chapter one

lost like alice (working title)

chapter one

“She wouldn’t want me to tell you. I can’t do this, I can’t break a promise like that, not to her.”

“She would never know, Mr. Fairns. She’s gone remember? Your nurse told me you’d been having trouble with your memory.”

“Yes. My memory’s gone. Only hers remains with me. She’s not even alive and she’s consuming me,” he closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked with longing at a photo on the windowsill. The young woman sat across the table, her expression blank and her eyes unforgiving. 

“Haven’t you any sympathy?” He asked her. 

“Mr. Fairns, I only want to hear the story, the company may not even publish it for years, if at all. I won’t release anything without your permission either, this company still respects the work your wife did.” 

He let out a long sigh.

“At first she didn't tell me much about what actually went on, only that there were endless tests. However she did describe the interiors explicitly: everything was white, pure, pure white. Hold on,” he said, stopping the scratch of her pen. “Let me start from the beginning. 

*          *         *

The night we broke her out there were no stars. Only an inky blackness surrounded the headlights as we drove on towards her captivity. It was cold enough to see your breath, but the clouds of hot air coming from our mouths melted into the darkness too quickly to notice them. 

I remember her face when I opened the door. 217. Complete desolation was all  that was visible in her eyes; until the moment she realized who I was. But this isn’t the beginning - no - it started the second I saw her walking down the hall of McCullers’ Publishing as I awaited to conference on my manuscript. Her head was down, her pace was focused. She didn’t see me at all.

“Mr. Fairns I don’t see how this is any different from the last. Did you simply change the names hoping I would have a change of heart?” Mr. McCullers’ himself sat at his large mahogany desk, gently swaying from side to side in his chair waiting for me to answer his question.

“No, no of course not,” I stuttered. “The plot is similar, yes, but the subtext - “

“Mr. Fairns, what percentage of the earth’s population do you think cares about subtext?

I opened and closed my mouth like a goldfish. “The good ones?” I quipped, forcing a chuckle. 

“Stop wasting my time,” Mr. McCullers’ concluded as he dropped the manuscript in front of me. Just then there was a brief knock on the door and the the young woman I had seen outside, with hair the color of cinnamon, I recall noticing, stepped in. 

“Mr. McCullers, you sent for me?” she asked, not even glancing my way. 

“Yes, I need the final edit on the lost Fitzgerald by Friday.”

She nodded slowly, and noticed me staring at her; giving me a sideways glance and smirking almost unnoticeably. 

“Anything else, sir?” Mr. McCullers shook his head and then returned his attention to me.

“Come back with something readable, or don’t come back.” 

I nodded, grabbed my manuscript and rushed out, hoping to catch up to her. She was turning the corner as I left the office and I hurried to meet her. 

“Did I just hear the words “lost Fitzgerald”’? I asked her. She looked up and blinked a few times before answering.

“Yes, but please pretend you didn’t. It’s been something of a covert operation since we received it and McCullers’ wants it to stay that way until it’s published.” She kept walking. 

“Am I also to understand that you have the privilege of editing it?”

She slowed her pace. “Yes, I do. I don’t believe I know you, Mr…”

“Fairns. Benjamin Fairns.” I stuck out my hand and she shook it. 

“I didn’t expect you to be English.”

“Oh?” I said.

“I’ve read your stories. They’re quite good,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, taken aback.

“Novel needs work though.” She smirked again. I sighed, and nodded. She turned to walk away again.

“Perhaps you could give me some advice? Over drinks?” She turned around on one heel, and raised her eyebrows. 

“Why not?” she said, handing me a card. 

“I’ll call you,” I said. She smiled, and walked away. Astrid Winters - Editor in Chief - McCullers’ Publishing it read, in an elegantly simple gold font. 

“Editor in chief,” I said to myself, pocketing the card and exiting the building.

The next Saturday we met for cocktails at a place called 52nd Street. I was waiting at the bar when Astrid walked in, dressed in black velvet and lace. 

“I like places that use their address instead of a name,” she said as she sat down. “It implies such class.” She ordered an old fashioned.

“The ultimate subtlety, is it not?” I asked.

“Mmm,”  she said, looking into the depths of her glass. “Did you really ask me for drinks to get advice on your writing?”

I chuckled nervously. “It was my original intention, but I see now how it could come across as a bribery, given your position at the company. But I promise you I had no clue as to - “

“I would have said yes,” she interrupted.

“Sorry?”

“If you had just asked me out; I would have said yes,” she said, quite serious.

“Oh,” I could not seem to muster more than that single syllable. 

“But since you didn’t, here is my advice. I am not a writer. I’ve tried, and not succeeded past simple poetry published in local magazines. The books I read and edit are what I would call honest. Hemingway believed it was the best way of writing, and I agree. I think you need to step away from the characters you keep using and find some that are a little less…” she paused, and looked me in the eye. “Contrived,” she finished. “Yes, contrived. You’re trying too hard. These same characters do very well in your short stories but place them in a novel with room to expand, well; you see what happens.” She focused on her drink again.

“You mean they don’t seem real?” I asked. 

“Not entirely, no. Give them more human qualities, and they might be all right.” She gave me a small smile. 

“More human,” I mused, sipping from a gin and tonic that had just been refreshed. 

“Perhaps they should make more mistakes,” she laughed. 

“Fiction seems to be the only place people make the right decisions, doesn’t it?” I said. 

“Indeed,” she said quietly, stirring her drink.

“Now, we aren’t leaving until you tell me about this lost Fitzgerald,” I said. She smiled bashfully. 

“I can’t, I really can’t. The fact that Mr. McCullers even mentioned it in front of you shocks me. He makes me keep the only copy we have printed in a locked drawer, and any digital files are password protected.”

“Only one thing, I beg you.” She laughed breathlessly.

“All right, one thing: it’s a prequel.”

“A prequel to what?”

“You said one thing,” she answered, shaking her head.

“That’s not fair,” I said, laughing now as well. She kept shaking her head and took another sip of her drink. 

“I’m practically under oath,” she said. “I don’t want to lose my job because a handsome writer bribed information out of me while I was intoxicated.”

I chuckled nervously again, and looked down at my drink. When I looked up again, she had the expression of waiting for something. 

“Can I see you again?” I asked.

She nodded.

                                                   *          *         * 

“Mr. Fairns, can I interrupt?”

I looked up from Astrid’s photo; I had nearly forgotten where I was and whom I was with. The author from what was now Smith and McCullers’ was staring at me. I nodded.

“This seems extremely detailed. Is it really necessary?”

Incredulity coursed through me.

“Yes, it absolutely is.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“If you don’t know what she was like before those monsters took her,” I clenched my jaw and ran my hands over my face. “If you don’t see her the way she was, the way I saw her, then the aftermath means nothing,” I said, the old anger returning dangerously close to the surface.

She sighed. “Very well, please proceed.”

* * * 

Astrid

“She fingered the string of pearls around her neck, and her eyes glistened like stars soaked with champagne.”

I had read that line at least ten times. What right do I have to edit a Fitzgerald? Gertrude Stein is the only person who should have that privilege. I pressed the heels of my palms to my temples and sighed. This would not be done on time. I looked at my box marked “incoming” and noticed something had been added to the pile. FAMILIAR FACES by Benjamin Fairns. I smiled and lifted the title page. There was a note. 

Astrid,

I could do little but think of the advice you gave me whilst you smirked over your whiskey and did my best to immediately put it to use. Here is a very rough draft in which Harry and Regina are hopefully reborn. Take your time with it.

I’ll be at the Moonlight Lounge on Friday evening if you’d like to meet me; there’s a man who does wonders with a piano. I’d love to see you again.

  yours,

Benjamin Fairns

I chuckled to myself. That someone could exude so much charm on paper and be quite nervous in person was rather confusing, yet endearing. Benjamin was an unexpected presence in my life, but so far so good. Lately I had been wrapped up in editing the lost Fitzgerald enough so that I was momentarily confused when I was able to consume alcohol in public. The Moonlight Lounge. It sounded a bit tacky, but I really did want to see him again. 

It was difficult to see through the smoke when I wandered into the lounge that Friday, and I would never have found Benjamin if he hadn’t stood up when he saw me. 

“Are all of the lightbulbs here blue?” I asked as he pulled out a chair for me. We were close to the stage. He laughed.

“I think it’s required at jazz clubs,” he said. “Anyhow, it doesn’t harm your appearance if that’s what worried you.”

I blushed, but I don’t think he could have noticed. It felt like an aquarium in there.

“Do you come here often?” I asked, adjusting the hem of my dress.

“Only when this pianist is here, otherwise the atmosphere is a bit ghastly don’t you think?”

I laughed, relieved. “I was afraid you actually liked this place,” I said. He chuckled.

“You had my entire sense of judgement in question, didn't you?” It was his turn to smirk.

“Admittedly, yes,” I answered. A waitress came and Benjamin ordered us both old fashioneds. 

“So I have to ask,” he began, leaning over the table towards me. “Have you looked at my manuscript at all?” 

I nodded. “Your note was very charming.” I maintained eye contact with him, suppressing a smile. He scoffed and leaned back, putting his hands up in mock surrender. 

“I won’t ask again,” he smiled. The waitress brought our drinks.

“Tell me, Benjamin - “

“Please, call me Ben.”

“Do you have a favorite book?” I asked, realizing I knew very little about the man sitting before me. He furrowed his brow in thought. 

“I don’t think I could choose just one,” he admitted. He looked around as if searching for the answer in our surroundings. “I’m certainly fond of most Steinbeck I’ve ever read. What about you?” He leaned on the table again. “Do you truly have just one you prefer over all the others?” 

I nodded. “Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte,” I answered, without hesitation. 

“Really?”

I nodded again.

“And why is that?”

I sighed. I wasn’t used to explaining myself. “Because Jane knew exactly what she wanted, and never let anyone step on her, or control her. She herself was a force that could not be stopped, and from the moment I read that book I felt I knew her. I felt we were comrades in finding a life for ourselves. One beyond what others desired us to do or thought we should do, ” I looked up; Ben was staring at me. I picked up my drink and took a long sip. He was still silent.

“I’ve said too much.”

“No, not at all,” he said, putting his hand on mine. “I simply find you fascinating.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to respond to that?” I asked, taken aback. He took his hand away.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He refocused on his drink, and then the lights dimmed to near blackness. A small applause erupted as a man in a gray suit walked onto the stage and sat at the piano. Ben looked at me briefly before adjusting his chair to view the stage. I exhaled and did the same. 

The music was unnerving. The emotions emitting from the fingers of the pianist to the keys of the piano were ineffable. I glanced at Ben a few times during the performance, but he was enthralled. I felt guilty.

Ben got ahead of me in the crowd as we were leaving.

“Ben, please wait,” I shouted once we were outside. He turned to face me, standing at the curb. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“What for?” he asked, shrugging. I felt a little exasperated.

“You have to understand,” I said, trying to find the right words. 

“Understand?”

I bit my lower lip and looked anywhere but his eyes. “The last man I was in a relationship with,” I faltered. Ben stepped closer to me, looking concerned. I struggled to inhale. “He nearly smothered me,” I finally got out. “And I cannot, will not, be controlled that way again.” He laughed, as if in disbelief. 

“I can’t even pick a favorite book and you think that I’m going to attempt to control you? Because I complimented you? I’m not that sort of man,” he said, insulted. 

“How could I know that?” I folded my arms and looked at him.

“You wait to find out,” he said, and hailed a cab. He opened the door, gesturing for me to get in. “Only if you want,” he said.

*         *          *

Benjamin

She stood there, her eyes flicking from me to the taxi, suddenly looking so small and scared.

“Never mind,” I told the cab driver, and shut the door as he drove away. I walked back to where Astrid was standing with her arms wrapped around herself. She would not look at me. 

“What are you afraid of?” I asked. That got her attention. 

“I’m not afraid,” she defended. 

I sighed. “It’s all right if you are,” I said.

“I am not,” she insisted. I nodded.

“All right. Let me see you home, at least,” I said. She nodded. I hailed another taxi, and this time she got in. The ride back to her apartment was long and silent. The lights of Manhattan flashed over us and I could only catch glimpses of her expression, but what I thought I saw was a touch of sadness. 

The cab pulled up to the curb outside of her building, but as she put her hand on the door she paused and turned to me. 

“I’ve worked very hard to get where I am,” she said, her voice steady but soft.

“I can tell,”  I said. 

She swallowed. “I don’t want anyone to take it away. That makes it hard to be vulnerable.”

“Being vulnerable is how you get to know people.”

She looked down, and back at me again. “I suppose I could try again,” she said with a small smile. I put my hand on her cheek for a moment. 

“Good night, Astrid.”

“Good night,” she said, and got out of the cab.

I clenched the hand that had touched her face into a fist, not wanting to lose the feeling. I paid the driver and decided to walk back to my own building a few blocks down. It was late, yet the sidewalks teemed with people as they always did. In a place like Manhattan you are almost never alone. On the days I felt so claustrophobic I couldn’t breathe I would think of the home my uncle had outside of London, and how my brother and I would run from end to end of the extensive grounds. I stumbled into someone and was brought back to reality. You’re never alone. 

By the time I had wandered back home it was late, nearly one, and though I was tired, and somewhat distraught over Astrid, I sat down to write. 

The paper mocked me with it’s blankness, glowing from the reflection of the street lights coming through the three large windows on the far side of my apartment. Normally I appreciated their light, as writing in the early hours could be costly to an aspiring novelist, but that night I had a longing to see the stars. I got up and went over to the center window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass and letting my gaze fall to the street below. I watched as people milled about, not one of them appeared to have a purpose. Astrid seemed to have found hers. Perhaps I was only getting in the way. 

I drew the curtains, drank a finger of whiskey, and collapsed into bed.

I woke up once mid-morning sunlight had forced it’s way through the curtains, and I wandered over to my desk to see if I had written anything. One solitary sentence had made it’s way onto the paper.

“She chooses to be alone,” I read aloud. I scoffed at my past self. Useless. 

My answering machine was blinking. A missed call. It was from Astrid. 

“Wait, no- “ I said. The scratch of her pen stopped. 

“It was at least a week until we spoke again,” I corrected. The author sighed, and leaned back in her chair. 

“You get married, don’t you?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“You get married. You and Astrid. I already know this. Why do I need this part of the story?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

“I don’t have to tell you this. Any of it,” I reminded her. She nodded and picked up her pen again. 

Astrid didn’t contact me. I had veered too close; tried too soon to see what was hidden behind those green eyes. From the moment I met her I had felt she could not be scared of anything, and yet when I saw her frozen on the sidewalk as I hailed the taxi I wanted to do nothing but protect her. To shield her from any corruption and violence the world might try to push through the armor she’d created for herself. How strong was she? I had no way of knowing, but once someone had broken through the barrier and scarred her. She couldn't lose control again. I understood that. But what did I have to prove?

A week after our date I received a call from Mr. McCullers. He wanted to see me. 

“Mr. Fairns, I understand you left this for Ms. Winters to reread?” He dropped the manuscript in front of me, an all familiar gesture. I nodded. 

“Yes. She gave me some advice and I rewrote my previous book. It’s a very rough draft.”

“It’s the same book,” he said.

“Well don’t you think that Regina leaving Harry after the child dies changes the entire thing? I mean it was a mistake on her part of course but it makes her more human, you see?” I was gesturing. I knew I had lost the battle the moment I walked in. 

“It doesn’t. This is the third time. The same book. Please stop wasting my chief editor’s time,” he said. I got up to leave.

“And if you continue to pursue a relationship with Ms. Winters as well, you will have to find another publisher,” he shrugged. “Conflict of interest, you know?”

I nodded, and left the room as quickly as possible. I noticed Astrid lugging a dolly of large boxes down the hallway opposite.

“Do you want help?” I asked as I caught up to her. She blinked a few times.

“No, I,” she muttered, gesturing at the boxes as if to brush them away.

“Editor in chief isn’t all glamour, I suppose,” she said. I nodded. She cleared her throat. 

“Ben I’m sorry about the way I left things the other night. I didn’t mean to come across as so…unfeeling, and mistrustful. I don’t want to write you off.” Her voice had grown quieter. I swallowed. I wanted to know her. So very much.

“Here’s the thing: your boss just told me he won’t publish my work anymore if this - “ I motioned between us. “ - continues.” She was silent. I decided to continue. 

“But I can’t seem to stop thinking that you’re the sort of person who sees a sadness in everything, and I want nothing more than to show you the beauty there is.”

She chuckled. “Is that what you think of me? I’m sad?”

“Those were not my words,” I defended. “And besides, I’ve only had one and a half dates to try and figure you out. I haven’t much to go on.”

Reviews

[SweetNutmeg]

This is an excellent introduction! I am curious to find out if Mr. Fairns turns out to be an unreliable narrator. I love me an unreliable narrator. Unreliable or not, he has a distinct voice, very clear and defined. I can feel his personality. Not only that, his narrative is engaging and vivid. I can see Astrid. I can see the young Mr. Fairns, I can see the publishing house, I can see the cocktail lounge. And I love love love that this is a story about a story told by an author.

I noticed quite a few adverbs, which usually bog down the action and dilute the power of your verbs. For example:

"...he closed his eyes wearily for a moment, and then glanced longingly..."

Bam bam, we have two -ly words. I am not of the school that 100% of adverbs are always 100% wrong, but two in one sentence is a bit much. I think we know he is weary, so maybe you can let that one go.

Adverbs are a huge problem of my own, so you've got company. Someone introduced me to SmartEdit, a free editing program that isolates and counts (among other things) adverbs and it's quite helpful to me.

The only real stumbling block I had was:

"A long sigh emitted from him."

That is not possible, sighs cannot emit from anything. He can emit a sigh, or a sigh can escape him, but not 'emitted from him.'

Other than that, this is good. It's got me hooked. I am looking forward to love and adventure, dashing young authors and sophisticated women. I can't wait to find out the exact time period. I want to picture her clothes, the streets, the decor of the cocktail lounge.

I hope my review has been helpful and not too harsh. Please tell me if it was unhelpful or harsh. I want to give kind and helpful reviews. I know this is your baby, and all you want is for it to be the best it can be.

PS: Thanks for the read request. Keep 'em coming!

[Thesecuts]

Wow, I want more of this book :P

[Catherine]

Loved chapter one and looking forward to what is to follow.