Chapter Thirty-Two #2
‘I don’t want to write your book with you,’ I said an hour later, while I diligently folded up Spence’s handwritten letters and slid them into thick, cream envelopes.
Despite how things had gone with Mum, my confidence had wavered as soon as I’d seen Spence, because she was acting like nothing had happened; like she hadn’t executed a plan that had left me trapped in her old house with Ethan, and still didn’t realize the emotional upheaval it had caused.
But my irritation had been steadily growing in the face of her breezy attitude, so as I sealed envelope fifteen I blurted it out.
‘What do you mean?’ Spence signed her name with a flourish at the bottom of another letter.
‘I mean that I don’t want to resurrect Amelie and Connor with you.’
She looked up, shocked. ‘But it’s all we’ve talked about. What about all the preparation we’ve put in – your jaunt to the open house?’
‘Jaunt?’ I shook my head. ‘We need to get it out in the open that my jaunt had nothing to do with Amelie and Connor. You wanted to see what would happen if I was locked in there with Ethan, and I … had my own reasons.’
‘Which I’m still none the wiser about.’
‘Good.’ I went back to folding and sliding and sticking.
Spence laughed. ‘You don’t want to write a new Cornish Sands book with me, then?’
I swallowed. Those two words did something to me: my adoration of her series had created some kind of Pavlovian response. ‘I’m going to write something of my own,’ I said, my voice only wavering slightly. ‘Something that’s entirely my idea.’
Spence didn’t say anything for a long time, and eventually I looked over at her, sitting in her armchair, her portable leather writing desk perched across the armrests. ‘You’re certainly good enough, Georgie,’ she said.
I scoffed. ‘How do you know that?’
‘You think I wanted any old journalist to be my PA? That I didn’t read your articles, do my research first? Your editor published your short story about the mermaid.’
‘I wrote that when I was eighteen.’
‘Yes, but all your pieces have energy, a narrative, even if it’s only an account of the Alperwick Flower Festival.
A writer can spot another talented writer a mile off, and you’ve got it.
’ She tapped her fountain pen against the leather surface.
‘You really don’t want to help me with Amelie and Connor? ’
I thought of all the letters I’d written under the guise of her star-crossed lovers. ‘I’ve spent enough time with other people’s characters. I need to focus on my own.’
She nodded, though her eyes were bright with something that wasn’t mischief, and she looked her age, suddenly; frail and small. I wavered, but I knew I had to do this.
‘I’m so touched by your offer, Spence, and I’ll still be your PA if you want me.
I’ll help you bring Connor and Amelie the happy ending they deserve in any way I can – research and emails; whatever other support you need – but I don’t want to write it with you.
It’s time I wrote something that is wholly mine. ’
Spence took out another piece of notepaper, lying it precisely on the board in front of her, and I held my breath. She looked up at me, her lips twitching in that familiar way. ‘That, Georgie, is a perfect solution. Because I can’t do without you, you know. I pretend I can, but I rely on you.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘No you don’t. You have Denise.’
‘Denise can’t fold a letter like you can: she has fat fingers.’
‘Spence!’
‘I’m serious. You can’t walk out of my life now.’
‘OK.’ I turned properly to face her, folding my arms. ‘I won’t walk out, but you can’t do anything else to me. You can’t manipulate me or trick me or plan anything behind my back, and you have to leave me to do what I need to do.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘With Ethan?’
Warmth rushed over me. ‘With everything.’
‘Sarah says he’s distr—’
‘Stop!’ I held my hand up. ‘This is what I’m talking about. No tricks or hints or … anything. If you’re still in touch with Sarah, that’s none of my business.’ But it was so hard not asking her to finish that sentence. What was Ethan? Distraught? Distressed? Distracted?
‘Understood.’ Spence nodded, all business. ‘No more funny stuff. And if you support me with my book, then I’ll support you with yours. Whatever you need, though I promise not to interfere.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’ She sounded surprised. ‘You mean a lot to me. I might not always show it in the best way, but it’s true. I want you to succeed, but I selfishly want you to do it while still spending time with me.’
I nodded, my nose prickling unexpectedly. ‘Course. You are my favourite author, after all. That counts for a lot. Now, do you want another coffee? How many more of these letters are there to do today?’
‘We’re about quarter of the way through,’ she said, then tutted when my mouth fell open.
‘I’m lots of other people’s favourite author, too.
Think yourself lucky you get more access to me than most. It’s not something you should be taking for granted.
Now, don’t forget, I want cream in my coffee because it’s Friday.
Not plain old milk like you gave me last time. ’
I hid my smile as I went into the kitchen. Order was restored, but I felt better equipped to deal with Spence now, my slowly growing confidence like heavy metal beams supporting a splintering wooden foundation, shoring me up and making me stronger.