Chapter Fifteen
Jess
Jess is excited despite herself to discover the place for their writing retreat – the birthplace, perhaps, of a great authorial partnership.
The Uber drive over to the house allowed her to clear her head and get hold of her runaway emotions – what had that been about, on the train?
It was probably just that her penchant for Main Character Energy had run away with her.
They hadn’t come here for some kind of forced-proximity misadventure.
They’d come to work, to be creatively productive, to talk about books and writing and plotline and characters.
It would be fun! And then, at the end of it – not the end of this weekend, but the end of the whole, well, thing – they would have a book. Something they could both be proud of.
Something with her name on it, out on the tables at Waterstones.
Something she could show to her grandparents, who had never quite understood what it was exactly that she did.
They were proud of her in a nebulous kind of way – their go-getter granddaughter, whose intelligence and brilliance it was possible they overestimated – and that was lovely.
But her grandpa kept getting confluence and influence mixed up and her grandma kept promising she’d ‘watch her little videos one day’.
Jess had no doubt she fully intended to; she imagined her opening her computer, clicking around, baffled, and then giving up and telling herself she’d try again the next day.
But a book on a table at Waterstones: that, they would understand.
Her name linked with the name of an author described in one review as perhaps the greatest of his generation.
The key is a little stiff in the lock, but once she pushes open the door, she gasps.
The house is all wooden beams and low ceilings, cosy rugs and lamps for subtle lighting.
In the corner of the living room, an open fireplace, with wood neatly stacked ready for use and instructions as to how to build a fire with maximum safety and efficiency.
Jess finds herself rubbing her hands in glee, like a cartoon character in a moment of excitement.
She has a good feeling about this place, about its potential over the next few days.
Wandering around, she finds a cupboard full of board games – noting, happily, that they include Scrabble.
She identifies the bedrooms, trying not to pre-empt a decision about who would get to sleep where, trying to set herself up for diplomacy and magnanimousness.
No, no, she would say to Alex, you pick.
She does like this one that she is standing in, though, with its view of the garden, the hint of blossom on some branches of the magnolia tree.
Maybe they could come back in a few weeks’ time, when they’re in full bloom; maybe even every season, to see the changing landscape of what seems like a very pretty town and to brainstorm, novel after novel, becoming a literary power couple as leaves turn and snow falls and trees bud again.
It is possible she is getting ahead of herself.
It is also possible that she has unintentionally used the word couple. Only to herself, and not out loud. It is recoverable. Better to make the mistake in the privacy of her own mind and then shake her head clear of such thoughts.
It is also possible that she is still blushing at where her thoughts have gone, when Alex knocks on the door. She attempts the deep breathing again, though it hasn’t been particularly effective so far today.
‘Hang on,’ she says, yanking the handle this way and that. There’s a knack and eventually she finds it, though she couldn’t say how.
‘I come bearing coffee,’ he says, nodding at his full hands. He must have knocked with his elbows.
Instant brownie points. She beams at him. Maybe this weekend won’t be so bad. Maybe it will be great.
‘That’s thoughtful,’ she says, taking both the cups from him so that he can remove his backpack, kick off his shoes, shrug off the journey, make himself at home. ‘Thank you.’
‘Flat white,’ he says. ‘One sugar.’
This does not feel like a coincidence. The blush that had possibly receded creeps back up Jess’s chest.
‘You remembered,’ she says. Her voice is probably giving too much away – too much wonder, too much gratitude. Because he has, after all, only remembered her order, as any thoughtful friend or colleague might.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Same order as me, but with sugar.’ He pauses, which Jess suspects is for effect. She suspects, from the twinkle in his eye, that a bad joke is coming, and she braces herself. ‘I don’t need it,’ he says. ‘I’m sweet enough already.’
She’s tempted to roll her eyes. But he’s just brought her coffee, so he deserves better.
Besides, she remembers how kind and gentle he’d been with her ridiculous sprained ankle that time. He may be a little prickly, a little porcupine-like, but it isn’t impossible there is some sweetness there, too. Remembering her order, bringing her a drink – those are indications, too.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ she says, with what she hopes is a hint of playful teasing in her voice.
Jess is beginning to relax into this whole endeavour.
This is someone she can work with. And this is a place she can work in – away from the distractions of London, fresh air coming through the windows along with birdsong (or perhaps that is still the angelic choir) and not the slightest distant roar of a motorway carrying commuters to and from their various grindstones.
Away from everything – this feels like a great place to write.
She doesn’t know much about the process, but when she’s imagined herself actually making progress on a novel beyond the first couple of chapters, she’s pictured long sessions in coffee shops with her laptop, taking time and care over sentences, shutting out the world.
She knows from the authors she’s interviewed and from occasionally having witnessed it that many writers snatch time in the car, waiting for their kids after school, or squeeze a tablet onto their knees on the train on their morning commute.
She admires what that says about their determination, their dedication to their craft.
But she can’t help thinking it’s not the platonic ideal of Being a Writer.
This cottage – this is far more like that platonic ideal.
Just her and her book. And a tall, handsome man who brings her coffee.