Hands trembling, Pru placed her offering on the desk: a handful of cabbage, two apples, a few links of sausage, and a wedge of Oxford Blue. Already beside him sat a mug of tea and a half-emptied sleeve of biscuits.
“Worried about my eating habits?” Win stopped typing and glanced up with a crooked smile. “I’ve never felt so loved.”
He was handsome for an old bloke who didn’t shower much, Pru decided, but then immediately shook her head. There was no use thinking about the man in flattering terms. She didn’t want to feel more toward him than she already did. Vague and distant pity was emotion enough.
“I’m not worried about your eating habits,” Pru said. “Seeing as how you don’t have any.” She paused, hand on hip. “Good grief. I really sound like a mother hen, don’t I? You’re a smidge old for that.”
“Right. A smidge old. What was your estimate when we met in the garden that day?” he said. “A thousand years or thereabouts?”
“Oh geez…”
“I’m only joshing,” he said with a droll wink. “Anyhow, I’m all for mother hens. My own mum wasn’t interested in any henning so it’s a nice change of pace.”
“I never really had a mom, either,” Pru blurted. “I don’t know why I just told you that.”
“Not to worry.” He put a cigarette between his lips but did not light it. “I never really had one, either.”
Win punched out a few more words while Pru stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, emptied bag dangling from her arm.
“Is there something else you need?” he asked from the side of his mouth not working to hold onto the unlit cigarette.
“Uh, er, not really.”
Win glanced up.
“So, I’ll be going…” she said.
“Wait,” he said, surprising them both. “Don’t leave. Do you … do you want to chat?”
Win rolled his eyes at himself. Fancy a chat? Blimey, how could a girl resist so compelling an invitation? What a wanker.
“That’s okay,” Pru said, wisely. “I don’t have much time for a chat.”
She took five quick strides toward the door but, much to his amazement, turned back around before leaving him altogether.
“I have to ask,” she said. “You’re not … Mrs. Spencer isn’t detaining you? Under lock and key? Or guns and poisoned arrows? You are allowed to come and go, yes?”
Win laughed. He was in a sorry state alright. A passerby couldn’t ascertain whether he was a prisoner or a free man.
“Believe it or not,” he said. “I choose to live and work in these conditions. A testament to my quality of life, it must be stated. But I understand your confusion.”
“Okay, but what are you writing?” Pru asked. “I’m sorry if it sounds rude but I can’t figure it out.”
“What am I writing? The book about the duchess. I thought I made that clear?”
“You did, but I’ve been here and … I’ve watched. And listened. Does Mrs. Spencer come in here without me sometimes? Is that it?”
“No. Never.”
“Then what the hell!” Pru said, exasperated, making a “halt” motion with both hands. “I mean, really! You’re up here typing like a madman. All day, all night. The incessant, relentless clacking. I’ve sat through your so-called interviews but she’s given you nothing. Nada. Zip. Unless I’m missing something, which is entirely possible.”
“No, you’re not missing a thing.”
Win stood. She could almost hear his knees creaking from disuse.
“Then what is it?” Pru asked. Nay, begged. “What are you doing in here?”
“It’s simple,” he said. “I’m playing the long game.”
“The long game?”
He nodded and then grabbed several sheets of paper from the windowsill.
“My brother would argue that’s my life’s philosophy,” he said, turning the paper over in his hands. “But in this case, it means I’m willing to wait her out. The duchess is famous for her disobliging nature, universally known for conducting business on her own bedlamite terms. To expect anything less would go against natural order. So, for now, I work on the bits I’ve gathered through my preliminary research. She’ll come round on the rest. Eventually.”
“Assuming Mrs. Spencer is the duchess,” Pru said.
“Oh she is. One hundred percent.”
Win tossed the stack of paper onto the bed. Before realizing what she was doing, Pru shuffled over to snatch it.
“Hey now!” he said. “You can’t go nicking other peoples’ private correspondence.”
“Is this your book?” she asked, the pages hot in her hands.
“Well.” Win sighed. “Yes. It’s the start of it.”
Llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllldkfawawetwlcw
Werrejq32rjklwfe
Fuck. This.
“A riveting read,” Pru muttered.
Fuck this. Truer words had not been spoken.
So this drivel was what he’d been hammering out, early in the morning and well past midnight? It was gibberish. Nonsense. Pru considered that he might not be a writer and instead some homeless bloke on the make, just as Mrs. Spencer had suspected.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Win said and flicked his (still unlit) cigarette onto the floor. “Keep going. The first page is merely the accidental spill of some writerly frustrations.”