked like the oversized plush toy she kept on her desk, but that wouldn’t have been very original. Leia had suggested calling the monochrome tyrant Kane—not after the biblical Cain, but the WWE wrestler. When she realized this cat would probably be the death of her, Abbey agreed.

Kane was applying an impressive suplex to her dangling left foot, biting her sock and finding the taste highly suspect.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Leia’s thrusting and parrying in front of the TV only seemed to encourage Kane’s behaviour. “I said maybe you just don’t get it. Journalism, I mean.”

Abbey raised her foot off the floor, but the cat refused to release his submission hold. “What is there to get? ‘Police were called to Hampstead Heath early Tuesday morning in response to reports of children feeding the local ducks Alka-Seltzer, but arrived too late to prevent massive poultry casualties. A memorial barbecue will be held tomorrow. Attendees are asked to bring their own sauce.’ See? Nothing to it.”

Her flatmate scored a point with a quick thrust. “It’s a wonder you haven’t earned a Pulitzer.”

“Well, maybe someday, but… oh. Sarcasm.”

Leia paused the game. “If you hate journalism so much, why do you want to work at a paper?”

“I don’t hate it; I love the idea of it. I just find it… restrictive. Besides, I’ve got to pay the bills somehow. Only five percent of all novelists earn a living from their work. The rest of us have to hold down a second job; it might as well involve writing. It worked for Grandpa.”

“I guess that makes sense,” said Leia. “But you won’t catch me writing jingles for Jaffa Cakes.” She unpaused the game and finished off her opponent three-nil. “There can be only one!”

“What?”

Highlander reference.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Abbey sighed. “Anyway, I’d have more fun writing opinion pieces. At least those are expected to have a bit of flare. Editors have all the fun.”

“You poor tortured genius.” Leia tapped Kane with her foot. Caught off guard, the cat sprung like a bear trap and bolted from the room.

Abbey shrugged. “I’m not worried. I’ve got enough saved up for three months. I can spend my days looking for a job and evenings working on the novel. I might finish the first draft before I’m forced back to the grind.”

When it became clear that openings for junior reporters were rare, Abbey began to lower her standards. At first, she included editing, then assistant editing, then copywriting, then assistant anything.

After filling out an application to be an assistant burger jockey at McDonald’s, she knew she’d hit a low point that would not be penned into her memoirs unless an award was on the line.

Somewhere between writing about fast food and making it, she’d applied to all the booksellers she could find. The idea had a certain charm to it. She imagined herself in a cozy wood-panelled store lost in a back alley, whose ancient grimoires required infrequent dusting and only two kinds of customers ever appeared—those who knew exactly what they were looking for, and those who had no idea how they’d gotten there.

For some reason, in this mental image she was forty years older, wore glasses, and cackled when no one was looking. The store probably disappeared the moment the customer left.

Abbey sat at her computer, alternating between her web browser looking for jobs that weren’t there and her word processor looking for words that weren’t there, when an email alert popped up.

One of the bookstores had an opening. They wanted her to start Monday.

A month earlier, she might have weighed her options and wrestled with the notion that she should wait for another newspaper opening, but McDonald’s had called half an hour earlier to welcome her to the team and she was feeling exceptionally desperate.

The main branch of Red&Yellow was located in Soho, near Piccadilly Circus.

Abbey looked around the store. It seemed nice enough; wood bookshelves and floor, warmly lit but not too bright, not too many customers. She could get used to this.

She went to the front counter. “I’m supposed to see the manager, Thomas?”

The man behind the register looked up from his newspaper. “He’s downstairs in his office.”

“Thanks.”

Abbey had dropped off her resume at their branch near Kilburn and had never been to Soho before. Had she been aware of the area’s reputation, she wouldn’t have been quite as enthusiastic to go downstairs.

Abbey wasn’t a prude. At least, that’s what she told her friends. But finding herself surrounded by rows and rows of breasts and penises on magazines and DVDs (sometimes on the same person), she blushed like a nun in a whorehouse (though not the ones on the wall getting spanked by cowboys).

She tried very hard not to pay any attention to anything, especially the toys, some of which sparkled.

“You okay?”

Abbey turned, eyes wide and unfocused. “Sorry, where is Thomas’s office?” The downstairs cashier pointed, and Abbey made a beeline.

The door opened before she could knock, revealing a tall, clean-shaven man who was dressed like every day was Casual Friday. There were several TV sets behind him, showing different views of the store.

“It’s Abbey, right? Let’s go upstairs.”

They went back up to the bookstore. The cashier had slipped his newspaper under the counter and pretended to tidy the shelves. Thomas led her outside and walked her down the street.

“We’re not going far. Your store will be just off Soho, closer to Tottenham Court Road. It’s not very big, mind you.”

Abbey noted the main shop hadn’t been very big, either. “Will I be working upstairs?” she asked. “Or, um… downstairs?” It was impossible to hide her discomfort.

“It’s against our policy to have women on staff downstairs, but you might need to cover someone during a break now and then. Are you okay with that?”

“Of course.” Not really.

“You sure?”

“Well, I have to admit, I didn’t realize you were also a sex shop.”

Thomas frowned. “Can’t imagine why.”

They arrived at the store and, for the first time, Abbey noticed the front was covered in neon signs; Licensed Sex Shop Downstairs, Adult Licensed Department, XXX Shop, all in bright red and yellow, most with arrows pointing down. Those same signs had been at the main branch as well—she simply hadn’t noticed them.

“We were originally called Red Lights, Yellow Papers,” said Thomas. “When we expanded we changed it to Red&Yellow.”

Across the street was a small grey coffee shop called The Darwin Café. A black cab was parked in front of it. She turned her attention back to the bookstore. It also had wood floors, shelves, and comfortable low lights, but this one seemed too small to function properly as a bookstore. Most of the titles were face out, so only four or five books would fit on a single shelf.

Thomas nodded to the employee at the register and looked over the inventory. “This branch focuses mostly on art titles. Affordable stuff from Taschen or Flametree. Could use a bit of restocking. There should be a book behind the register with our usual distributors in it. Reps show up from time to time to show you their latest titles.”

“Does it get very busy here?”

The man behind the counter snorted.

“I’ll be honest,” said Thomas. “We sometimes have trouble holding onto staff because they get bored stiff.”

Abbey smiled. “Sounds wonderful.”

“…and there’s a nice little coffee shop across the street, the Darwin Cafe. The house blend mutates every week.”

“And you have no problem working above a sex shop?” Leia was taking a break from guitar practice to jot down notes on a printout of sheet music.

“Why would I?” Abbey squeaked. “It’s not like I work down there. I work upstairs. In the bookstore. With real books. Did I mention the café?”

“Yeah, that didn’t sound defensive at all.”

Attracted by the noise, Kane wandered in, realized it had nothing to do with him, and left.

“I don’t care if I have to work downstairs now and then,” said Abbey. “It’s just a sex shop. I’m not a prude.”

“So you keep saying.”

“I’m not!”

Leia smirked and strapped her guitar back on. “Doesn’t look that way to me.”

Abbey frowned. “I would think you’d be the last person to lecture me on appearances, little miss Guitar Hero.”

Leia looked down at the multi-coloured fret buttons of the toy Gibson plugged into the game console. “Touché.”

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