Chapter 3 Julia
That woman is impossible. One minute she’s taking over my personal space, hellbent on winding me up.
Next, she’s disappearing off to her room to sulk in the bath for the rest of the night.
I don’t know what’s worse, being worked up by her poor attempts at a joke or finding the building horribly quiet without her hanging about the place.
I wanted to offer more kind words at dinner last night, to tell her I understand how brutal a breakup can be.
But the way she closed up after I apologised told me everything I needed to know.
You can’t talk to people when they’re in that mood.
When their walls are so high they’ve cast themselves in full shadow.
Mel has made it clear that she wants to be left alone.
And I can absolutely do that. A quiet morning in the library might help me get my head down, make some decent progress on this manuscript.
The older old man arrives at breakfast with his suitcase in tow.
Jack makes a joke about the building turning into a women’s retreat with him and the other older man checking out.
I can’t bring myself to smile back at them, thinking about how empty the place will be today.
Trying not to wonder whether Mel will grace us with her presence.
***
It’s almost noon when Mel joins me in the library, eyes downcast as she takes up a seat at the front of the room.
Yesterday I would have appreciated this subdued entrance, the way she flicks softly through the pages of her notebook, long, blonde hair spilling about her broad shoulders as she leans over it.
But today I feel a complicated mix of emotions.
I miss the energy from yesterday, the anticipation of bad jokes.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if she wants to get some fresh air, to go for a walk around the grounds, but then Mel picks up her pen, curls an arm around her notepad and starts writing.
Not the slow, deliberate cursive that I am used to, thinking about every letter I add to the page, but a fevered scrawl, a deluge of words.
This must be how she writes, how she offloads her thoughts on page.
It’s equal parts fascinating and horrifying to watch.
Jealousy creeps over me like a prickling heat. I want to be able to do that, to allow myself to get the words down without them being perfect. But when I look at my page, at the bullet-pointed prompts I’ve written for myself, my mind goes blank.
Mel runs her left hand across her scalp, then combs her fingers through the pale blonde hair at her neck, gripping it into a fist as she writes.
It’s such an innocuous, unconscious gesture, but I find myself transfixed.
My entire skin turning hot thinking about those long, thick fingers tangling in my own hair.
No.
I snatch the glasses off my face, rubbing my knuckles across my eyes. The woman is going through a breakup, I should not be thinking about her hands like that. I should not be thinking about her at all, I should be fucking writing.
A jangling bell brings me back to the room.
My own phone alerting me about lunchtime.
The first time I’ve actually needed the reminder.
I pick up my notebook and stand, sidling behind Mel to the door.
She doesn’t look up, seems completely immersed in her work.
Exactly how I imagined myself writing on this retreat.
***
Three spoonfuls into my carrot and coriander soup, Mel slumps down opposite me at the lunch table. Her eyes are red rimmed, cheeks blotchy with pink. She has been crying, but the way her face is set, jaw tight, makes me think she doesn’t want to be questioned on the matter.
She smiles at Jack as he bustles in to take her order, giving him the grin that tugs slightly to the left. Irritatingly endearing. But now, I am starting to wonder if that is her fake smile. There is no warmth in her eyes. Only the pink shadow of broken capillaries.
Once the door closes behind Jack, I put down my spoon and say, “You seem to be really into your project. What are you working on?”
“It’s not much of anything at the minute,” Mel says, smoothing the curling edges of the notebook with the flat of her palm.
“Another travel book?”
“No. Just some ideas I’ve been ruminating on for a while. I don’t know what it’s going to turn into.”
Mel picks up the disposable plastic pen and spins it absently between her fingers. I pull my glasses off swiftly, trying to distract myself from staring at her hands by rubbing the lenses with the soft wool of my skirt.
“Would you like to workshop some ideas?” I ask, hoping my curiosity comes across as purely professional.
“With you? God no.” Mel properly laughs then, a deep sound from her chest.
“Why not with me?”
“You’ll tear it apart.”
“No I won’t! Why’d you think that?”
“Because you love critiquing things.”
“I love critiquing a finished piece. Not something in its early stages like this,” I say, indignantly, positioning the glasses firmly back on my nose so I can read her face again.
“Sure.”
“Is that how you think of me?”
“Critical? Yeah.” Mel leans back in the chair to appraise me, folding her arms tight across her faded blue striped shirt.
“I always assumed you’d become a critic or something.
Maybe a reviewer for the Novel Times. You’re very good at dissecting a piece of art, looking for cracks that you can prise open. ”
“Oh, right.” Something about this observation stings, even though I know she’s right.
I do enjoy giving feedback and being a master of my craft.
I work hard to call myself an expert. But perhaps in focusing on perfectionism, I’ve lost some of the raw energy that drives a piece; the energy that Mel is channelling so intensely at the moment.
How I’d love to be so passionate and uninhibited.
No wonder she doesn’t want me to disrupt her flow.
“Why, how do you think of me?” she asks.
“I don’t,” I say, a bit too quickly, and Mel widens her eyes.
Even in the pale light of the dining room, I can see the watercolour hue of her irises.
The greyish green flecked with gold. Eyes that I’ve seen hundreds of times on social media, staring blankly out from the screen.
But in person, there’s a curious depth to them, an intensity that makes my pulse spike.
“I mean, I don’t think about what kind of writer you are. ”
“You’re making this worse.” Mel raises an eyebrow. “Now I know you don’t think of me as a writer.”
Jack pushes the door open with his hip, carrying a tray of soup and bread, balancing two glasses of water in his right hand.
“’Ow we doin’ in here?” he says, laying the food down on the linen placemat in front of Mel.
“Good, thanks,” she and I say in unison.
“Peas in a pod, you two.” Jack chuckles. “You’ll be in each other’s pockets by the end of the week.”
When he leaves, I shift the topic away from my thoughts on Mel to something easier to navigate. “How long are you here for?”
“A couple of weeks. I booked the room out for as long as it was available. Delaying the inevitable return home. What about you?”
“Until the end of the month. That’s when my deadline is.”
“Oof, that’s a tight deadline,” Mel says, spreading a half-melted coin of butter on her bread.
“Hardly, it’s been set for over a year.”
“Final stretch then?”
“It would be, if I’d written anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve barely committed to a title, let alone the plot.”
“What’s the working title?”
“Beneath the Baker’s Touch.”
Mel stifles a laugh. “Wow ok.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m just picturing the cover—a ruggedly handsome baker whose heart is as soft as his dough?”
“I might steal that for marketing,” I say, enjoying Mel’s shift in energy.
“Go for it.” Mel smiles, and the light glints in her eyes. “So, is this baker man inspired by anyone? Boyfriend? Or maybe a little crush fuelling the fire?”
“Oh god, no. My characters are always completely fictional.”
“Sure. But no harm in drawing inspiration from real people. A handsome man at the coffee shop perhaps?”
“I’m not really into men,” I say, without meaning to be so blunt, but this piques Mel’s interest.
“Oh. What about women?”
“Yes. Most of my relationships have been with women.”
“Ohh.” Mel tears into a piece of bread, then swipes it through her soup. “I didn’t realise you were queer.”
“You’ve never asked.”
“When would I have asked that?” Mel half smiles. “You never stick around for a chat.”
“I’m not a big fan of chitchat. I prefer a proper conversation.”
“What makes a conversation proper?”
“I don’t know… interesting topics, more meaningful discussion, challenging questions—”
“Okay, well here’s a challenging question for you. Why are you writing straight books when you’re queer?”
“They’re romance books. And I’m a romance writer.” I shrug, scraping the last of my soup. “It’s my job.”
“But you just told me you’re not really into men.”
“This is fiction, it’s different. Besides, it’s fun to write yearning men, it makes me feel like a Bronte sister.”
“If you like writing about yearning, why not try your hand at sapphic romance?”
“I prefer to have a degree of professional separation from my work. Not all of us write autofiction.”
“Ouch!” Mel rubs a hand across her jaw as though I’ve struck her. “How about a little sugar coating for the broken hearted?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right,” she sighs. “My personal and professional lives are way too entwined and now I have to untangle that whole fucking mess.”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up—”
“It’s my own fault for starting a debate with you.
” Mel makes a sound that is almost a laugh but laced with something else.
A quiet resignation. “Well thanks for the proper conversation. It’s probably time for me to get back to work.
” She stands, picking up her notebook and pen. “See you in the library.”
“See you.”
I watch her abandon the end of another meal.
So much for big appetite. Then again, if I was in the throes of writing like her, I would be keen to get back too.
That sensation of being fully immersed in a story is completely addictive, and I am starting to crave it myself.
But how can I get it back? It’s been almost a year since I unclipped from reality like that.
What if I have lost the ability entirely?
I can’t bear the idea of returning to the library to watch Mel scribble away.
So instead, I swing by my room to pick up a coat and take myself out on a walk.
Outside is surprisingly dry, but as soon as I turn a corner out of the shelter of the house, the wind takes my breath away.
Clouds are darkening overhead. A pressure building in the air as I pace across the frost hardened grounds. It feels like a storm is on the way.
***
I return to my room damp and dishevelled, jumping into the shower to freshen up.
Over the rush of water, I hear the wind picking up outside, whistling through the gaps in the old stained-glass windows.
It’ll be warmer in the library, sitting amongst the books with the heater on.
Cosy even. And Mel will be there. An image that makes me feel strangely flushed from the inside.
Though I’m expecting it, my stomach still turns over when I enter the library and see Mel bent over her notebook, writing. She looks up at me and smiles, a genuine curve of her lips, and my stomach swishes uneasily again.
“Where’ve you been all afternoon?” she asks, leaning back in the chair.
“Popped out for a little fresh air.”
“Did you get wet?”
“What?” I say, a little too abruptly.
“You’ve changed.” Mel gestures to my outfit, a cream cashmere polo neck and mocha pleated midi skirt. A little more figure hugging than the heavy wool numbers I’ve been defaulting to. Her eyes slide down my body, taking it in.
“Ah, yes.” I smooth the waistband of my skirt. “I didn’t take an umbrella with me.”
“It looks wild out there,” she says, turning to look out of the window.
“I saw a telegraph pole leaning across one of the country lanes on my way back. I hope it doesn’t take down the overhead wires.”
The strip lights in the ceiling flicker.
“Ooooh, you jinxed it!” Mel laughs, bright and loud in the quiet space.
I bite my lip, half to stop myself laughing along with her, and half in concern for the electricity. I’ve never been here during a storm before, I don’t know how these old buildings cope with their ancient wiring systems.
“I hope not,” I say, moving back to my usual spot by the window. Outside, the wind is howling across the gardens, tumbling plastic plant pots along the grass.
“At least we have supplies,” Mel says, patting the half empty bag of sweets on her desk.
“How kind of you to share.”
“Hmm, perhaps we could discuss a trade. Do you have a secret stash of treats up in your room?” Mel grins, making me feel hot beneath my polo neck.
“A jar of instant coffee?”
“Er, no thank you. I’m more of a latte kinda gal.”
“Says the woman making instant noodles in her room.”
“That’s a different kettle of fish.” Mel chuckles. “Maybe you could offer your services instead?”
My mouth goes dry.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Maybe you could give me some feedback on my opening chapter?”
“Oh,” the sound is an exhalation, but not quite the relief I needed. “I thought you didn’t want my critical feedback?”
“Once I got back to my desk, I realised that students pay good money for that sort of critique.” Mel twizzles her pen between thumb and forefinger, watching my face. “It would be foolish of me to pass up feedback from Professor Fay.”
“I’d be happy to take a look at something,” I say, holding her steady gaze. “Whenever you’re ready to share.”
“Great. And I’ll gladly return the favour. But you can keep those coffee granules to yourself.” Mel twists in her seat, back to her notebook and I breathe slowly through pursed lips, letting my heart rate settle.
Why does the idea of Melissa Turner giving me feedback fill me with such anxiety. Or is it anxiety? Maybe it’s something else—a strange and unexpected desire for her approval. To hear her say out loud that she likes my work.
If only I had some work to share.