Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series) Read online

  That was his first mistake.

  His second was in leaving them alone. He really should have known better.

  An hour later, while in an antique bookshop, engaged in a friendly argument with the proprietor regarding the merits of Bleak House versus those of Martin Chuzzlewit, with Max firmly on the side of Chuzzlewit, his mobile vibrated. It was Danielle very excitedly telling him to meet her and Katie at a pet shop on Regent Street. The destination surprised Max and as he made his way there he refused to believe that his instructions of “pick something nice out for the house” could have possibly been interpreted in not one but two intelligent minds as, “Go find us a pet.” But that’s exactly what had happened and the first thing his eyes saw when he entered the shop was Danielle and Katie kneeling on the floor playing with a tiny puppy scampering between the two women and licking their hands, nibbling their fingers and generally doing its best to make itself so nauseatingly cute that a sale was as imminent as the next day’s sunrise.

  Espying Max entering, Danielle caught the puppy, held it up and gushed, “Isn’t he adorable?”

  Actually, Max thought it was the ugliest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. The dog looked like something which had been vomited from Lucifer.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s a Chinese Crested,” Danielle answered, rubbing her nose against the puppy’s.

  “And it’s supposed to look like that?”

  “Of course, he’s so ugly he’s cute!”

  Then Katie said, “Can we take him home?” For added effect she did the puppy-eyes thing with her face.

  And Danielle said, “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?”

  And then Katie pointed out, “Besides, a house as big as ours needs at least one dog.”

  Max, not much of an animal person, had made a mental note to talk to the women later and get them to replace “at least one” with “only one.” Then he said, “Ladies, when I said get something for the house I meant a lamp or an antique chair.”

  “But he absolutely loves us,” Katie said. “Look how happy he is!”

  They presented the dog to him to hold which, hating to ruin their enthusiasm, he did.

  “So…” the women cooed together while Max held the beast at arm’s length thwarting its endless attempts to lick his face. After a moment he handed the creature back and extracted his handkerchief from his pants pocket.

  “I don’t have to play with it, do I?” he asked, wiping dog spittle from the caramel-toned skin of his hands. “Or clean up after it, or teach it stupid tricks, or feed it or anything like that?”

  He was assured, eagerly, that no, no, no, no and no.

  “This’ll be your pet, right? Your responsibility?”

  He was assured, eagerly, yes and yes.

  So Max had agreed. His inamorata was happy, his metamour was happy and the Chinese Crested appeared delighted. Max, however, was less than delighted when a few minutes later, at the till, the shopkeeper said, “That will be three-thousand, two-hundred and eighty pounds, sir.”

  “For a dog?” Max exclaimed. A small child nearby began to cry.

  The shopkeeper assured Max that his new Chinese Crested was a pedigreed animal, certified by the British Kennel Club, sired by a two-time Crufts finalist and that it came with all the proper papers. Max’s response to this was that he, too, came with all the proper papers, that he could in fact, with the help of a dedicated genealogist and a time machine trace his own lineage back to the first ambulatory amoeba to crawl out of the primordial soup, but that to his knowledge no one had ever paid, or offered to pay, that much money for him.

  However, seeing how he really loved Danielle and could more or less tolerate Katie (and considering, furthermore, that the aforementioned women had already left the shop and were now traipsing down Regent Street with an unpaid-for puppy) Max had no choice but to hand over his Amex.

  ***

  Max and Pelham (for over three-thousand quid Max figured he had earned naming rights and so chose to name the beast after a street in the Bronx where he and his friends used to hang out when he was growing up) walked along Campden Hill Road, the dog leading the way, lashed to the Flexi leash Max gripped. Every now and then the dog would stop at some upright item—a lamppost, a tree, a waste bin—splash it with some pee and move along.

  Walking Pelham, in Max’s opinion, was the only beneficial thing he had gained from the purchase of the moronic and hyperactive dog and indeed he looked forward to it every day. The act of walking loosed his imagination and during each and every outing Max would compose in his head whole sections of narrative or dialog for his current novel. He’d arrange plot structure, construct scenarios, decide on things to research and very often came up with ideas for future books. As the ideas came to him he’d record them using a small digital voice recorder he carried everywhere.

  His creative focus during tonight’s stroll was the story Katie requested of him for that help-the-homeless project she was putting together. Now that he’d had a few hours to mull it over he was set on doing it. Of course, that meant doing some juggling in his schedule.

  Not only was he currently working on his new novel but in a few weeks he was due to travel to Liverpool to star in a new reality TV show. Still, he figured it wouldn’t prove too much of a challenge. Besides, if he declined to write the story he wasn’t sure he could trust Katie not to run to the tabloids to tell them Max Bland was refusing to do his part to help those less fortunate.

  But his primary reason for deciding on doing this stupid thing was because he’d be up against Diego Montrose.

  Max rocketed to literary stardom several years ago with the publication of The Remarkable Reign of Pope Anne I, his first novel, a book about a gay woman named Anne who through a series of bizarre circumstances ends up being elected pope and completely revamping the Catholic Church. It was a runaway bestseller. Ever since then Max’s style and thematic mastery have been compared to that of Diego Montrose—an award-winning author whose books had been required reading in schools since the seventies. In fact, more than a few pundits have named the two authors as the most important in contemporary times. When Max had relocated to London he and Montrose finally met while appearing together on a BBC talk show discussing the current state of the modern novel. They became friends, much to the delight of Danielle and Katie who both relished any chance Max’s fame gave them to hobnob with persons of note.

  However, despite the enormous respect these men held for one another a mostly friendly but oftentimes caustic rivalry developed wherein the matter of who was indeed the better writer was the main issue up for debate, the two literary giants often sparring by quoting weak passages from each other’s novels and very often entering into a dialectic about the methodologies and techniques of writing.

  Now, Max didn’t know about J.K. Rowling or George Szirtes but Max did know that Katie needn’t worry about Montrose signing on for this proposed anthology. Once the Madrid-born novelist learned that Max was involved or even might be involved the matter would be settled. There was no way Montrose would pass up a chance to go head to head finally with Bland, who was twenty years his junior, in the arena of the written word.

  Pelham had fallen behind; he was taking an inordinate amount of time sniffing a mailbox post; Max gave a sharp yank on the leash and ordered the animal to stay focused.

  Max now had to decide what kind of story to write for Katie. Naturally, he felt, the topic of homelessness lent itself to drama and he was positive that in her pitches to the other authors on her list Katie would emphasize the cheerless and depressing aspects of that mode of existence, the way she did virtually every night at dinner. And naturally the invited authors would do their best to oblige, each summoning his or her powers to deliver stories that are heart-wrenching and morose. The result would be a book which might very well make its readers want to slit their wrists by the time they got to the last page.

  O.K., now he was getting somewhere.

  Max lo
ved defying expectations and putting new spins on things, hence the lesbian pope in his first novel; the dwarf President of the United States in his second novel and his two gay astronauts in his third novel. The book he was writing now, his fourth, contained a black rabbi and a female umpire in the Major Leagues. So, if all the other stories in this help-the-homeless tome would be sappy tear-jerkers meant to tug at the heart strings then Max resolved, as he and Pelham turned onto Argyll Road, that this story would once again defy expectations.

  He took the digital voice recorder out of his coat pocket and pressed Record.

  “Regarding Katie’s story…make it a comedy. Main character male, a bit overweight, I think. In fact, make him look a little like Montrose. Need oddball supporting cast—maybe even a stupid Chinese Crested dog.”

  ***

  Of course, finding something funny about homelessness was going to prove difficult but he’d leave that problem for another walk.

  Returning to the mansion after his stroll Max immediately unleashed the dog, told him to scram and pressed the intercom button on the console phone mounted on the wall beside the front door.

  “Katie, where are you?” he spoke toward the device.

  Having an intercom system in place was Max’s idea and he’d had it installed soon after they moved in. There were thirty-five rooms in Trinity Manor and Max quickly realized that it was an enormous pain in the ass to have to guess which one Danielle or Katie or even Maureen was in when he needed to speak to one or all of them.

  After a moment Katie’s voice issued from the speaker.

  “I’m in my bedroom. What’s up?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “For the moment; Danielle is still in the bath and then she’s supposed to call her mother. Come on up if you want.”

  In response to his knock a few moments later Katie called for him to come in. He found her reclining on her bed, wearing a tank top and boy shorts, reading a compilation book of New Yorker cartoons Max had bought her, her long legs stretched out before her. Looking up she said, “What’s up, love?”

  Max said, “About that, you know, We-Are-The-World-So-Let’s-Save-the-Homeless-Because-We-Got-Nothing-Better-To-Do book idea you have…I’ll write the story you asked for.”

  Katie sat up, eyes bright.

  “You will?” She clapped. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Then, evidently feeling that her gratitude still wasn’t adequately expressed she scrambled off her California king bed, embraced Max and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Alright, alright,” Max said laughing and pushing her away gently. “A handshake will do just fine.”

  But Katie pulled him into bed with her and snuggled up to him.

  “Now, look,” Max said, “I’ll do your story but I’ve got conditions.”

  “Uh-oh,” Katie muttered, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Relax. Just listen. First off, I want my story to be last in this book. Second, I want a promise from you that my story will be longer than all the others, got it?”

  “Wait a minute,” Katie said, holding up a hand. “The longest I understand, but why the last, why not the first?”

  Max sighed.

  “Because when people finish this book I want my voice to be the last they hear. It’s all about perception. I want the readers to have the feeling that all the other stories that they read first were merely a prelude to what I’ll be ending the book with. It’s like boxing. You ever watch a boxing match? You ever notice how the challenger for the belt is always introduced first and then has to wait for the champion? In this scenario I play the role of the champion and everyone else, particularly Montrose, is the challenger.” He paused. “Get it?”

  Shrugging, Katie answered, “Okaaaay…whatever. Your story will be last and the longest. I can’t see how either of those will be a problem.”

  “Oh, you can’t see how either of those will be a problem, huh?” Max snorted. “Just wait till you talk to Montrose’s people then you’ll see how either of those can be a problem because that prick Montrose will have the exact same ideas, trust me. But fuck him, I got to you first.”

  “Is that all?” Katie asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it. I guess I’ll leave you in peace now.”

  “Wait!” Katie said as her metamour began to rise from the mattress. “Tell me, how do you think Danielle is? I mean, really?”

  Before replying Max got up and shut the bedroom door. He stood there and pondered for a few beats. When he finally answered he spoke softly so that his voice would not carry beyond the room.

  “I dunno,” he said. “We’ve all had to deal with crap in our lives but this is pretty major. Add to it the fact that our little princess grew up privileged and spoiled…”

  “Amen,” Katie whispered. This was a favorite theme between these two. Katie, who grew up in a working-class Nebraska town as part of a family on a tight budget and Max, who grew up with two brothers in a blue-collar neighborhood in the Bronx in a tiny two-bedroom flat, drawing contrasts between their upbringings and that of Danielle, the only child of an affluent university professor and his stay-at-home wife, who grew up in the upmarket enclave of Fountain Hills, Arizona in a home that was bigger than the ones Katie and Max were raised in, combined.

  Max continued.

  “Danielle is pretty tough but she had a sissy childhood and even her grownup years so far have been charmed.”

  “I think this crisis with her family constitutes the first real drama she’s ever had to face,” Katie opined.

  “And my guess is that it’s bugging her more than she’s letting on.”

  “I agree. So what do we do?”

  “Fuck me if I know,” Max said. “For me, the great thing about Danielle has always been that even though she’s high maintenance materialism-wise she’s low maintenance emotionally-wise so I’m in virgin territory here I’m afraid.”

  “So we’ll play it by ear?” Katie suggested.

  “Sure. But let’s hope neither of us is tone deaf.”

  Chapter 5

  A fortnight later Katie was pleased: Annabeth had indeed been right, once the other writers on Katie’s wish list had been informed via their agents that Max Bland was on board for the short story anthology they agreed to contribute their own stories or poems so willingly it was almost like taking candy from babies. The acceptances were coming in so fast, in fact, that Katie, who had originally given herself a year to complete this project now imagined that it could very well be finished in eight or nine months, perhaps sooner if she juggled some things.

  It was amazing, she considered, this ability of the Max Bland name to make others follow him, but not entirely surprising. Katie was, in fact, one of Max’s most devout fans, so much so that she could barely endure the wait between the release of one book and the publication of the next. This had started when she had first read Pope Anne, long before she had met Max or Danielle; that book had really spoken to her as a lesbian and it was still her favorite book of all-time. She kept her autographed copy of it in a safe deposit box at Barclay’s, along with the autographed copies of his other first editions, even the one he inscribed To Katie, get bent…Max because they’d had a row the day before the release party.

  So it was nice to be able to directly benefit from the power of the Max Bland name because with this project moving along swiftly she could now devote even more time to seeing to the details of their upcoming vacation.

  The Bland-Edwards-Shaw family took two vacations a year, six months apart, and they each took turns picking a destination, making all the arrangements and paying for it. In the spirit of fun and spontaneity the catch was that wherever the planner came up with for them to go the other two had to accept it and go along; no one had veto rights. Six months ago had been Danielle’s turn and she had chosen an African safari. Predictably, Max had complained, citing not only his aversion to nature but to being in the same vicinity as wildlife that could swallow him whole. Six months prior to that had been his turn and he had des
igned a wine and art tour of Italy. Remarkably, even then he had complained, wondering out loud virtually every day why Italy had to be so damned hot.

  Now it was Katie’s turn and she was excited. The idea she had come up with was so original and thrilling (and supported a good cause) that she still got goose bumps when she thought about it. She had confided her plans to Danielle two weeks ago, the night Danielle had revealed her father’s treachery, and Danielle not only thought it was brilliant but figured it would be the perfect tonic for helping her get over the breakup of her family.

  The tricky part, of course, was informing Max, which they planned on doing tonight.

  ***

  That evening Max was in his office when the intercom phone beeped and Danielle’s voice issued from the speaker.

  “Max, are you home?”

  “I’m in my office,” the novelist replied.

  “Sorry to interrupt but Katie and I need to talk to you.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “It’s about the vacation.”

  Max sighed, and he made sure to do it loud enough for the microphone to pick up. One of the hard and fast rules of the house is that no one interrupts Max while he is writing unless it is an emergency. When he had informed Danielle just now that he was in his office that should’ve been the end of the conversation. But the sigh worked.

  “Okay, okay,” Danielle snapped back. “Fine, I’m sorry. How long will you be?”

  “Gimme an hour,” Max said switching off the intercom.

  Forty-five minutes later Max found the women in the main salon watching a Will and Grace rerun on TV.

  “Oooh! He’s here,” Katie said when she saw him, nudging Danielle who then switched off the television. “Let’s tell him!”

  “You’re going to love this,” Danielle told Max.

  He doubted it. But with a sigh, Max took his usual seat in the easy chair and made a gesture of invitation.

  “Okay, let’s hear it,” he said.

  “Well,” Katie began, “this time around I really wanted to go off the beaten trail and take us somewhere none of us have ever been before—“