Away for the Weekend

The moment they’ve been waiting for

The Cary Grant Conference Hall is, in fact, an auditorium with staggered rows of seats and a stage across the far wall. It is a windowless room, lit indirectly, climate controlled and acoustically advanced, so that pins can be heard to drop no matter where you sit and no one has to shout to be heard or tap the mic or blanch when the sound system shrieks. Its anodyne walls have been decorated for the occasion with large black-and-white photographs of famous writers (Hemingway with a dead animal, Tolstoy with a beard, Jane Austen with a cap on her head), creating an atmosphere that is at once exotic and intellectual.

Every English department in every college in the area has been invited to this landmark event, and almost every seat is taken. The finalists in the Tomorrow’s Writers Today competition sit in the middle of the front row, ready to take their turns at the podium, flanked by the distinguished writers and academics who acted as judges. Professor Gryck (who will be giving the opening address) stands like a sentry on the bottom step of the stairs that lead to the right side of the stage.

Among her many skills and talents, Professor Gryck is a consummate multitasker. Although she is busier than a Viking raiding party this morning, she knows exactly who is seated and waiting for the ceremony to begin – and who isn’t. Beth Beeby. Of course. Who else? Apparently Beth Beeby is, if not the Devil’s spawn, at least a close relative, who for some reason is determined to undermine Professor Gryck every chance she gets and is doing a splendid, almost inspired, job of it – so splendid that not even two run-ins with the law have been enough to make her stop. Professor Gryck looks at her watch. And then back to the two empty seats in the front row. Where in the name of Snorri Sturluson is she?

Being the proactive kind of person that she is, Professor Gryck doesn’t hover hopefully at the front of the stage waiting for something to happen. Smiling grimly, she marches up the aisle to see for herself if there’s any sign of Beth. She reaches the door just as it opens and Delila Greaves and some blonde walk in. Though, like the rest of us, she often hides the fact, Professor Gryck is not a stupid woman. For a few seconds, she’s puzzled by the apparition in front of her – where did she come from? what is she doing here? – but then she realizes that the shining blonde in the aggressively trendy suit and cinderblock platforms hasn’t stumbled in here by mistake; she is none other than the drab and colourless Beth Beeby herself. She can just make out the small, pinched features under the make-up and the tiny bat wings that have been glued to her lashes. Professor Gryck is not the sort of person to giggle, but the corners of her mouth do twitch. You almost have to admire the girl. What better way to damage her authority and the integrity of the event than to turn up looking like you’re going to a party?

“You’re late,” she says, her eyes on Delila. “Go and sit down.”

Delila, who’d expected more resistance, scuttles forward with relief.

But when Beth starts to wobble after her, Professor Gryck puts out a hand to stop her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Though Beth, of course, would have preferred to tiptoe to her seat without attracting the professor’s attention, she doesn’t yet realize that there’s a problem.

“I’m going to sit down.”

“Sit down?” Professor Gryck looks at her as if she said she was going to get her camel. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Professor Gryck.” Beth moves her head forward and smiles. “Professor Gryck, it’s me. Beth. Beth Beeby.”

“I know who you are.” Arms folded, mouth set, Professor Gryck has become an immovable force. “But you’re not coming in here looking like that.”

Beth blinks. “I’m not?”

“No, you’re not.” She leans forward to speak directly into Beth’s ear. “I have worked very hard for this day, young lady, and neither you nor anyone else is going to ruin it for me.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” says Beth, with remarkable calm and reasonableness considering the morning she’s had already. “I just want to take part.”

“You listen to me.” Professor Gryck’s words hit the air like hail hitting the ground. “This is a literary consortium, not an audition for some Hollywood movie. I will not have it cheapened and debased by the likes of you.”

“Me?” If only Professor Gryck were as reasonable as Beth. “But that’s ridiculous. I’m me. I’m exactly the same person I was when you met me.”

“No, you’re not. Then you were a serious, sensible young woman. Now, you’re a … a party girl.”

“No, I’m not. I’m one of the finalists. You can’t keep me out.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t know who you are. You are not the girl whose photo is in our brochure. If I asked any of the others to pick Beth Beeby out of a line-up, they wouldn’t pick you, believe me.”

“Delila would.”

“That’s one out of twenty.” None too gently, Professor Gryck takes hold of Beth and propels her into the hall. “Let me assure you that if you try to get back in here, I’ll call security and have you forcibly removed.” She turns to the young woman from the hotel who’s been given the job of keeping out latecomers. “Did you hear that? If I see this girl inside again, you’ll find yourself working in a motel in Nebraska.” With which pronouncement, the leading authority on the Norse sagas steps back into the auditorium and shuts the door behind her.

“She’s bluffing.”

These words so exactly echo Beth’s own thoughts, that for a second she thinks that she spoke them out loud. And then she realizes that it’s the hotel clerk who spoke them out loud, though she doesn’t realize that this is not the same clerk who let her and Delila in only minutes before.

“Excuse me?”

“She’s bluffing. She can’t have you forcibly removed.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No way. And I have no intention of keeping you out. But I think you should ditch those shoes before you hurt yourself.” Remedios, who beat Otto sixteen rounds at jan-ken-pon to be the one to sit in on the writers’ event, goes over to the door and cracks it open. “She has her back to us,” she whispers. “Come on.”

Two days ago, an invitation like this would have sent Beth running back to her room. Now, however, she merely nods and, holding the offending shoes, quickly follows the young woman inside. They’ve already slipped into two miraculously empty seats at the back, slouching so they can’t be seen behind the heads of the people in front of them, when Professor Gryck takes the stage.

“Firstly, I have to say that it is an honour for me to welcome you all to the First Annual Tomorrow’s Writers Today Symposium on behalf of our generous sponsors…”

Remedios closes her eyes. “Wake me up when it gets interesting,” she whispers.

The man at the door of the Grace Kelly Room (an actor who’s played a CIA agent in several forgotten movies and was very good in the role) lets Gabriela in with a puzzled smile but with no argument. She does, after all, have a ticket, and she is with someone who isn’t dressed like a pilgrim and obviously belongs. “Enjoy yourselves,” he says, looking at Lucinda, and winks.

Nonetheless, it’s just as well that Taffeta Mackenzie, though also good at multitasking, is not at all skilled at astral projection and can only be in one place at a time. At the moment, that place is in the makeshift “dressing room” off the service corridor where the models are getting ready for the show.

At last, Gabriela has her wish: even dressed as Beth, people are looking at her. Though with curiosity, not envy, of course. Who is that girl? their eyes say. What on Earth is she doing here? Ignoring the looks, she and Lucinda hurry inside, choosing seats at the back next to a young man impeccably dressed in a retro-eighties way (bespoke, hand-stitched pinstripe suit set off by a plain navy T-shirt and sandals), who shows no surprise at the unlikely sight that is Gabriela but nods and smiles. Lucinda, unaware that she has seen this very handsome young man before, nudges Gabriela. They both smile back.

The lights dim. Taffeta slips into a seat at the front, next to the runway, surrounded by journalists and photographers. So far, so good, thinks Gabriela. By the time Taffeta sees Gabriela, the graduate show will be well underway – or possibly even over. This is a comforting thought. They may get through the entire collection and be ready to announce the winner of the contest by the time Taffeta spots her. What’s Taffeta going to do then? She can’t throw Gabriela out. Not in front of all these people. Not if she’s the winner. Gabriela leans back in her seat to enjoy the show.

As we all know only too well by now, things don’t always go the way they’re planned. Which makes this day pretty special, because, at both of the events taking place at The Hotel Xanadu, everything sails along like a sloop with a good wind on a calm sea. No one falls on the runway; no one stumbles over his or her words. The distinguished writers and academics give short speeches about the role of books in the twenty-first century and how much they enjoyed judging the competition, and only two people doze through these speeches, one of whom is Remedios. Likewise, the designs on show are faultlessly presented and modelled, and greeted with “oh”s and “ah”s and bursts of applause. The work, the tears, the worries and tantrums were all worth it. Feelings of pride and triumph fill the air.

And then – finally – the moments that everyone’s been waiting for arrive.

In the Cary Grant Conference Hall, Professor Gryck introduces her surprise guest, who will present the winners and call them to the stage to receive their prizes and read their work.

“It is my great honour and pleasure,” says Professor Gryck, “to welcome a writer who needs no introduction to any serious reader of contemporary literature. JC Ferryman is one of the most respected, influential and admired writers of the last forty years…”

Beth gives Remedios a nudge. “It’s starting to get interesting,” she whispers, as Professor Gryck continues in her praise – detailing into how many languages JC Ferryman’s work has been translated, how many universities and colleges teach it and how many awards it has won. “They’re about to announce the winners.”

In the Grace Kelly Room, the graduate show has ended and, as the presenter prepares for the showing of the clothes made by the finalists in The City of Angels College of Fashion and Design’s annual contest, Taffeta Mackenzie scans the room to see where everyone’s sitting.

“Holy Mother,” she mutters, when her eyes fall on Lucinda and the girl sitting beside her. Having been a model herself, Taffeta is a master of disguise, who can change her look at the drop of a false nail. Despite the clothes, the hair and the glasses, she recognizes Gabriela immediately. “What in the name of haute couture is she doing?” Maybe Gabriela Menz is having a breakdown. She’s certainly been acting as if she’s having a breakdown. Some people can’t hack this business, that’s all there is to it. Or maybe she’s been hired by a rival to sabotage Taffeta Mackenzie and her school. The duplicitous witch.

Smiling as if life is nothing but good news, Taffeta unobtrusively leaves her seat.

But she isn’t smiling as she comes up behind Gabriela; she looks as if she’s about to spit pins. Leaning over her she says, very clearly and far from softly, enunciating every syllable, “Get out of here, Miss Menz. Get out of here right now.”

Gabriela, Lucinda and even Otto have been watching the show with trance-like attention and never saw Taffeta leave her seat. Startled, the three of them turn.

“Did you hear me, Miss Menz?” Taffeta demands. “I want you to get out of this room this very minute.”

“What?” says Gabriela

“You heard me. I’ve had all of you I’m going to take. I don’t know if you think you’re being funny or if you’re wilfully trying to humiliate me or what, but I am not going to let you ruin this day for me.”

“But what about my dress?” Gabriela looks from Taffeta Mackenzie’s angry face to the runway. “Bring on Tomorrow” has begun to play; the show is about to start. “Why should I leave?”

“Why?” Taffeta glares down at her. My God, she’s actually wearing tights! “Because you look like you have as much interest in fashion as a raccoon, that’s why. You standing up there and taking credit for the angel dress would be like a monkey getting up and taking credit for Dior’s spring collection.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Gabriela protests. “The angel dress is my design. What does it matter what I’m wearing?”

“Out.” Taffeta nods towards the man standing at the entrance as though he’s waiting for an emergency. “Or I’ll have you thrown out.”

The fact that Otto doesn’t believe in the kind of interference practised by Remedios doesn’t mean that he doesn’t believe in any interference at all.

He leans across Lucinda to say to Gabriela, “Stay right where you are. You’re not going anywhere, except up to the runway to receive your prize.”

Taffeta’s head appears over Gabriela’s shoulder. “And who in God’s name are you?”

“Ah…” says Otto. “That’s it, precisely.”

JC Ferryman walks slowly onto the stage, leaning on a walking stick topped with a silver ball. He wears a rumpled suit that he bought twenty years ago for occasions such as this, and he is the other member of the audience who found it hard to stay awake during the speeches. Much to Professor Gryck’s disappointment, he wastes no time giving a speech of his own, but mumbles a few words of greeting and rips open the first envelope.

“In third place…” A small smile flickers across his face “…is Ms Elizabeth Beeby.” In the wings, Professor Gryck gives a gasp of surprise. Beth has been such an annoyance that she forgot that she might actually win something. JC Ferryman glances at the front row. “For her short story, A—”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Professor Gryck lands beside the great writer so suddenly that he teeters. She puts one hand over the mic. “Mea culpa, I should have said that I’m afraid Ms Beeby isn’t able to be with us this morning.”

JC Ferryman looks almost disappointed. “She’s not here?”

Professor Gryck shakes her head. Sadly. “I’m afraid not.”

“Yes, I am! Here I am! I’m right here!”

Though she doesn’t actually remember leaving her seat, Beth is walking down the centre aisle, sure and steady in her stockinged feet. And suddenly, though she has no idea how, she knows for certain that JC Ferryman is Joe. Joe, the man who sprained his ankle. The man Delila and Gabriela helped home.

“Look at her!” hisses Professor Gryck. “That is not Beth Beeby.”

Delila hears her. “Yes, it is!” She is on her feet. “Joe!” she calls. “Joe, it’s me, Delila. Don’t you remember me and Beth?”

“Of course I remember you,” he says, but he is squinting at the figure marching towards him, looking confused. “What have you done to your hair? You look a little different…”

“Joe!” Beth waves. “Joe! I see the peas worked.”

And JC Ferryman, whose reputation as a curmudgeon is perhaps slightly exaggerated, smiles. “Like a regular miracle,” he says.