Come What May

Tom Mills scribbled away frantically, lost in the story, completing the last line in his notebook. He grabbed a fresh notepad and, pushed the sleeves of his dressing gown up, and continued writing the story he was currently working on. Other writers preferred a desk, but he found the comfort of the living room sofa was the best place to write. He was halfway down the first page of the new notebook when his wife Bernie came home from work.

Bernie tossed her handbag down on the sofa and yanked open the curtains, afternoon sunlight filling the living room. 

‘Do you have to have the curtains shut all day, love?’ She asked.

‘The daylight hurts my eyes. I write better in dim light.’ Tom said.

‘Anyway,’ she sighed. ‘what have you been up to today?’

‘I’ve completed a couple of stories, typed them up and sent them off to a few magazines.’ Tom replied. 

Bernie said nothing and went through to the kitchen. As Tom heard her grumbling to herself, he then remembered that she’d asked him to wash the dirty pots in the sink. Tom rushed in after her, apologising for forgetting and offering to wash the pots now. His wife shook her head and busied herself with taking care of the washing up herself. 

Unsure quite what to do to help, he headed back to his writing.

Tom had been trying to make it as a full-time writer for half a decade. He had completed several novels, hundreds of short stories and was constantly working on a new piece. Tom would submit the short stories to magazines and online publications. While he was regularly featured in magazines the actual money that brought in was so insignificant. It did spur him on to read in magazines of a new short story by Tom Mills, but the fact was it contributed little to the household. 

He had completed several novel-length works and try as hard as he might, getting these novels published just seemed an impossible task. He had tried different genres, ranging from an almost biographical novel about a boy growing up in the North West, to a Western novel set in the wonderfully titled Battle Creek, Missouri. But the publishers would either reject his submissions, or simply ignore him. Tom continued to work on novel writing and to try and get his latest and previous books published. 

An hour later, once Bernie had cooked their evening meal, they dined on lasagne with garlic bread at the kitchen table. Tom sensed the atmosphere between them.

‘Are you okay, hun? You seem a bit down this evening.’ Tom said.

‘It’s hardly surprising, is it? I’ve had quite the day at the office, and then find you sitting in the dark in your dressing gown, and having done nothing around the house. Other stay-home husbands take care of everything while their partners are at work.’ She said.

‘It’s not like I’m doing nothing, though, Bernie. I am writing.’ Tom said.

Bernie put down her fork and gave him a hard stare.

‘Are we doing this now?’ She asked.

‘Doing what?’ Tom asked.

‘Fair enough. I think it’s time you packed all this in and got a real job. It’s been five years now. You’ve had a decent crack at it but it’s time to get back to reality. You could go back to your old office job. They said they’d have you back.’ Bernie said. 

‘Being a writer is all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

‘Do you think I enjoy going out to work every morning? It’s time to move on. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do your writing as a hobby, or whatever, but all this, this writing all day and night and bringing in no income, it can’t carry on.’ She said.

Tom reached out a hand, placing it gently on hers.

‘Something is coming, something is around the corner. I can feel it.’ He said.

‘The only thing coming is the next mortgage payment. You need to wake up, you need to get real.’ Bernie said.

Tom said nothing. 

‘I can’t carry on like this, love. It feels like we’re sinking. We’re up to our necks and you won’t help bail us out. If you can’t see that, then I think we’re done.’ She said.

‘I can’t stop being a writer, it’s who I am. Writing is my art, Bernie. I am an artist.’

‘No,’ she snapped, ‘no you are not. You are a thirty year old unemployed man sitting at home in his dressing gown all day, that’s the truth of the matter. Grow up, Tom, for goodness sake.’ 

‘I am a writer. It’s who I am, I have to write, come what may.’ Tom replied.

‘Come what may? This bills need paying come what may, Tom. We’re barely getting by.’

Tom said nothing, tears in his eyes.

She stepped forward, something snapped in her, all the pressure and stress of recent months coming to a head. She pointed a finger at him. 

‘You are not some undiscovered genius! You’re a failure!’ Bernie yelled.

Tom pushed against the dining table, sliding his chair back, just wanting to distance himself from the conversation and the whole situation. He paused, slumping back on the wooden chair, Bernie’s words still hanging in the air between them. 

That was when he knew things were over between them. There was no need for any more explanation. The cards had been laid out on the table. That was fair enough, it was how she felt. Tom knew she had a point, but he also knew that writing was the only thing he could ever do with himself. The way he saw it, neither of them was to blame. His wife wanted a husband who would be her partner in the contributing and the running of the house, but he had to pursue his writing. They wanted, needed, such different things. They did love each other but, as heart-breaking as it was, he knew they had reached the end of the line.

He wiped away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Across the table, Bernie looked exhausted, and sad, the tears streaming down her face. She clearly hadn’t meant to deliver the outburst in the way she had, but her comments were true. She had meant every word. They both knew this had been a long time coming. 

‘I’ll pack a bag and stay with a friend.’ Tom said quietly.

‘I think that’s for the best.’ Bernie said.

As he stepped out of the front door, Tom slung the bag over his shoulder, and told Bernie he would be staying with his friend Tony. Bernie nodded and kissed him on the cheek.  

Tony showed Tom to the spare room, the type of space that was known as a box room, maybe because you couldn’t fit more than a shoe-box in the room. Tom placed his sports bag and laptop computer down on the single bed. His friend told him he could stay as long as he needs. Tony added that he was sure that he and Bernie would patch things up before long. 

Tom simply smiled, knowing deep down, the sad truth of the matter. He and Bernie were done. The love of his life, the woman he had married, had given up on Tom and his literary ambitions. The fact was, she was probably right. Chances were, Tom would achieve nothing with his writing, and would have been better off doing as Bernie had suggested, and getting a dull 9-5 job and being happy with his life and his lot, and yet he just couldn’t do it. 

Tom had been writing since his childhood days. It had been the only thing he had ever been passionate about and the only thing he had ever been told he was good at. At high school and college his teachers had applauded his writing and had suggested he forge a career in the literary world. And so, when he left college, he obtained work in an office to pay the bills but dreamed of one day making the leap to try and make a living as a fiction writer. 

Twelve months after they were married, Tom persuaded Bernie to let him give up work and pursue writing full time, to see if, given the time and opportunity, he could make a go of earning a living from his craft. If Bernie could support him both emotionally and financially, he really could make a go of this writing thing and be a full-time author. He really did just need the chance.

And now, here they were five years later, battered, bruised, broke and at the end of the road.

His friend knew Tom well enough to leave him to his own devices, and leave him to sort himself out. Tony had a busy work and social life, so staying with his friend worked out better than Tom had expected. A few times a week they would go down to the local pub for a few drinks and a catch up, but apart from that, they kept out of each other’s way. 

Tom felt a deep sadness, a gloom hanging over him that he couldn’t shake. He was crushed that things had ended that way with Bernie. He loved her, and he knew she loved him, but, what was the term they used in the divorce courts? Irreconcilable differences, yes, that just about summed it up. 

While his head was spinning with it all, with things he could have done differently, things he should have done differently, his mind was also racing with words, with story ideas. While he felt at his complete lowest, he also felt more compelled and inspired to write than ever. 

He had never felt so lost, so directionless, but the writing had never flowed so well. Maybe it was his mind’s way of processing the breakdown of his marriage, but the words were coming so thick and fast. He dreamed of stories and characters. He didn’t question it, simply tried to get everything down in his notebooks.

In bed, huddled up under the duvet, notepad and pen in hand, he scribbled down page after page. He would write late into the night, hardly eating or sleeping, so busy was his head with the words. He would pause now and then to take a walk to clear his head. Day and night became blurred, his writing kept no regular hours, inspiration coming at any time, regardless of the hour.

He put everything he had into his work. 

Tony would check in with him, making sure that he was okay. Over a pint in the pub, Tom would insist he was doing alright.

‘Really, though? You’re okay?’

‘I’m alright. The main thing is the writing is going well. It’s the only thing I have, but at least it’s going well. When I read the pages back, I’m surprised at the quality. I’m surprising myself with the work I’m producing.’

He scribbled away in notebooks, scrawling the number of the book on the front page, before trying to get down the story that was in his head. He put his heart and soul, everything, onto those pages.

As the stack of notebooks reached double-figures, Tom began typing up the work on his laptop, again staying up until the middle of the night to get the words down, tweaking the book as he went. 

Just over twelve months later his book was finished. Reading it back, he had produced a novel that was beautiful. It was romantic and yet poetically tragic, a story of lost love, and breaking hearts. 

A few weeks later he got a call from an unknown number on his mobile phone.

‘Hello, is that Thomas Mills?’ A woman asked.

‘Speaking.’ He replied.

‘My name’s Jennifer. I’m calling from Jackson Richards.’

‘Are you a solicitor? Is Bernie after a divorce? Tell her I’m sorry.’ He said.

‘Erm, no, I don’t know anything about that.’ She replied.

‘Well, what do you want?’ Tom snapped. 

‘We’re a publishing company. You submitted your novel to us.’ 

‘Oh yes, of course.’

Tom had sent his novel out to as many publishers as he could, hoping that one of them liked it enough to consider publishing. 

‘We think you have something rather special and would like to discuss publishing. We think it could do rather well.’

‘Wow, that would be amazing.’ Tom said.

‘Our editorial team were really impressed. They say it’s a real heart-breaker.’ She added.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I rather suppose it is.’

Two years later.

There was a knock at the door of his small rented flat. Tom wondered who it could be, he hadn’t ordered any takeaway food and wasn’t expecting a delivery. He smiled when he saw her standing on the doorstep.

‘Hello, Tom.’ Bernie said.

‘Hello, you. You’re looking well.’ Tom said.

Bernie waved a copy of his book.

‘I came round to say congratulations. You must be thrilled.’ Bernie said. 

‘I still can’t quite believe it, to be honest. Strange to finally see a novel with my name on the cover.’ He admitted.

‘It’s a lovely story, I’m delighted for you.’

‘That’s not all. I have a job writing for the local newspaper too. Not exactly world-shattering literature, but it pays the rent. Mind you, they have got me covering a dog show at weekend. Now that’s exciting.’ Tom said with a grin.

‘How very exciting.’ Bernie agreed. 

She laughed. Tom realised it had been so long since he had heard her laugh, even in the last few months while they were together.

She then opened the book and flicked to the title page and read the dedication out-loud.

For Bernie, all my love, come what may xx

She snapped the book shut and waved it once more. 

‘This deserves a celebratory drink. Would you like to join me?’

‘I would love to.’ Tom said, reaching for his coat.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom