For Bazaar’s 10th annual short-story competition, the theme of ‘Notes’ inspired hundreds of enticing submissions, in which we found wordplay, wisdom and wry humour. The challenge of choosing a winner was taken up by this year’s judging panel, which comprised Bazaar’s editor-in-chief Lydia Slater, features director Helena Lee and contributing literary editor Erica Wagner, along with the author Diana Evans, Virago’s chair Lennie Goodings and Caroline Michel from the literary agency PFD. Following lunch and much spirited debate at Claridge’s, the runners-up were pronounced Youmna Chamieh for Transposition, her poignant, piquant exploration of relocation, finding love and finding oneself, and an evocative account of the past meeting the present by Amanda Huggins in When Love Was All We Knew.
Ally Cornish was given the top accolade for her tale about male ego and a wife regaining her agency; Michel praised “that wonderful joy of a complete story, whose characters flew off the page with such wit and ease”. Cornish wins a stay at one of Callow Hall’s magical treehouses. All three stories are published in the July/August issue of Bazaar, and we are delighted to share Cornish’s winning story here.
The Archivist, by Ally Cornish
Marina found the missing certificate at the back of the top drawer of Robert’s writing bureau. “The University of Bridgetown, Nebraska: author in residence 1983.” As career footprints went, it was somewhat feeble, but Robert had insisted she locate it. No point building an incomplete archive, he said. You never know what a student of the future might find illuminating. She opened the box marked ‘1980–85’ and filed the sheet of paper, glancing at her watch and feeling a twinge of anxiety. The archivist was due in an hour and Robert would soon be demanding his lunch and medication.
It had been Robert’s idea to donate his ‘archive’ – a rather grandiose term, she thought, for his manuscripts, letters and other accumulated flimflam – to a university. “To be opened after my death,” he always said when recounting the plan to others – in his mind, his death was clearly going to be a rather less run-of-the-mill kind of ending.
Marina had been somewhat taken aback when the gracious acceptance note from Yale had arrived less than a week after Robert’s agent had sent the proposal. Robert, naturally, was unsurprised. “They took Salman’s,” he said, approvingly. “And Ian’s, of course. It’s good to be in America. And Yale’s literature faculty is second to none.”
Of course, it made sense. It would be a natural conclusion to Robert’s gilded career: the early critical acclaim, the literary awards (though never the Booker, a slight that he regularly re-examined). And then the mid-career explosion with Only Connect and its Oscar-laden Hollywood adaptation, which brought the kind of household fame rarely bestowed on literary novelists. And how very much Robert had enjoyed that fame. Talk shows, festivals, award ceremonies: during the years following Only Connect, Robert embraced everything that renown threw his way.
She pulled out another folder from the antique bureau, a family heirloom that Robert deemed too uncomfortable to sit at. He preferred to write at the bespoke table in his vast study, until that had to be replaced last year with the tray she wheeled across his bed every morning. The folder contained a marked-up copy of a collection of Robert’s essays from the late ’80s – Diversions, Discourse and Delight. And there were her own notes hovering delicately in the margins – that short-lived attempt, soon after they became a couple, at working together. An echo of unpleasant emotions rippled through her – Robert’s angry rejection of her suggestions, her gradual realisation that her career would from now on have to be made without his help.
The whinge of the ancient doorbell snapped Marina out of her reverie. Oh lord, was the archivist early? But no, installed on the doorstep was a young, artfully dishevelled woman whom Marina did not recognise.
“Marina! How lovely to meet you!”
For a horrifying instant, the girl leaned in for an embrace. Marina stepped back a little, out of the way.
“I’m Savannah,” the girl said. “Robert’s helping me with my novel? It’s been such a thrill, I’ve learnt so much. I’m just such a fan! How is he? I’ve brought him a cake, his favourite, lemon drizzle. Is he up? He texted to say he might be?”
“He’s not. I’m busy. You must go.” Marina took the cake and slammed the door. Feeling a little dizzy, she leaned against the door’s smooth oak panelling, a new surge of memories mingling with the shock of discovering Robert was even now, in the quagmire of his illness, managing to conduct something akin to an affair.
The young woman’s shiny-eyed excitement made Marina feel strangely bewildered. It was identical to her own, all those years ago, the student in thrall to the sophistication and success of her professor. It all came back in a rush: the laser focus of her infatuation; the disbelieving bliss when their affair began; the anguish – but also the secret pride – as the spectacle of his divorce played out in the press. How much he had loved and encouraged her early efforts at literary criticism, calling in favours with his contacts at journals. And then the slow descent of their relationship as her success grew. The bigger the literary name she reviewed, the greater the itch of Robert’s dissatisfaction, and then the steady, unending stream of his new admirers.
Marina’s phone chimed, startling her. A torrent of texts from upstairs.
WHERE’S ANNA
HOPE YOU NOT RUDE
BACK GONE AGAIN. NEED TO MOVE.
MEDICINE?????!
She sighed, took a deep breath and went to the kitchen to prepare his pills and a slice of lemon drizzle cake.
—————–
Half an hour later, the doorbell whined again – the archivist, punctual to the minute.
“Mrs Dalton, delighted to meet you.”
He held out a narrow hand and nodded his head, putting Marina in mind of a remorseful whippet.
“It really is an inordinate honour to have been trusted with this task.”
Marina showed him through to the sitting room, thinking how relieved she would be when the boxes were cleared and her elegant space restored. To her astonishment, the archivist’s face started to tremble. He appeared to be threatening to cry.
“Forgive me,” he said, producing a handkerchief with a flourish. “It’s just so humbling. The topography of a creative mind such as this. I just don’t know what to say.”
Marina briskly explained the chronology of the boxes and watched as the archivist began to label and seal them, sharing further thoughts as he worked. How excited the Yale faculty members were and how they all sent their best wishes for Robert’s recovery. How only a few writers left a mark on the world, and with Only Connect – a genuine masterpiece – Robert’s mark would be indelible. How as a PhD student Only Connect had given him a new way to understand the world, how its humanity and sheer insight into a woman’s perspective had shaped…
They were interrupted by the sound of Marina’s phone. “Excuse me, very sorry,” she said, flipping open the leather case.
ANNA SAYS YOU WERE RUDE!!!! EMBARRASSING TOLD HER COME BACK TOMORROW
POT NEEDS EMPTYING
TEA?????
She paused, thinking, and then snapped the phone cover shut and turned to the archivist. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten something. Can you unseal that box, the one for the first half of the ’90s? I’ll be right back.”
In her own study, tucked away beneath the grand stairs, Marina began opening and closing drawers, scrabbling for an envelope she had hidden long ago. Here it was: ‘GP Records’. She smiled. She had forgotten the decoy title – Robert had always found the idea of his wife requiring any kind of medical attention vaguely disgusting.
She opened the envelope and pulled out the notes. Actually, photocopies of notes – Robert had destroyed the originals long ago – from one of the first girls who came after her. A prototype-Savannah, whose passionate missives, Marina had to admit, completely outclassed the texts and social-media posts Robert had been navigating in more recent years.
She flicked through and there it was. The note in which the girl breathlessly outlined her idea for a novel about two women born at the turn of the 20th century, whose intertwining lives reflected the seismic changes of the subsequent decades. Only Connect.
Marina replaced the notes into the envelope, crossed out the label and returned to the sitting room. Quickly, she dropped the envelope into the open box and turned, smiling, to the archivist. “Thank you so much for waiting. You can seal it now.”
