G e t t i n g It W r o n g
FINALIST
WILLIAM FAULKNER COMPETITON
novel from the screenplay
C O M I N G S O O N
Peter loves Maggie.
Maggie loves Peter.
Alice loves Peter, too.
Mary, Maggie's mum loves her daughter.
Maggie loves her mum and Louisa also
loves Maggie's mum.
And Brandon, he loves money even if it isn't his.
It got tangled!
London, 1948. The city is putting itself together again after the Second World War, and people and families are trying to find a way forward. It's a struggle for all.
Peter is a young man who works at the library. He has hopes and dreams of one day being a novelist. His dreams and fantasies help him escape his day to day life where his somber habits inhibit his ways with women. But then he meets the woman with the bright red lips like a movie star.
Maggie is a young woman of prominent cheekbones and startling ambition, who wants to be a film star – or, failing that, a novelist. She's about as predictable as a thunderstorm.
Alice is the girl next door and works for a literary agent. She loves Peter's writing – and Peter too. But will she find the courage to tell him so?
In a slippery tale of stolen hearts and purloined novels, secret loves and hidden ambitions, these lives become irretrievably tangled.
Who will end up with whom? Who will end up rich and celebrated? And will art – and love – win out in the end?
OPENING PAGES OF THE NOVEL
The mirror hanging next to his door was exactly where it was when Peter took the room at Mrs. Chapman's, not far from Victoria Station. Peter never moved it. He didn't like change; it was merely a distraction from what was truly important to him: writing his novel.
Each morning, Peter paused to glance at himself in the mirror and check his shirt buttons to make sure they were buttoned all the way up to his throat. He wore his drab gray shirt every day at the library where he worked. Well, he wore it every day, period. Always buttoned up tight.
He stood at the door of his room for a moment, looking at his watch before going down for breakfast. He never liked being early or late, just on time. Downstairs, Mrs. Chapman always had his tea and toast ready precisely at seven o'clock. She knew that was the way Peter liked it: not early, never late, just there for him.
"Peter, you never have any of this nice marmalade on your toast."
Mrs. Chapman pushed the pot of marmalade towards him along with a motherly smile. He replied with a smile and pushed it back again.
"No, Mrs. Chapman. Plain is fine."
"Have you ever been late? I mean to the library?" she asked.
Peter was perplexed. Have I ever been late anywhere? he pondered. It hardly seemed likely.
"No, Mrs. Chapman. Always on time. Never late, never early."
Again, he checked the top button of his shirt. It was secure. The morning was progressing as it should.
"But what if it rains?" she asked.
"I never thought about that." He replied. "It rains most days this month, doesn't it?"
At that, Peter grabbed his toast and rushed for the door in case it was raining. He didn't like being late.
It was February, and London's streets were still considerably dark that early. Peter moved through the deep shadows headed for Victoria Station, where the tube would take him to the central library. He'd worked there since the end of the war. At the library, the doors always opened at nine and closed at precisely six. There no one cared about his drab gray shirt as the dim lights made everything look a bit gray. But then again, he'd never notice had they.
It was London's oldest and largest library. It was so old, in fact, that the floors creaked when he pushed his cart down the long aisles. This is certainly the place where one could get lost but probably not realize it until closing time. At least Peter wondered if such was possible.
Each morning Peter stacked his cart from the wooden box where returned books were left to be shelved. Shelving books wasn't as boring as one might think as each aisle was filled with new adventures, with travel at one end and Victorian novels around the corner stack. He knew where everything was because he'd worked there so long, or at least it seemed like a long time to Peter. There, in these long rows of racks, Peter could get lost in his thoughts, never worrying about being early or late because real time didn't exist in his daydreams, where everything floated on the power of his imagination.
On a typical day, and after glancing up and down the aisles for his boss, Head Librarian Woods, he'd pick up a book that he'd been secretly treating himself to a page or two read a day. He loved Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. There was once a time when it had been checked out, which annoyed Peter. Still, he was halfway through the novel, but that day, he'd barely read the first paragraph of a new chapter when Mrs. Woods walked up. He quickly shelved his read and made himself appear busy. But even in the shadowy aisles, she knew what people were really up to. Didn't she? Peter wondered.
"Peter, isn't that the same cart of books you were pushing earlier?"
"No, Mrs. Woods. Books tend to look alike in this light."
She bent to glance closer at his cart before commenting.
"I see the titles also appear alike, but probably only in this light, I'm sure."
Mrs. Woods rolled her eyes and walked on. Peter took a deep breath, and when Mrs. Woods had progressed down the aisle far enough; he reached down to the lowest shelf on his cart and pulled his notebook from hiding. Opening it to the first page, he felt a sense of pride when he looked at the title page, which read "Novel by Peter Tinsley." Well, it yet had a title. That would come, he figured. Then, with no one looking over his shoulder, Peter scribbled a few lines before pausing to contemplate how the warrior Jamie Fraser in Outlander might teach Claire love like she'd never known? Well, Peter thought, when he figured it out, he'd put it in his own novel. Yet then, who knows how love works? Perhaps it's one of those questions that are eternally chasing after answers that are always out of reach. But what if love really doesn't work; it merely happens? Perhaps a bit like miracles. Who thinks they can situate one of those on a calendar even as one's hopes wax high?
***
Things all started on one of those rainy days London is so known for. The library typically got crowded early on wet days as even months after the war, there weren't many jobs. Where else could one wile away the hours for free?
Maggie didn't have a job. Every day, she would make her way to the library, where she pulled out every book that might have pictures of film stars, particularly American movie stars, as their photos made them appear as though their polished faces glowed in the celluloid dark with eyelashes so long they made shadows over their faces, both men and women. How can I become one of these goddesses?
Maggie sat there all day wondering. At frequent intervals, she pulled out her compact and applied a coat of red lipstick. That surely had to be a step in the right direction. The close-up of Joan Crawford's glossy lips suggested she was on the path to stardom. But how many twists and turns to reach the stars? That was yet to come.
Late that morning, Peter slid his notebook back on the bottom of his cart and went back to shelving his books. As he pushed his cart up and down the long aisles, he pondered how the mighty Scotsman Jamie could teach Claire how to love when he noticed this woman sitting in the other side of the study hall. In front of her was the largest stack of books of anyone using the hall that day. He rolled his cart to the racks behind where she sat and pulled a book out so he could get a better glimpse of this creature with lips like a movie star. Suddenly, Maggie noticed Peter and slung a wink his way. He ran for cover. Surely, Claire didn't merely wink at Jamie, and that made his knees weak. Warriors don't have weak knees, do they? But then again, if Claire didn't wink at Jamie, what device did she utilize to capture his attention? Peter slid the book back and rolled off to shelve his cart of books. Strangely, the woman's smile seemed to haunt him as though she was following him through the racks. Could that be possible? Peter looked behind to see. The image of her red lips blazoned in his thoughts.
After rolling up and down the aisles, and with what seemed like a hundred books returned to their proper places, it was nearing six o'clock and the library would soon be closing. Mrs. Woods had given Peter the task of informing patrons when it was near to closing time. He took his assignment seriously; after all, he would be representing the largest library in London. Peter drifted back to the study hall and eventually made his way to the woman with the stack of books.
"It's near six o'clock." Peter whispered to the creature with the red lips. But she never looked up from her book. He stood silently waiting at first. Why didn't she respond? he wondered. Did she not hear him? Finally, she paused from flipping pages and gazed up at him.
"It sure enough is," she said. "But only for a minute or two… or three. How long can it be near six o'clock? Did they ever figure that out? Go along and find out."
With that this woman flipped to another page along with her attention.
What? How could Peter not wonder if she was from the continent? Over there people didn't understand the way things were meant to be, as well as the English. After all, hadn't she phrased the question as if it couldn't possibly have an answer? Peter even wondered what she'd truly said. It made no sense. Is she French, then? Must be. She simply didn't understand English, he reasoned.
Maggie turned another page and then paused to clarify for this obviously perplexed looking young man in the drab shirt.
"And you know, anyone can hold their breath that long. Watch!"
Maggie took a gulp of air, plugged her nose, and held it until she turned red.
Peter wondered what Mrs. Woods would think of this demonstration? Would she think he'd strangled a patron until her lips turned cherry red?
Still, Maggie had better things to do and went back to breathing naturally and the book on movie stars. Jean Harlow stared up at her, glad she'd returned. It can be lonely being a movie star. They resumed their thoughts together, which carried them aimlessly to where time was never a concern, as clocks simply did not exist in the celluloid heavens.
"The library is closing," Peter announced once again.
"Oh, is that what all your six o'clock fuss was about?"
"What?" was all Peter could get out.
He wondered if this patron plugged her nose again if she'd pass out and drop to the floor? How could this be happening to him at closing time? His palms got sweaty at the thought. Then the woman who looked like a movie star winked again.
"Yeah? Thought you were some kind of perv peeking through the books at me. I saw you, you know."
Perv, did she say? There are only pervs in Italy, he thought, and likely France. Certainly not in England.
"The library is closing," he repeated a tiny bit louder; after all, he was the official announcer that the library was closing for the day.
"Sit down here."
She gestured to the seat next to her.
"I want to show you all these move stars. You can help me decide if the boys are prettier than the girls. We'll start on page one."
Of course, Peter didn't sit down. All the same, the woman went on flipping the glossy pages ever so slowly as though the library was unlikely to ever close.
Peter had never faced such a conundrum. He felt the top button of his shirt to ascertain if it was properly buttoned and took a deep breath as he waited to see what might happen. Well, nothing did. Wasn't his voice official-sounding, he wondered?
"The library is closing…" he all but whispered.
Peter wondered what Mrs. Woods would say about a patron defying closing time at the proper hour? Of course, it had never happened. Certainly not any time after the Norman invasion when law and order was established among the pagans.
Apparently not grasping the magnitude of the matter, Maggie opened yet another book from her pile.
Peter stood waiting as the clock ticked away. Yep, the library was closing as it always did, at exactly six o'clock. Not a minute earlier, and certainly not one minute later. This is not Italy, where nothing is on time. No, this is England, where clocks were invented at Greenwich. Weren't they? Well, certainly keeping proper time was!
She didn't want to keep him.
"I'll lock up when I leave," she warned.
"What?" Peter asked.
Was this woman an anarchist or something? What should be done? Peter wiped his brow and quickly rolled his cart off, wondering if the library had ever locked someone in all night? If they had, what did they have for supper? Surely the library got cold at night, as it typically was during the day. And then, can one really look at books on movie stars all night long? Peter was starting to get a headache after only a few troubling moments with this woman. It was soon to get much worse.
"So strange, that one," Maggie yammered to Joan Crawford looking up at her with polished face and blackened eyelashes all perfectly arranged like picket fences around her eyes, which glistened with a "come-and-get-some" gleam.
Peter figured he could always inform Mrs. Woods that he never saw the young woman with the red lips and only barely noticed her companion, Joan Crawford. Perhaps she slipped in after the bell chimed closing. Of course, she did. People from across the Channel are known to do strange things, he thought. Makes sense. Surely that's why most of them live over there. Certainly, the English understood what the subtext "over there" meant.
It was raining all the way back to Mrs. Chapman's. Peter stood on the crowded tube train, thinking about the creature with the red lips and wondering what would happen if she'd never left the library that evening. He was still thinking about this up in his room as he warmed a tin of soup on his two-burner electric plate that he was still making payments on. A payment always on time, every other week.
As the soup steamed, Peter pulled out his notebook to jot down a few more lines. How, he wondered, could he get it right in his novel when women were so obviously strange and wholly unpredictable? Nothing that woman at the library said, he thought, made any sense, and yet every word she uttered was still jingling in his thoughts that night. Could she still be there? Sitting in that empty, cold study hall with her red lips glowing in the dark like a movie star as though there was an audience sitting silently below her gaze. Perhaps there counting the moments until their rapture eclipsed their realities.
Peter ate his soup from the tin and sucked the last few drops when he realized it was nine o'clock, the time he always put his notebook down and crawled under his comforter. Through the thin walls, he could hear the couple in the other room making love. Her unpunctuated moans were compelling. Under his comforter, Peter wanked to the pleasing rhythm between the couple, with her moans and his jouncing the bed forming a nonverbal communication; well, lovers often communicate as if language has little to do with anything. Still…
Jingle, jingle, jingle. The woman's words at the library kept jingling in his thoughts. How was she doing that? Peter fell asleep wondering.
2
Over the days that followed, Peter wondered what had happened to the woman with the red lips? His imagination took him to all kinds of places and scenarios. What if she had a secret life at the library where she had long conversations with movie stars, just as he secretly wrote lines in his novel about Scottish warriors and their ladyloves? What if?
Then, one night, as Peter was leaving for the day, there she was again, this time standing outside the library exit. Could she have just left from the day he encountered her the week before? Things happen, Peter reminded himself. And no one knows why.
"Hey, librarian. I nicked this book," the woman with the red lips confessed.
She waved a book in Peter's face. The other librarians looked at Maggie, and then at him.
"I may report you," he announced using his official librarian voice.
"Yep, but not likely. Know why?" she asked.
Peter paused to see what would come next.
"Cause you're a perv!" she announced and then looked at the others to gauge their reaction. "You spend all day at the library watching girls wearing tight sweaters."
Hers seemed to Peter to be particularly tight that night. Without another glimpse at her tight sweater, he walked off.
But Maggie dashed after him and put her arm through his as though they were strolling down the mall to a picnic. Peter shook himself free.
"I'm Maggie. Fish and chips? I'm paying."
"What? Got to go home."
Somehow, even as he was still contemplating how she got her lips so red, he found himself standing next to her at a walk up stand with a plate of fish and chips in front of him. Things happen, you know?
"You're not one of those guys who live with their mum, are you?"
"Got a room at a house near Victoria station," Peter replied.
"One of those places where your girlfriend can't come up?" she asked.
"It's near Victoria," he repeated.
"Like what do you do when you're not squeezing a peek at me through those dusty ol' shelves?"
"Not squeezing… not looking at you," he stammered.
"Oh, you're looking at the dust between the books, hey?"
"I write."
"Write? Like what? Poetry?" she asked.
"No."
At the fish counter, Peter noticed how quickly men seemed to notice Maggie. Was it her tight sweater? She put a chip to Peter's mouth and held it there until he parted his lips. Where else could he go with this, he wondered? Then she flipped it onto his tongue. He stood pondering what to do, but soon realized he was only staring at her lips. If he failed to chew, would she think he was trying to kiss her?
"Novel," he finally got out.
He went on chewing slowly, but not because he was concentrating on her lips all the more. Well, maybe.
"You're writing a novel?"
"Yes."
"Me mum, she once said, 'Maggie, you may not get to be pretty enough one day to be no movie star. Plus, you don't got the money to get yourself to Hollywood anyway. Best write a novel then. It's your only hope out'."
"Write a novel? You ever read one?" Peter asked.
"No, but you see, if you're not a movie star, being a famous writer is almost the same. Sure, it is."
"How?" he wanted to know.
"Well, writers get piles of money, checks come in the post, you dress smart and go to parties at posh places. You know."
"No, I don't," he said, and meant it. "I don't go anywhere and don't want to go anywhere, do I?" He meant that in return.
"You're so peculiar," she said. "Are you sure you don't write dirty stories for dirty magazines? You look the type."
Maggie reached over and unbuttoned Peter's top shirt button. He quickly buttoned it back up again. Isn't it only Italian men who wear their shirts open because they have chest hair?
"What… ?"
Upon hearing her comment, he tossed his plate of soggy chips on the counter and walked off.
"So, peculiar, that one. He must be a really good writer then!"
Joan Crawford may not have heard Maggie but would surely have thought the same. It's been long said she knew more than a few writers in Hollywood and it's oft repeated that she knew them in a biblical sense. Joan would surely have said: 'Oh, well, things happen!'
***
At times, Peter woke up early, and to the sounds of the rain against his window, he'd scribble a few lines of his novel. Sometimes, during his restless nights, the images that had stirred in his head kept him awake. He wanted to write things out so he could understand the unfathomable, like Jamie, the Scottish warrior who loved Claire but couldn't truly be a warrior if he got too mushy over her. Could he? But then, things can happen. Peter looked forward to reading a few more pages of Outlander at the library to see what the author might reveal. With those meandering thoughts, he dressed, grabbed his handwritten manuscript, and headed downstairs, where Mrs. Chapman was sure to greet him with her warm smile.
"Here's your toast, Peter. Didn't sleep well last night?"
Knowing the evidence was at the top of his head, Peter patted down his unruly, wavy dark hair, and answered with a smile.
"Six more pages for your daughter to type. I just finished them this morning. Here's some money for her, too."
He put a coin on the table and sat down to gobble his plain toast and slurp his tea.
"Alice says she won't take money. She so enjoys reading your words."
"I have to pay her."
"She said you only made one spelling error in all those pages she typed last week," Mrs. Chapman added.
"That's good, Mrs. Chapman. Got to go."
Peter stuffed the last of his toast into his mouth and dashed as he was never late for work. But then again, he was never early either.
The working day at the library was good. Mrs. Woods was too busy to see if Peter was shelving his books or merely riding the aisles, pausing here and there to add to his novel. It didn't seem long before it was six o'clock. Luckily, the rain had stopped that afternoon. Peter could walk back to Mrs.
Chapman's to save the tube fare. He grabbed his notebook, slid it under his jacket, and headed for the door, where he followed Mrs. Woods outside.
And there she was again, the woman with the red lips.
"Here I am!" she screeched at Mrs. Woods as though a surrendering criminal.
Mrs. Woods jumped in her tracks.
"Petey said he would report me to the King. You see, I nicked this book!"
Maggie waved a library book at Mrs. Woods.
"Peter. My name is Peter," he said under his breath.
Mrs. Woods took the book, and opening it, looked at Maggie as if she was missing her senses.
"Miss, your book is not due till next week. Perhaps you should drop a note to the King informing him of such. Given the gravity of the situation, it will assuredly ease his mind."
Mrs. Woods handed the book back and walked off.
"Why did you do that?" Peter asked.
"How should I know?" Maggie replied. "Sometimes it just all comes out wrong. Hey, I got my dole money. I'm treating you to a proper meal for saving me from being shipped off to Australia. That's where they send book nickers, you know."
"No, they don't. I got to get home."
Peter left Maggie standing with her near-to-being overdue book. Still, she caught up with him. Things can happen when you're least expecting it. In fact, at times they simply jump out at you.
"I'm Maggie."
"I remember your name," he mused. "You didn't remember mine."
She slid her arm through his as she had the week before, but Peter pulled away just as quickly. He wondered what Mrs. Woods would think had she seen him walk off with this strange creature? Perhaps that he was part of a crime duo that purposely, and with deliberate intent, held books out of circulation until they were near to being overdue.
It was a crowded pub that Maggie dragged Peter to, never once releasing her clutch along the way.
There was a fireplace near the table where they were seated. Peter didn't notice the glowing fire; he only noticed the prices on the menu and wondered what the waiter would think if he only ordered a glass of water. Shortly after, the waiter appeared with a bottle of wine and two glasses, but Peter was not tempted.
"Oh, no. I don't drink," he informed the waiter.
Still Maggie had other thoughts and usually always did.
"Yes, two glasses," she shot back.
The waiter poured two glasses of wine and left the bottle on the table.
A whole bottle? But how much did it cost? Peter wondered, and if they still had debtors' prisons in London?
"You in London during the blitz?" she asked.
"Yeah. My dad, he wouldn't leave our house. Mum, she wouldn't go anywhere without him. The night the bombs hit, there was nothing left of my folks. Nothing left of our place.
"Where were you," she asked.
"Mum always made me go to the shelter. Packed me a sandwich every night. Told me to pray for them."
"Did you?" she asked. "Pray for them?"
"Couldn't figure out who to pray to," Peter replied. "You?"
"Me mum went to live with her sister in Cornwall," she said. "I stayed in London. Had a job at the phone company. Lied about my age to get it. Yep, plugged in wires all damned day. I did. Plugged one in for Churchill once. Can you believe?"
He could. Things happen.
"Your mum?" he asked as he took the first sip of his wine.
"Yeah, we live together. Probably always will."
"What about your dad?"
"Long gone," Maggie said. "Mum only says, 'here today, gone tomorrow like the leftovers.' Who cares anyway? Things like that never last, do they?"
"Like what? You mean he left you? You and your mum?"
"I never knew what happened. That strange?" she said. "But he's still gone, hey?"
"I guess," Peter replied.
"Maybe he got on a bus and went the wrong way and never came back. You got a girlfriend?"
Peter shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
"Oh, it don't matter. The men I know, they all chase skirts at work and stay out nights trying to get under one. But you, you're special."
"Special?" he asked and then felt compelled to take a second sip of wine. "No, not special. Work at the library."
"But you're writing a novel. A real novel."
Maggie gulped the rest of her wine and poured a second glass. She started to refill Peter's glass, but it was still near to being full.
"You read?" he asked. "I mean novels?"
Maggie was uncomfortable with this question and gazed into fire.
"Petey, I never tell people, but I can't read or write. Well, no more than my name and address, I guess."
"But I often see you at the library reading stacks of books."
"Not reading. Just looking at the pictures of movie stars. You see, I had to go out and work when I was a kid. Me and Mum, we cleaned houses. Never went to school. When a truant officer sent a letter asking about me we just cleared out. Moved a lot back then. Yeah, but maybe it was because we couldn't make rent. Don't know. It's always been hard for us."
Maggie put down her glass. Her sadness seemed to evaporate with her smile.
"Yeah, right… Huh? There's always a new day, hey?"
For the first time, Peter and Maggie's eyes wandered into each other's even as the conversation went silent. It was as if there was a silent communication between them. He could feel it and wondered if she did, too. But did he like that feeling? Were his knees a bit weak? He reached down and grabbed his knee to see. But nothing was shaking. Not that much anyway. Warrior Jamie Fraser would have been proud.
During supper the light from the fire danced across Peter's features and made his wavy dark hair appear shiny. Maggie attempted to smile another smile and went on, but there was a sadness in her eyes, and her voice became soft as though she was revealing things she'd kept hidden.
"Petey, you know me mum, she was once pretty. Yeah, she was. But look what it did for her…"
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Maggie took another sip of wine and paused before continuing.
"Well, she sure ain't no movie star, is she?" Maggie declared defiantly. "Never even met a man who'd take the time to look past her pretty face. But Petey, a pretty face, it don't last long when you're down on your knees scrubbing floors. I can see it in my Mum's eyes."
"See what?"
"Sadness, I think. Even when she's smiling, you know? She feels worn out, is what I mean."
"You really want to be a movie star?" he asked.
Movie stars seemed so distant to Peter, but then he recalled his mum once saying that Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh had a country house outside of London. It seemed they were always there when they weren't making films in America.
"Don't know really," she said. "I guess I just don't want to end up like me mum. Maybe nothing scares me more. I look at her and I know that's gonna be me one day, sooner or later. Nothing but a worn-out cleaning rag ain't nobody could ever care about!"
"But who knows what that 'later' will be like, I mean, until we get there?" he asked, and in the flash of the moment, wondered how Claire and Jamie looked into their own futures. And what if they were out there still looking? Looking for each other in some other place and time that was yet to come for them. Yet isn't that the way it is for all lovers? Peter never stopped pondering the imponderables that he collected his thoughts.
"Easy for you. You're a man," she said. "It don't matter how pretty you are unless you want to be a movie star. Hey? Don't you think Tyrone Power is the most beautiful man in the world?"
"Never thought about it. I mean, I guess," Peter answered.
All the way home, Peter thought about what Maggie had said. About how things were for women after they'd lost their beauty; that is, if they started out with it. Perhaps it was easier for women who weren't pretty. Peter considered himself lucky as he didn't really worry about his looks. Well, except when he was glued to the mirror, wondering if anything looked different than the day before, what with the curls in his hair never heading in the same direction after waking.