A Page Turner (Short Story)
20th January 2025
In: Short Stories
The girl wasn’t in my story but she wanted to be. Insisted she should be, or it would be lacking something essential. I ignored her frequent little interruptions and concentrated on the plot. I didn’t want to clutter up the narrative with too many minor characters. It was often confusing for the reader, or so my editor believed. I blocked her out, putting on some music — dramatic stuff with plenty of percussion which suited my mood. I typed fiercely, the normally impassive keyboard taps increasing their rhythms to match this emphatic accompaniment. The girl, however, was undeterred, scowled at me from the margins, undermining me, at last making me have a few doubts concerning my own judgement.
‘Okay, okay,’ I muttered, ‘so who is it you want to be? Come on — spit it out — convince me you’d be worth the space.’
‘His girlfriend.’
‘He’s already got a girlfriend — can’t you read?’
‘He can have more than one.’
‘No. Definitely not. He’s not like that. He’s the faithful type.’
‘Phooey. A man like him wouldn’t want to be stuck with a girl like Rose. He’d be bored rigid. She’s too predictable. A stereotype. No depth. Not at all sexy or interesting.’
‘She’s the one stable thing in his life. An anchor.’
‘Cliché, cliché, cliché.’ The girl yawned.
I looked at her hard, noticed her facial piercings and the way she sat cross-legged and confident on the edge of my desk. ‘I don’t write characters like you,’ I said finally.
‘Chicken! — Oh, give yourself a break! Try something a bit different or you’ll get stale. This,’ she tapped the completed pages piled beside her, ‘is yesterday’s bread — feed it to the birds!’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Shelagh — Shelagh O’Donnell. I teach karate.’
‘What else?’
‘I live with a pet Pomeranian called Perkins, have a passion for cultivating bonsai, I grow my own weed and read Nietzsche. I’m twenty-seven or twenty-nine — take your pick. I have few friends, enjoy my own company. I also have a mermaid tattoo on my right thigh, very detailed. She has my face. The guy who did it was a true artist.’
‘May I see?’
‘Of course.’ She pulled up her skirt. It was a remarkable likeness. I felt the mental nudge that preceded a change of direction.
‘I need to think about this — give me a while.’ I went and made myself some coffee. She waited, patient, to see if she’d passed the audition.
In the early hours I got up and made copious notes. I’d maybe introduce her in chapter three. She wasn’t some cheap pick-up in a bar. I must think of something else — a place where they’d meet quite by chance and leave an impression on one another. It had to be a memorable entrance into the story. I roughed out four different scenes to show her. She’d know which one suited her best.
***
A year later my editor phoned. ‘It’s selling really well — have you read the reviews?’
I hadn’t. I made it a rule to never read what the critics said about my novels.
‘They seem to like it, mostly because of the fiesty woman angle — that Shelagh character. Stroke of genius, that. Spiced it up no end. I’d say there’s a lot of mileage in that one. Do a sequel, or even go for a series. I’m anticipating a reprint soon, and the royalties should be well up on last time. All good. I’ll be in touch.’
He rang off.
Shelagh had, of course, been listening. ‘So can I move in?’
‘I thought you already had.’ I smiled, thinking how I’d sworn I’d never get involved with a woman again.
She chooses the music these days. She favours more modern composers like Stravinsky, her tastes more avant-garde than mine. I let her have that. After all, why be petty when she’s making me a small fortune.
‘Okay, okay,’ I muttered, ‘so who is it you want to be? Come on — spit it out — convince me you’d be worth the space.’
‘His girlfriend.’
‘He’s already got a girlfriend — can’t you read?’
‘He can have more than one.’
‘No. Definitely not. He’s not like that. He’s the faithful type.’
‘Phooey. A man like him wouldn’t want to be stuck with a girl like Rose. He’d be bored rigid. She’s too predictable. A stereotype. No depth. Not at all sexy or interesting.’
‘She’s the one stable thing in his life. An anchor.’
‘Cliché, cliché, cliché.’ The girl yawned.
I looked at her hard, noticed her facial piercings and the way she sat cross-legged and confident on the edge of my desk. ‘I don’t write characters like you,’ I said finally.
‘Chicken! — Oh, give yourself a break! Try something a bit different or you’ll get stale. This,’ she tapped the completed pages piled beside her, ‘is yesterday’s bread — feed it to the birds!’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Shelagh — Shelagh O’Donnell. I teach karate.’
‘What else?’
‘I live with a pet Pomeranian called Perkins, have a passion for cultivating bonsai, I grow my own weed and read Nietzsche. I’m twenty-seven or twenty-nine — take your pick. I have few friends, enjoy my own company. I also have a mermaid tattoo on my right thigh, very detailed. She has my face. The guy who did it was a true artist.’
‘May I see?’
‘Of course.’ She pulled up her skirt. It was a remarkable likeness. I felt the mental nudge that preceded a change of direction.
‘I need to think about this — give me a while.’ I went and made myself some coffee. She waited, patient, to see if she’d passed the audition.
In the early hours I got up and made copious notes. I’d maybe introduce her in chapter three. She wasn’t some cheap pick-up in a bar. I must think of something else — a place where they’d meet quite by chance and leave an impression on one another. It had to be a memorable entrance into the story. I roughed out four different scenes to show her. She’d know which one suited her best.
***
A year later my editor phoned. ‘It’s selling really well — have you read the reviews?’
I hadn’t. I made it a rule to never read what the critics said about my novels.
‘They seem to like it, mostly because of the fiesty woman angle — that Shelagh character. Stroke of genius, that. Spiced it up no end. I’d say there’s a lot of mileage in that one. Do a sequel, or even go for a series. I’m anticipating a reprint soon, and the royalties should be well up on last time. All good. I’ll be in touch.’
He rang off.
Shelagh had, of course, been listening. ‘So can I move in?’
‘I thought you already had.’ I smiled, thinking how I’d sworn I’d never get involved with a woman again.
She chooses the music these days. She favours more modern composers like Stravinsky, her tastes more avant-garde than mine. I let her have that. After all, why be petty when she’s making me a small fortune.