Midnight Sun

TWENTY-FIVE

And they all lived happily ever after, Ben wrote, and sat staring at the words, his pen hovering above them like a bird of prey. They seemed to mean nothing except that the story was over, and he could see that there were too many of them. The pen swooped to cross out all and ever after, and was hesitating above happily when he shrugged and moved his hand away from the page, the blunt end of the pen rapping the desk. They were only words, only a way of releasing him from the task of manufacturing a tale for Alice Carroll. He wondered why he didn't feel released from the preoccupation which seemed to have walled up his senses ever since he'd learned of her attitude to his work.

He made another change and smiled, or thought he did. Arid they lived happily for a while. That ought to be realistic enough for her, and he wouldn't pretend that it didn't ring true to him. He wrote the end and let out a long breath. Now there was nothing to keep him from the story with which he'd emerged from the forest, the story of the presence which had been imprisoned by the midnight sun.

He was inking an ironically large exclamation mark after the capitals when the thought of the forest drew his attention to the window. The shapes which the snow had made of the trees seemed like a promise – of what? Perhaps of a resolution of the story which his solitary walk in the forest had suggested to him and which was all he could remember of the walk. It wasn't the first time he had become so engrossed in his imagination that he'd lost all awareness of his surroundings, and he wondered why in this case it should make him nervous. What was called for, he decided – both to revive his ideas about the midnight sun and to show him where he'd got to in the forest – was another walk. He capped the pen and laid his hands on the desk to raise himself. Now I'm ready, he thought, and the thought was like a soundless voice which rendered time meaningless. He didn't know how long he had been poised at the desk when he heard someone enter the room.

He turned and saw Ellen. Though he couldn't imagine who else he might have expected to see, the sight of her was somehow disappointing. Guilt made him speak the only words he could find in his head, though he wasn't sure what they referred to: "Now I'm ready."

"I'm glad," Ellen said, and set about rubbing his shoulders and arms, presumably to rid him of the tension she assumed had been involved in finishing the book. When the phone rang he grabbed it, feeling like a wrestler released from a hold by the bell. "Who's this?"

"Mark Matthews at Ember. Am I taking you away from anything? Shall I call you back?"

From what? Ben thought. He gazed at the forest as if it might tell him what Ellen and the publicist had interrupted, and couldn't think why he was doing so. "It doesn't matter," he said.

"Would you like to hear what we've set up?"

Ben thought of the setting up of an image, an idol. "Go on," he mumbled.

"We've appearances for you in Leeds and Norwich."

Ben was tempted to hand Ellen the phone while he tried to grasp his unmanageable thoughts. "Appearances?"

"Yes, at bookshops. Signing your books. Are you sure it's convenient to talk just now?"

Momentarily Ben thought this referred to Ellen's presence, then he realised that the hint of reproach in the publicist's voice was directed at him. "I said so. When would they be, these appearances?"

"Leeds is a week today and Norwich the Friday after."

Ellen was smiling, and with an effort Ben appreciated why. "We'll both be available to sign the books in Leeds," he said.

"I'll let the bookshop know. Will lunchtimes suit you?"

"Whenever."

Mark Matthews promised to put the details in a letter, and Ben was lowering the receiver towards the cradle when Ellen stopped him. "Anything in London?"

"Anything in London, my wife wants to know."

"A syndicated interview the day before Norwich. You can do it over lunch on us."

"Couldn't the interviewer come up here and see us?"

"Couldn't the interviewer come up here and see us."

"Howard Bellamy never goes out of town except for the absolute top names, but his interviews do. I read a piece of his in the in-flight magazine on the way back from Frankfurt this year."

Ellen bent her head closer to the receiver, and Ben handed it to her at once. "The only problem is that we can't both be there," she said. "Even if our children were invited, they'll be at school."

"Having kids is a career decision, Mrs Sterling," the publicist said, adding swiftly "Let's hope one day Howard Bellamy will come to you. Meanwhile, I'm sure I can fix you up with some of your local press, assuming you want them."

"They'll be welcome." Ellen kissed Ben on the forehead, apparently so that he wouldn't resent her next words. "I hope you didn't think my husband was rude or not interested. He'd just finished a new book when you rang."

"That's what we like to hear. Tell him we're all delighted. He deserves a break by the sound of it. I hope this little tour of ours will be some fun for him."

"It better had be," Ellen said, so vehemently that Ben might have felt uncomfortable if his vision hadn't been full of the bright stillness ahead of him. Even if they didn't know what they were talking about,. he thought, perhaps they had hit on the truth. Perhaps some time away on his own would allow whatever was building up within him, so intensely that its presence seemed to underlie the entire transformed landscape, to make itself clear to him.