Just when I thought I’d dug up all the dirt I could find.
Yet this may well be the filthiest of them all.
15 February 2015
Bloody Action for SIDS. Called them up this morning, claiming to be a journalist from the Sunday Times. Said I was writing a story on the motivations behind generous philanthropic endowments. An article intended to strike a chord amongst our wealthy readers. So they will give more money to worthy charities like yours.
I took care to emphasize one word. Money.
But the woman on the phone refused to budge. Refused to tell me why Mark has supported her organization over the years. We can’t reveal anything about our donors, including their personal motivations, she said. Privacy regulations.
You unhelpful, regulation-obsessed Mono twat, I spat into the receiver before hanging up.
Yet all is not lost. There should be birth and death certificates out there. Somewhere. At the very least.
I just need to keep digging.
Technology defines us, whether we like it or not. These days, we are utterly dependent on external devices as repositories of facts, assumptions, and memories. We are but the sum total of our digital presence. We use iDiaries and social media networks to define and delude ourselves because they contain what we prefer to remember. What we want the outer world to see. Yet our carefully curated public personae frequently bear little resemblance to our true inner selves. The two faces of our remembered lives are disparate and often contradictory.
—“The Curse of Modern Technology,”
The Guardian, 2 April 2015
Chapter Nineteen
Hans
7? hours until the end of the day
She’s right about two things. The man at the reception desk does indeed look like a leprechaun surrounded by lilies. His face is framed by a spiky mop of red hair and a luxuriant ginger beard. She’s also right about the place smelling like a funeral parlor. There’s even a faint whiff of incense in the air.
“We’re a flower school,” he says, peering at the identification badge in my hand. “It’s all about the flowers here.”
“Oh, come on, sir.”
“We teach people arrangements.”
“Look here,” I say, tucking the badge back into my pocket. “I know what sort of arrangements you really have. Like, say, Mono writing groups on Wednesday mornings.”
His lips take on an obstinate twist.
“There aren’t any Mono—”
“Two options. One, you can tell me a few things about one of your writing group members. Informally. Right now.”
One of his eyebrows shoots up, almost reaching his spiky bangs.
“Or you can come back with me to Parkside, just so I can put my questions more formally to you. That might take…a while. You know, the hassle of proper witness statements and all that. Arrangements at police stations tend to take longer than arrangements at flower schools.”
He exhales, a resigned hiss.
“What do you want to know?” he says. “There’s nothing illegal about what we do here. We just don’t like Duos spying on us, that’s all. Laughing at us in a condescending way. Or telling us how to write. You are a Duo, I presume?”
“No…yes…er…”
The man’s eyebrow is now higher than his spiky bangs. Damn.
“Er…Claire Evans. How long has she been a member of your short-story writing group?”
He flips a folder open, pulls out a sheet of paper from a clear plastic holder, and scans the large handwriting on it.
“Fifteen years,” he says. “Since we first started meeting here, I guess.”
“That’s a long time. Could I have a look at the sheet, please?”
“You can’t just look at—”
“Arrangements at police stations sometimes take forever, you know.”
“But—”
“Yesterday a man came in and left only nine hours and twenty-seven minutes later. He missed both his lunch and his dinner.”
With a sigh, the receptionist hands the sheet over. I peer down at it:
ANNUAL MEMBER QUESTIONNAIRE
January 2015
Name: Claire Evans (née Bushey)
Writing Group: Short Story
Date Joined: 28 March 2000
1. What do you hope to achieve as a writer?
I have long wanted to win the Times’s short-story competition, a prize that has eluded my husband since 1989. Unfortunately, my chances of winning this award are less than zero, even though Monos are technically eligible to enter the competition. Despite what they say about encouraging diversity, it’s never going to happen.
2. How has this writing group helped you in this regard?
The group takes me out of the home each Wednesday morning and gives me a sense of direction and purpose, even a sense of hope. It has helped me improve my technical skills as a writer, though I’m aware that I still have so much more to learn. It makes me feel more cheerful, perhaps by giving me a small sense of accomplishment and worth. Because it’s always reassuring to receive positive feedback about my writing (I don’t know why the other women in the group keep saying that I’m more likely to get published than any of them—I guess they are just being generous).
3. What has inspired you recently?
My husband. His amazing accomplishments. They have always inspired me, although I don’t think I’ve ever told him that. He looks after me well, despite his frequent rants about Monos. Sometimes I wonder why he continues to do so much for me. But then I look into his eyes and realize that the pain of not doing so, of stopping what we somehow started, may hurt him even more. Our marriage has given me much inspiration for the short story I’m currently writing, entitled “Tender Is the Day.” It’s about a woman attempting to break free from a claustrophobic twenty-year marriage, only to cause her husband to drink himself to death after she succeeds.
4. How can this writing group continue to serve and inspire you as a writer?
Through its continued existence, especially when I have very little to look forward to each week (my diary says that I have only ever missed meetings because of holidays abroad or illness). It gives me a break from gardening. And it’s always nice to have a secret.
It would be great if the group could discuss the works of Virginia Woolf and Henrik Ibsen at some point, though, because I never understood why my husband is so obsessed with those two writers. Maybe we could do a line-by-line analysis of some key passages from Mrs. Dalloway or A Doll’s House.
Aha. So Mark Henry Evans is indeed obsessed with Virginia Woolf. This confirms my suspicions about those black and white pebbles.
I scan the other replies on the sheet of paper. They are, unfortunately, not as illuminating, being mostly earnest answers about her writing process. But they somehow make me secretly pleased. Because Claire Evans is a Mono who’s still trying hard despite the forces aligned against her.
Maybe I should be nicer to her when we next meet.
“Did Claire Evans ever mention her husband to you?” I look up from the sheet. “The novelist Mark Henry Evans?”
His face is blank.