A Nest of Nightmares

But already Victoria was turning her away from it, allowing her no comfort, turning her toward the frilly dressing table with its makeup mirror. ‘Now look at that. Look at yourself. Do you expect me to believe that Damon Greene would even consider going out with something that looks like that?’

But that’s not me, Sheila wanted to protest. That’s not the Sheila Damon knows; that’s not who I am in California, in my real life. It’s this place which has changed me.

‘What really disgusts me,’ said Victoria, ‘is the way you don’t even make an effort. You could try to make something of yourself, the way I do. Learn to use makeup and how to do your hair, eat sensibly, and follow my advice on clothes. But, no, you’d rather stuff your face with food and sit around all day imagining that television stars are in love with you. You’ll never change, and I don’t know why I knock myself out trying to help you.’

Staring at the horror in the mirror, Sheila began to cry. The great, wrenching sobs reddened her face, making her even uglier, and she felt the button on her skirt pop, and cried even harder at the hopelessness of her life.

‘Your own mother wouldn’t know you,’ said Victoria, satisfied, and Sheila gazed into the mirror thinking that she wouldn’t have known herself, either. Victoria had made up her face, covering the spots and making her eyes look bigger; her hair was hidden beneath a brightly patterned scarf, and her body in a tent-like yellow dress borrowed from Grace. She felt uneasy with her new image, but at least it was an improvement on the old one.

When they reached the convention they found between twenty and thirty people gathered in the main hall, waiting for Sheila’s speech – about half the number who had registered.

‘Now, don’t be afraid,’ said Victoria. ‘They’re just ordinary people, like you. Say anything you want to them.’

‘Anything,’ said Sheila dazedly. ‘What . . .’

‘Tell them how you wrote your book.’

‘I don’t . . . I can’t remember . . . what can I say?’

Victoria stared at her. ‘Do you want me to give the speech?’

Sheila backed away, shaking her head. She couldn’t remember why, but she knew she must do this herself. She must not give Victoria the chance to . . . what?

‘What are you waiting for?’ demanded Victoria. ‘Go on, they’re waiting.’

Sheila stumbled toward the podium. In the large room the sound of applause was feeble and sporadic. As it died away, she stared at them, her audience. Who were they? They all wore glasses; most of them looked adolescent. She was reminded, horribly, of the time her mother had pressured her into trying for the debating society, and how she had gone utterly blank in front of them all, without a word in her head. Just like now.

The silence stretched. The sound of her own breathing was horribly loud. Her hands clenched, and she realised she was holding something. When she looked down, her own name blazed up at her in yellow letters. It was her book, a copy of Moonlight Under the Mountain. With shaking fingers she opened it and began to read.

Gradually the familiar words, the well-known story, Kayli’s presence, all soothed her, and she was dreaming aloud, the audience forgotten. At the end of a chapter she looked up, pausing because her throat was dry, and was startled by the burst of applause.

She thought it would be all right to leave then, but as she turned Victoria blocked her way. Her face was grim and Sheila backed away, feeling threatened.

‘I’m sure we all enjoyed that very much,’ said Victoria. ‘And now, perhaps you’ll say a few words about how you came to write what you’ve just read us?’

Sheila shook her head, incapable of speech.

But Victoria seemed to have expected that, and scarcely paused. ‘Questions from the audience, then. Does anyone have a question they’d like to ask Sheila Stoller? No? Well, I’ll start the old ball rolling, then. About the setting of your novel, Sheila . . . what made you choose Byzantium?’

‘I didn’t – I didn’t choose it!’

‘It chose you?’ The audience laughed at Victoria’s inflection and Sheila felt herself blushing. Victoria said kindly, ‘I suppose it was a natural affinity. You felt a connection to this place and so you wrote about it. Writers do that all the time, turning their lives into fiction. And what about Kayli? What can you tell us about her? Is she based on someone real?’

It went on, with Victoria asking questions Sheila could not answer, and then answering them herself. Sheila no longer knew if she agreed or disagreed with the things Victoria was saying; she hardly knew what she was talking about, whose book or life they were discussing.

It ended, finally; not only the interrogation but the whole convention, and Sheila went with Victoria and Grace for lunch in the coffee shop. She was glad that they talked to each other and left her alone to eat, but when the meal was over she glanced at her watch and fidgeted, working up the courage to say, finally, ‘Isn’t it getting kind of late?’