—8—
As I said, Brett was happy. As soon as breakfast was over, he seated himself on the pile of futon mats.
Up there, he withdrew mentally from me, but I was stuck below, cross-legged on the floor. Finally, I interrupted with a polite 'Excuse me.'
He needed to get to work, he said. What did I want?
I had several needs, but one most urgent. My persona.
Simone and Andrew, and by now, half of Bettawong, would have heard of the adventure of my used tampon. I could not afford my fame to be compromised by that, nor any other incident (incidents that I did not feel the need to explore, especially with present company).
He had a hard time understanding, and, actually didn't. But he did finally accept what he called my 'sensitivity' to the fact that he had ruined my life, and that in doing so, I could not possibly become famous as 'Angela Pendergast'.
'Pity,' he commented. 'Angela appealed to me.'
But my persona and my fame were linked so much in my mind that he allowed his work to be interrupted, to sort this out.
We focused, therefore, on me, cheering me up immensely. I, Angela Pendergast, needed a name by which my book would be by-lined, but that was not enough. I needed a whole new identity, as I could not afford the by-line to be just an author pseudonym. I needed a whole new persona, with appropriate documentation (something that seemed to be another speciality of Brett's).
Therefore—and this was when things began to be fun—'Angela dear, who would you like to be?'
~
My past explorations for a name were useless now, as they had revolved around Angela Pendergast. Therefore I started afresh, bringing up first, the female / male androgyne thing—and I could not come to a resolution.
Then Brett suggested a lateral approach. 'What is this bestseller to be?'
'What? I thought we were speaking of my name.'
'What do you call ...?' He scratched the place between his horns, always the itchiest. 'You know, like fairy tales, Volkswagen repair manuals, airport books, Marlowe or Shakespeare, Mills & Boon?'
He'd been studying, perhaps too hard, though I guessed what he was getting at.
'Genre?'
'Yes!' His hand whacked the rubber mat so hard that for a moment, I expected clouds of dust to fly. 'Now, what genre do you want your book to be?'
A good question. Very professional. He suddenly gave me confidence.
I told him of the state of the book trade at the moment, and the gossip I had heard as to the near future. Then I reminded him of the specific part of our contract that I knew I had specified and signed to have: fame, that lasts. Which meant that we had to look at things not only from the short-term view, but from the historical perspective.
Eventually, we settled on the book's description. I could not find pen or paper anywhere, so we both swore to memorize these words:
The book, title unspecified, embraces the human condition, its ups and its downs, incorporating adventure, mystery, and romance, in proportions being 2, 1, 4. Length, medium thick.
Perfect! So with Brett's problem out of the way—what he was to write—we were free to return to my name—who I was to be.
There were so many names to choose from that suited the description of an author of the specified book, that I had to run off and have a meditational shower in the water room. It was a long one, as there were so many bottles and jars to open and sample—a long table was as full of them as the rest of the suite was empty of every other article of comfort and joy. I would have saved all the bottles—real crystal, I think—but I didn't even have a bag to put them in.
When I returned, Brett was still in the same place on top of the mat pile in the lounge.
I began with the more impressive names I had thought up: Iolanthe, Fitzwillia, Cerise. Going on to the classic: Juliette, Ophelia, Scarlett. Then onwards to the tragic: Norma, Bonny, and so on. Then: people whose names I wished I had picked before they got to them first.
The mat pile rocked precariously as Brett sat up from a slouch, exhaling 'Hmm.'
I was grateful that he didn't add a comment. None of the names sounded as good as they had when jets of water pulsated over my nipples and the scent of something called 'Figuera by Eugenia Haich' clouded my judgement.
Now, as I uncrossed my legs to find a new uncomfortable position, my brain emptied and my new identity withered and blew away, light as air, bereft of expression, voice, personality.
I looked up to him, and the back of my neck cracked.
'Desirée?' he offered.
~
Instantly, the whole name blossomed, as the familiar old surname on Mum's side of the family met the romantic and exciting Desirée.
So Desirée Lily I became, and then I ordered lunch.