Steffi
My phone starts ringing the second Nicki finishes unwrapping her pointless future landfills. I’d already withdrawn my present from the pile before she started opening them and hid it under the sofa to take home later because, yes, I am nine years old. So what if I don’t have a bump for the Neal’s Yard Bump Juice? I’m going to smother myself in the whole tub when I get home from this godawful greenhouse of hell. Spite smells of organic lavender and ylang-ylang – who knew?
I see that it’s Rosa again and run to the bathroom to take it. But the door’s locked and a queue’s already forming outside it. I message her, saying I’ll call in five, and stalk about trying to find somewhere quiet. Downstairs is all crepe paper, cranes, and crowds, so I duck under the makeshift rope on the staircase and sneak up. Four master bedrooms branch off from a glass corridor that overlooks the entire countryside. Two of the doors have signs in Charlotte’s cursive writing that say, ‘Baby Sleeping – Do Not Disturb ’. But, past them, there’s an empty bathroom. I duck in, locking the door behind me, and put the loo seat down to use as a chair.
‘Rosa, what’s up?’ I ask, taking in the monolith bathroom. The toiletries don’t match the bathroom itself. An own-brand Sainsbury’s hand soap nestles between the two sinks, and a neon bottle of lime Original Source swims in a puddle on the floor of the rainforest shower.
‘I want you to withdraw the book,’ Rosa tells me breathlessly. ‘Sorry, but I can’t do it. I don’t want to be published.’
‘Ahh.’
‘. . . I’m sorry for wasting everyone’s time, but I think this book was just meant for me, you know?’ She rushes on. ‘Just a nice thing for me. I don’t want other people to read it and judge it. I don’t want my life to change. Honestly, , sorry, but is it too late to back out?’
I take a breath. Rosa’s following the debut author algorithm perfectly. I have no doubt that, by the time we hang up, everything will be fine again. She’s just having the freak-out all major debuts do when they can’t trust their wildest dreams are coming true. All the smartest authors freak out. They know nothing is ever going to be the same again. And they’re right, it won’t. But it will be better, so much better, especially as my author care is second-to-none. It’s so important to monitor and support an author’s mental health in their debut year. Everyone goes a bit loopy. It’s a mixture of things. Often, it’s hard for them to adjust to the actual realities of their dream being realised. The publishing industry is brutal. And when they imagined getting a book deal, they didn’t imagine tax forms, bad reviews, bookshelf placement (or lack therefore . . .), being snubbed for awards, and needing to write a second novel within a year. I’m happy to guide them through the adjustments, overwhelms and disappointments until they’re out the other side – slightly embittered but mentally healthier.
‘It’s not too late to back out, no,’ I tell Rosa calmly. ‘I’ll support you whatever you decide.’
God, it feels so good to be on the phone, being good at my job, after overhearing that awful conversation earlier.
‘It’s just all too much. All of it. Nina Baldwin . . . the Hollywood stuff. I . . . I . . . I never even thought I’d get an agent, let alone you. And then I never thought I’d get published, and now this . . .’
‘It’s because you’re talented and you’ve worked your arse off,’ I say.
‘But I’m not. Writing is just a silly hobby.’
‘Rosa, you’re a star. I know that’s overwhelming to hear, but you’re a star and you were always supposed to be a star. The world needs your book. The world needs your perspective.’
‘But—’
‘—I’ve told you before how Blood Moon completely changed my opinion on about five key things. It opened my mind, it opened my heart. I learned so much, and, what’s so amazing about your writing, is that I loved every single moment of that learning experience. It would break my heart to deny the world of that.’
‘But . . . I’m . . .’
I swap my phone to my other ear and apply my very best soothing voice. ‘I know all of this is overwhelming. I know it feels surreal. I can’t tell you nothing will change, because it will. But don’t you want it to change? Isn’t that why you sent me this glorious manuscript? Because you want people to read your work, to get that perspective? Part of you, a part that might be a bit buried and overwhelmed right now, knows that, it believes in you. It believed in you enough to get you to write this book. Listen to that voice, Rosa. It believes in you, and I believe in you.’ I smile so she can hear it in my voice. ‘Yes, the next two years of your life are going to be insane, but I’ll be holding your hand every single step of the way. I won’t let go.’
‘I don’t know.’ Rosa’s breathing starts to match mine. She’s speaking from her chest now, not her throat.
‘Holding your hand every step of the way.’
‘But . . . the money. What will I even do with it?’
‘You’ll move out of the flat share that you hate.’
She laughs. ‘Then what?’
‘You’ll hire the amazing accountant I recommend to sort your taxes out, and you’ll realise you’re not as rich as you think because you’re going to lose half of it to tax. You will suddenly get about 30 per cent more right-wing the second you calculate your tax bill.’
She splutters with laughter then falls quiet again.
‘This book . . . it’s my soul, . It’s who I am . . . If I get a big deal, a film . . . everyone’s going to hate on it.’
I nod. ‘It’s going to utterly transform some people’s lives in the best way. There will be millions of people out there, myself included, who will divide their lives into ‘before’ and ‘after’ the time they read Blood Moon. Your work is going to inspire and save people.’ I pick up a tube of toothpaste on the side, squeezing it around to give my hands something to do. ‘But, I won’t lie to you. Lots of people will hate it and will tell everyone they can how much it sucks. That’s the nature of writing books. Honestly, go onto Goodreads and see what idiots say about your favourite books. To Kill A Mockingbird? One star. Not enough birds in it.’
She laughs down the line and I leave a long silence, hearing my heart thump through my thin dress. I’m confident I’ve got this, but, if she does back out, I’m so utterly fucked. I blink away thoughts of emailing the most powerful people in the business and withdrawing the manuscript . . . I’ll be blacklisted . . . I’ll go bankrupt. Rosa cannot know how important she is to my future. ‘I’m just . . . a bit freaked out.’
‘Of course you are. But my hand. It’s here. Holding yours.’ I leave another lengthy silence. ‘Have you considered this might be the best thing that’s ever happened to you? You never need to worry about money ever again. You can write every day for the rest of your life. What you love the most. No more squeezing it in around your day job.’
‘Hmm . . .’
‘Whatever you want to do, I’ll support you.’
‘I . . . I . . . You’re right. It’s all good. I just feel a bit freaked out.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ring your friends. Go out. Tell them the news. Make this real. Don’t just stew in this alone. No wonder you’re going a bit mad.’
‘I can’t tell my friends yet! What if it doesn’t happen?’
I smile and replace the toothpaste, knowing we’re safe, as she’s worried it will be taken away. This is just a wobble. ‘Rosa, I promise you now, this book will be published in a major deal with a major publisher. That is definitely going to happen – in the UK, and the US and Germany, and judging by my emails so far, probably at least another twenty countries too. That is all definitely going to happen. The film stuff? That I can’t promise you. I mean, we’re definitely going to get a major option deal, but that doesn’t mean anything will get made because Hollywood is crazy and nothing ever gets made. But this much is real and you can trust it. You can trust me.’
There’s a deep sigh down the line and I cross my fingers and wait. ‘. . . OK . . . you’re right . . . sorry. I’m thrilled, I really am. It’s just a lot.’
‘It is, but I’ve got you. Now, go ring some people. Do you want me to come to Brixton? I’m stuck in Surrey but I can hop on a train and be with you by late afternoon?’
‘I’m actually meeting friends for lunch. I wasn’t going to tell them, but I might.’
‘Tell them. This is real, I promise.’
We chat for a few further moments and I admit I drag it out a bit as I really don’t want to go back downstairs. When we hang up, I wilt on the toilet in relief, my head hanging between my legs, my hair drooping to the ground. Now the crisis is over, I can allow myself a second to let it panic me. I cannot imagine what a disaster it would’ve been if I hadn’t been able to talk Rosa around.
But I did. I did.
I wash my hands even though I didn’t pee and look at my reflection in the mirror. It’s speckled with toothpaste, and between the flecks, I see my face melting off, my hair frizzing, and there’s an undeniable pain coming off me like a literal sweat. I was grateful for this work distraction, but back outside is a world where I overheard my best friend openly bitch about me. It hurts so much I don’t even know how I’m going to drive home with her. I stare out the one-way glass at the dusty mess of countryside and let the view calm me. I allow myself one more deep sigh and, I’m just about to descend back into the party, when I hear a baby cry.
Through the doors, a symphony of women’s voices float up the staircase. The punch must be getting everyone loose and there’s a collective hum punctuated with the occasional shriek of laughter. There it is again. A baby crying out from down the glass corridor. I turn back, listening out, trying to locate which door it’s coming from. There’s a scream and I grasp the doorknob, ready to go in and help. But I hesitate. What if the mum’s already in there, comforting the baby? They’ll hate me if I barge in. I lean against the wood and listen out for a hushed lullaby, but I just get another shrill scream.
It’s unbearable.
This one is so awful, my bodily response so visceral, that, without even making the decision, I push into the dark bedroom.
‘Is everything OK?’ I call out.
It’s midnight black inside. I blink to acclimatise and the light from the hall streams in, revealing a distraught Woody. He’s standing up in the cot, holding the bars like a caged pirate, face streaming with tears, his whole body shaking.
‘Woody, baby. Shh, it’s OK, it’s OK.’
I glance around for Lauren, expecting her to run through the door any second to comfort him. But now Woody’s aware someone’s in the room with him, he screams even louder. He drops to the bottom of the cot, thrashing around like he’s having some kind of fit.
‘Hey Woody, it’s OK. It’s OK.’ I run over and sort of hover next to him, figuring out what to do. The baby monitor must be broken. I could dash downstairs to tell Lauren, but I don’t think I can leave him for even one minute.
He screams so loud my stomach hurts.
‘Yes, I know. Baby showers are awful. I want to go home too.’
He reaches out his pudgy arms, speaking this weird language, begging me to lift him. Actual real tears spill endlessly down his face.
‘Shh, it’s OK,’ I bend down and heave him out of the cot. ‘We’ll go get Mummy, I promise. Shh, shh.’
Woody buries himself into my shoulder, howling, and I bounce him up and down as he wets my dress with his tears.