Two decades ago, on my first book tour, I had a long boozy lunch in Victoria, BC, with the late Jim Munro, first husband of the late Nobel Laureate, Alice. Our lunch has been on my mind ever since the revelation earlier this week by his youngest daughter, Andrea Robin Skinner, that she was sexually abused as a child by her step father, Gerald Fremlin, with whom Alice stayed until his death in 2013.
Jim Munro, the husband she left, was a handsome, moustachioed fella. Loquacious, exuberant, an unapologetic flirt. Like many successful independent booksellers of his era, Jim had a big ego. Visiting writers who gave readings at his profitable bookshop, Munro’s, were expected to ‘kiss the ring.’ This was fine because Jim Munro had something his competitors didn’t: A romantic history with a bonafide literary genius who’s work was almost universally adored by her peers.
Over the course of our lunch, Jim obliged me by telling long sentimental stories about his first lady love. He waxed on for some time about how beautiful and brilliant Alice was, but as the afternoon wore on and more wine was consumed, his mood darkened and a latent resentment began to bled through the nostalgic glow. I recognised his tone from other bruised divorcees I’d met. The end of the marriage had been Alice’s choice not his. By the second bottle, Jim had tired of my wide-eyed literary fan-ship. By the third, he decided to burst my bubble.
‘Alice has a lot to answer for,’ he said ominously. When I asked him to expand, he narrowed his eyes. ‘She’s a lot more selfish than most people supect.’