Last Line First

 Last Line First

I knew I had flaws. Despite my vanity and pride, my quick temper, my eccentricities and rapacious literary ambitions, I believe Paul had truly loved me. He had been an exciting and wonderful lover. Yes, Paul was the love of my life, the one who would for ever live in my heart.

As for my feminist leanings, the remark he had once made that he never objected to my "hobbies", nor ever attempted to confine me in any way, was perfectly true. At least that is what he told himself.

He was a musician and at first, I attended all his concerts and in truth some rehearsals too. I even flew back from Italy, where I was on holiday, to hear him perform the Bruch violin concerto. But, early on I recognised that there was a danger of my life revolving around his. At first, I managed to write in the margins as it were during his rehearsals. Writing, unlike music is silent and moreover can be done discretely. There was no paraphernalia. Unlike the amount of baggage, he hawked around. It wasn't just the instruments (he played the French horn and the trumpet as well as the fiddle for a time) it was the bags of music, and the music stands and sometimes amps and mics. At first no-one knew that I was a writer not even him.

I am not sure how it came about but people started to ask,” What are you writing?” and “I hope that is not a crit of the band.” and “Are you a journalist?”

 I would look up, smile and continue to write. Then I thought why not say more. So sometimes I'd say, “I am writing a short story.” or “It's my diary.”  Next, I elaborated, and I'd say,” It's the last chapter of my novel. I have to get it to the publisher.”

I had to change my replies because people started to want to know more and they would ask, "What's it about? And “What kind of novel is it? Detective? Historical? Love story? “

That did it. I had a light bulb moment. I asked myself some questions. “What in God's name was I doing? I wanted to be a writer. I had an office in my house with a damn good desk, a bookcase full of reference books, a telephone at my elbow, and even a computer which gave me access to Wikipedia.”

At about that time ten copies of my autobiography which I had self- published arrived. Of course, Jack knew nothing about it. He hadn't seen me writing it, nor had he been aware that I was communicating with a publisher. When I received the first copies, I put them on my well stocked shelves of books, and he never noticed. That all changed when my friend, Janet, suggested that she wanted to help me to take it from the page to the stage. She did most of the writing here, but I suggested which parts I thought would work and she wrote them. Janet had written a couple of plays and performed them around Liverpool and Manchester to great acclaim. We had a mutual friend who had produced and directed her plays and was willing to do the same for me. Keith was gay and a really good friend who frequently accompanied me to exhibitions and theatre productions. On one occasion when I told Paul that I was going to Manchester with Keith he seemed upset and objected. 

“You know Keith's gay, don't you? “I said. 

To which he replied, “Does he have a certificate to prove it?”

He was a good producer and director. We were lucky enough to perform my play in a prestigious theatre and it was well attended. The audience were very appreciative. Jack didn't appear. He knew the date, the venue and the performance time. A huge bouquet arrived at the theatre from him for me. Later, he didn't ask about the performance, but he did ask if I had received the bouquet. He wanted praise for his exceptional thoughtfulness.

I managed at last, to end the relationship. For now, I had become what I had always longed to be, a woman of letters.