The Script Writer - Part I

Larry’s coffee was free that morning. The barista had insisted that he didn’t pay for it, before he had had the chance to tell her that he had no cash on him at that moment. He picked up the green cup, which the burning heat of it on the palm of his right hand almost saw him drop it immediately to the floor. He managed to set it down on the table. It was the only free table in the café, and its occupants had vacated as soon as they saw him, gesturing for him to take their seats, which were right next to the window, with the excellent view out across Liverpool. Larry took out his laptop and opened it up, first being met by his own reflection before the lights of the screen, with his black hair and matching glasses being the most immediate sights. His hair had once again fallen perfectly into place as he had rolled out of bed that morning, just as it had every day for some time now. Larry touched the sides of his cheeks as he looked into the blank screen, mentally commenting on the disappearance of once disgustingly chubby cheeks, with this thought prompting him to also cast a look down at what was now a toned upper body – he still couldn’t figure out why and how he continued to lose weight and gain muscular prowess.

Larry liked this particular café as it was quiet enough for him to get on with his work, rather than being disturbed by the loud screams of small children in alternative coffee venues. He planned to work on his review of Sala Mendhi’s latest novel that morning, but noticed out of the corner of his eye that something was going on at his car. He dashed outside to meet the parking attendant who was writing out a ticket and placing it onto his shining silver Aston Martin. Larry had parked on a double yellow. He opened his mouth to question the man, though he seemed to be studying Larry and questioning his own decision to give him a ticket.

Something changed his mind, and he retracted the ticket, ripping it up and putting the remains in his pocket. ‘Sorry Sir.’ He said, seemingly bowing down to some higher authority. ‘You’re fine to park here. My mistake.’

Everything was going very well in Larry’s life. It had done for the past year, and had continuously become more enjoyable, rewarding and successful during this period. He and his fiancée Joy would that night celebrate their anniversary, marking an entire year since they had met, on that rainy evening at the bus stop outside Larry’s house. It turned out that Joy had just moved in two houses down the road from him, and by coincidence they both waited for the same bus that night. Larry had taken one look at Joy and known he never had a hope in hell of a chance with her, judging merely by her stunning looks and almost surreal body. She had been a model in her 20s, yet still she retained the unbelievable appearance which had supported her career long into her 40s, with her being two years younger than Larry. It was she who had started talking to him, and their conversation saw them miss three buses and end up cancelling both of their destinations, instead going out for a meal that night, and spending the next year of their lives together, never looking back. Larry couldn’t believe his luck.

He recalled this story in his own mind as he sipped a glass of Moet, looking across at his fiancée, who was dressed in a stunning green outfit, which Larry had bought for her birthday around a month ago. They sat together in one of the city’s most prestigious restaurants, a place Larry would not have been able to afford had he not seen his career take off in that same magical year in which he had met Joy. He clinked his glass together with Joy’s as he thought back to his old job, and how he would spend his weekends writing his book reviews on a blog which nobody read, and which was purely for his own amusement. That had been his real dream – to be a book critic and to write about what he read as a career. Suddenly one weekend he received a flood of emails from all the nation’s biggest newspapers begging for his signature, following what they had read online on his blog. He went from nothing one morning to the most sought after journalist in the country in the same day. That night he had called his father and asked him which paper he should give his services to.

‘Who’s paying the most?’ He had asked.

‘Well, the Guardian, but only by a couple of hundred.’ Larry had replied, almost laughing as he used the words ‘only’ and ‘couple of hundred’ in the same sentence.

‘The Guardian then.’

‘Why?’

‘Well go with them. You can always switch to a different paper in a few months’ time, they won’t stop wanting you.’

Larry had booked him and Joy a trip to Paris that Christmas, partly to celebrate the sudden eruption in his career. They had been upgraded to first class on reaching the check in desk – free of charge and he later proposed in the evening light in front of the Eiffel Tower.

‘It’s been almost like a film, my last year.’ Larry commented, as he poured Joy another glass from the second bottle they had ordered. She touched his hand and smiled, them both nodding in unison and reflecting on the remarkable story of the last year. ‘Let’s just hope it continues.’

The next morning, as Larry sifted through yet more emails from Mr. Murdoch, Joy had called his name from their bedroom on the third floor. The house was actually on four floors, with a lift, indoor pool, games room, six bedrooms and two kitchens, with a team of cooks and butlers assisting them in their every need. Larry still liked to do things himself around the house, however, and told the servant who emerged to answer Joy’s call that he would see to it.

‘Can you put these things in the attic for me?’ Joy asked, putting her brand new earrings on which Larry had bought her for their anniversary.

‘The attic door won’t open – it hasn’t done for at least a year now.’ Larry replied apologetically. ‘Although, having said that, I haven’t tried it in a while.’

Larry postponed that morning’s review of Harper Lee’s Go Set a Watchman in favour of his curiosity surrounding the attic door. The attic occupied the fourth floor almost entirely, and there was certainly room for a small family to occupy it and live comfortably. He tried to pull down the small opening hatch to the loft, though it remained shut. He called for help from a couple of his staff, with three of them and Larry all pulling at the handle to the hatch, desperately trying to yank it open. Still it remained shut. Larry decided to distract himself from his frustration at not being able to get into the attic by working on what he had left to do for the Lee review, which was around 200 words or so.

Inevitably, this distraction worked only for a short period, and before he knew it Larry was back trying the door to the attic yet again. Nothing. He cursed, and went to tell Joy that it still wouldn’t open. She encouraged him to stop worrying about such a small thing, and suggested that he go out to do a bit of shopping for the dinner party they were to host that evening. Joy had forgotten to get any wine in, and, even though neither of them drank it, they felt it was courtesy not to simply offer Carlsberg to the guests they would that evening host – the editor of the Guardian and his wife.

‘Just go out and distract yourself, you don’t use that stupid loft anyway and I can find a place for my things.’ Joy reasoned with Larry from behind a copy of 1984.

Larry got into his car and drove away, heading toward the town centre, with their house around five minutes outside of Liverpool. Opening his car window as he sped down the motorway, a strong smell of fish blew in, and it almost tickled the back of his neck, as though someone were stroking it continuously, with the taste sour in his mouth. Once again, every traffic light Larry encountered met him welcomingly by flashing green, something which happened to him on almost every journey he made, which was, granted, a little suspicious. Larry noticed a peculiar figure on the path that ran parallel to the road he had turned on to, a man with long grey hair and a slow-paced walk, though he was a little too far away to have a distinguishable face. Leaning forward to look into his mirror, Larry attempted to get a better look at the man, and was instantly distracted from what happened right out in front of him.