The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim

19

No, none of it is true, but do you know what, I think I’m finally beginning to get the hang of this writing business. In fact I might even follow in Caroline’s footsteps, and make another attempt to get that Watford writers’ group started up. I reckon some bits of that last chapter were every bit as good as her effort about our holiday in Ireland. Did you like the way that when I was describing the sexy bits, I started every sentence with ‘I forget’? That’s good writing, that is. It took me quite a while to come up with that idea.

And I did enjoy it, I must say. I never knew that making things up could be so satisfying. I did enjoy my little fantasy about Alison, and our night of passion, and our subsequent life together. For a while there it almost felt that I was back in her house, back in her bedroom, that it was really happening, instead of the awful, miserable, fucking predictable truth, which was this:

That I stood there like a block of marble while she did her best to come on to me.

That she eventually gave up, and went upstairs, with the words, ‘I’ve got a feeling I’m wasting my time here, but just in case, Max, I’m going to leave my bedroom door open.’

That I finished my glass of whisky and about ten minutes later went into the hallway where I’d left my suitcase.

That I realized I didn’t know which bedroom I was supposed to be sleeping in, so I went into the sitting room and sat down on the L-shaped sofa and stayed there for a long while with my head in my hands.

That I finally decided I might as well crash out on the sofa and flipped open my suitcase to look for my sponge bag but found myself taking out my father’s blue ring binder instead.

That I glanced through the poems but as usual couldn’t understand a word of them.

That I stared for some time at the title page of the second section. The Rising Sun: A Memoir. Knowing that I wasn’t going to like what I found in there.

That I heard the sounds of Alison padding about upstairs, getting ready for bed.

That I waited for the sounds to stop, and then drank some more whisky, and then waited another ten or fifteen minutes, and then went upstairs to use the bathroom, and then listened outside her open bedroom door, listened to her soft, regular, sleepy breathing which I could hear quite clearly in the almost-silence of the house, and then tiptoed back downstairs and picked up the ring binder again and stared at the title page again.

That the last thing I can remember is hearing a car drive by in the snow-dusted street outside, breaking the stillness of the night.

And that I then started to read.