From The Editing Crypt
July 7th, 2010
Many published novels consist of only a fraction of the words and scenes generated by the writer. The published version of The Book of Love emerged from roughly two hundred thousand words of drafts and redrafts to a svelte eighty three thousand. Many scenes and characters fell to the floor unused, usually because the plot moved in different directions or scenes were cut because they served no purpose or they were rewritten from another character’s point of view in order to better understand what was happening. The Book of Love had many different endings before I selected the one now in print. I’m going to share some of these unused scenes in an occasional series – From The Editing Crypt.
The following scenes show what could have happened if William had believed Robbie’s version of events and the book recovered from the farmhouse in Lucca was not a fake and Sebastian had never followed Lily to Italy. William, having nabbed the book at the farmhouse, returns to the police headquarters in Lucca where Robbie tells him Lily is returning to Sydney with him. William returns to Rome and gives the book to the Culture and Heritage division of the carabinieri - not to Weston’s - and believing Robbie, flies home to London. Lily also believes Robbie’s lies – that William was using her to get the book back - until Robbie lets slip that he’d spoken to William in Lucca and told him that Lily didn’t love him. Realising why William has gone she decides to fly to London and tell him the truth.
The passengers wore their closed up faces. Tapping keyboards, flicking pages, rummaging in bags, all waited for the boarding call. Lily hoped she was doing the right thing. The idea of going home to Sydney and never seeing William again appeared absurd now. It wasn’t the way this should end.
Only the unlucky died young, horoscopes preyed on the dreams of the powerless and you could pass a soul mate on a busy street and never know - sharing a current of air, maybe a curious glance, and then gone. Ahead of you a lifetime of compromise for which no fairytale prepared you. Fate was a con. There was only her and she had to act. If she were wrong about William then humiliation and hurt would be the worst she’d suffer. Those would pass in time.
Rome to London was not a long flight compared to flying anywhere from Australia, so the claustrophobic feeling of endlessly circling the globe in a pressurized cigar didn’t weigh too heavily. Besides Lily was preoccupied with thoughts of what she was about to do. After the folderol at Heathrow of customs and immigration, she headed to the nearest newsagent to buy a map of London and the Underground. People rushed past, but in no hurry herself she dawdled along following signs to the free bus service that would take her to the airport Holiday Inn.
In her bland hotel room she laid the map out on the bed and examined it. William appeared to live in a part of London she had never been to, Bermondsey, near London Bridge. A far cry from leafy Muswell Hill in North London, where she and Robbie had always stayed with Sebastian’s ex girlfriend. Lily juggled the map around, peering at it closely and making notes on a piece of paper - Heathrow to Acton Town, change to the District Line, change at Westminster for the Jubilee line, then off at Bermondsey. Down this road, then left into that road then right here, then slump on the bed and wonder what the hell she was doing.
He might be horrified to see her. He would be at his most polite and BBC- ish. ‘Lily, how nice to see you, yes, we must catch up.’ All the time backing away thinking, ‘How did that tart find me?’ He would turn and walk away. No, no, he would turn and look at Tawny Knickers who, insatiable for foreplay with a gun, had flown over from Rome to be his lover, and they would exchange horrified looks, a wisp of Fatal Attraction in the air. Lily would never boil a bunny, but they didn’t know that.
She sat up, tore the Underground map off the larger map, and folded it with her notes and put it in her handbag. Then, after a quick moment, stuffed the whole map in her bag. She laid out her dress and went to bed with the British Woman’s Weekly Best Ever Jam Recipes supplement.
‘William, come in.’
The mahogany paneling gave off a dull glow. Shelves of art books lined the room, and a small Francis Bacon hung on the wall. The smell of money and coffee lingered in the air. Thomas gestured for William to take a seat. ‘Good to have you back in one piece.’ He sat forward staring intently at William’s forehead. ‘Make sure you put in a claim for that. I’m sorry to hear things got so nasty.’
William shrugged, ‘These things happen.’
‘Quite.’ Thomas leaned back in his leather chair and looked at his watch. A young man with a flop of hair over one eye brought in a tray carrying two gold-rimmed cups and saucers brimming with coffee, a pot of sugar, and a small jug of cream.’
‘There are some issues with this ah … last retrieval.’
William said nothing as he stirred his coffee.
‘Do you know how much we were paid to get that book back? And you give it away? Of course the Italians are thrilled with our largesse, but it wasn’t your decision to make.’
‘No, it wasn’t. But-‘
‘If we run about retrieving artworks and giving them gratis to museums we will be out of business. No one will hire a company who gives away the assets they are hired to retrieve. You’re not fucking Robin Hood, you know.’
William smiled and sipped his coffee, replacing the fine porcelain cup in the saucer with a chink.
‘You want to be careful the client doesn’t slip a horses head into your bed,’ Thomas continued with a snort. ‘They’re furious upstairs, absolutely outraged. Weston’s comes out looking like a responsible corporate citizen, returning national treasure, yes, but where’s the money?’
He waited for a response from William then continued after a faint sigh.
‘Got one in Barcelona for you, same collection. A cache of statues. That’s if you want to go head to head with the lads from Sicily,’ he said. ‘No pun intended. And bring the wretched things home with you, don’t donate them to the Prado.’
‘No, thank you, Thomas. I’ve had enough. I’m resigning from today.’
Thomas blinked and said nothing for a moment as he studied William. ‘More money?’
‘No. Burnt out.’
‘Back to Collection Management? Because your name is shit at the moment, and I don’t think they’ll have you.’
‘No.’ William shook his head. ‘Out all together.’
‘Can we talk about it? Have a drink with me later and …no?’
‘I have some business in Australia, urgent business. So if we can get the paperwork out of the way…’
Lily found her way to the street that held his apartment. Fear prickled her insides. It was tempting to turn around and go back. She found the right house number and looked up. It was not a house but the upstairs flat of an Art Deco building from the nineteen thirties. No doubt the interior was all polished wood and stainless steel with empty spaces, lots of sleek, camouflaged technology and one image on the wall - a black and white Mapplethorpe photo of the back of someone’s head, perhaps. The bed would be half a white cube and a television screen would be mounted on the ceiling above. All would be cool and contained.
It was early, around eight am, and she knocked on the door. She saw the buzzer for his flat and pressed it. No answer. Swallowing with difficulty, she tried again. Still no answer. Maybe he was asleep? Her shoulders tensed. He had to be there. If he’d never left Italy she was wasting time, money and valuable heart space.
Her fall back plan was to try Weston’s in Little Bond Street. Searching London in a summer dress with nothing but a thin beaded cardigan and kitten heeled sandals smacked of poor judgment. An English spring was not like the Italian spring. Her teeth chattered and a little voice whispered, ‘Give up, think of warm and cosy Heathrow, a standby air ticket back to Australia, cosseting by the cabin crew, hot towels, free gin and tonic, warm blankets.’
There was no answer, no matter how many times she buzzed. He wasn’t there. She took the piece of paper with the Weston’s address out of her bag, and her Underground map and studied them. If she got on at Bermondsey she could get off at Bond Street without needing to change lines, and a short stroll should take her to Weston’s. Maybe he’d gone to work, but as far as she knew he was on contract and it very unlikely he’d have an office there. However they could get a message to him. She’d come all this way; she had to give it her best shot.
The offices of Weston’s were as expected, the Fiona’s were all around her, only not plump with pearls, but sleek in tight suits with their sexy heels sinking into lush carpet, their haughty faces reflected in the polished mahogany. The girl at reception stared at Lily’s beaded cardigan and sandals. What could a raggedy boho want with Weston’s? Must be one of the cleaning staff. Lily blinked and raised her chin. In the coldest voice she could muster she said, ‘Lily Trevennen, I’m here to see William Isyanov.’
The girl raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘I’ll check if he’s in.’ She tapped a few buttons and spoke into her headset while Lily drifted across the foyer to look closely at a painting. She didn’t like the painting, but wanted to appear unconcerned.
The girl glanced over at her trying to disguise a giggle into her headset. She was probably saying, ‘One of Will’s indiscretions has turned up,’ or ‘You should see what she’s wearing …’
‘I’m sorry, Miss, er…’
Lily didn’t answer.
‘Mr Isyanov is away at present. Would you care to leave a message, or can we help…in any other way?’ She said this as if it were highly unlikely.
‘No. Thank you.’ Lily hesitated, then asked, ‘Is your name Prudence or Fiona?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Lily turned back to the front door. ’Never mind.’ No way would she leave a letter for William with that girl. She’d probably take it to the staff room and have a good titter with the office staff at lunchtime.
Unable to lie there any longer, William turned the music off, left the flat and walked up the road in the cold morning air. At the newsstand he scanned the headlines and realised he couldn’t give a toss about the rest of the world. Sitting in his flat, alone with his thoughts held no appeal, so he kept walking up to the Thames. He would go and book an airline ticket to Sydney today. No point in waiting until he felt better, he could be dizzy and nauseous on a plane, just as he could at home. And he wouldn’t come back without her. At the Thames embankment he turned around and started back.
She buzzed his door again, and again there was no answer. With the letter in her hand she walked across the road and looked up at the window of his flat one more time. Then she saw him, tall and lean and lovely, his face still battered, but the black eye had gone down and he appeared able to see. He’d turned the corner and was looking down at the pavement; hands in the pockets of a black woollen jacket. And Tawny Knickers was not with him.
Lily wanted to run across the quiet street and hurl herself at him, and despite her fear and uncertainty, she smiled with the sheer pleasure of seeing him. He looked up, saw her smiling at him and stopped, a look of shock on his face. Lily crossed over and walked right up to him, still smiling.
William had taken his hands out of his pockets and simply stared at her, almost with disbelief, then ran his hand through his hair and looked at the sky, then back at her. ‘You look very cold. Would you like a cup of tea?’
So formal, so very English. A disconcerting start, but he needed time to gather his thoughts. He held his feelings in so tightly she wasn’t sure what would happen, so she nodded; get the cup of tea out of the way. She followed him into the old house and up the stairs to his flat. Neither of them spoke as he opened the door. The flat appeared to be one large space with tall ceilings, polished floorboards, Persian rugs and books on every wall. A large desk, covered in paper stood in one corner, and behind an ornate Chinoiserie screen in the other, she could see a double bed. There was a small kitchenette and two lounge chairs by a gas fire. Surrounding the gas heater was an original Art Deco fireplace, and on the mantle piece a selection of Art Deco Gouda vases, a riot of colour and pattern.
Her eyes lit up when she saw the vases. ‘It’s just what I imagined when I first met you, only without the red velvet drapes and painter’s easel.’
He stood by the closed door watching her. She could see the pulse racing in his neck.
‘William,’ she chided, ‘there’s not a scrap of Bauhaus austerity in this room.’
‘Lily-‘
‘I’m sorry, I blather on,’ she said, looking back at the fireplace
‘Francesca gave you the address, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Lily said, ‘You’re not cross, are you?’
‘It depends why you are here.’
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Categories: The Book of Love | Tags: book of love, desire, Lily, love, William, writing | 2 Comments
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