Chapter Thirty
Alex
Sipping his flat white in the coffee shop while he waits for Jess, Alex ponders the progress they have made together.
The book is gradually taking shape, like a misshapen lump of clay being remoulded into something that’s both beautiful and useful.
Alex feels connected to his characters in ways he hasn’t for a while – not since his first novel, when they had seemed to come alive and talk to him in ways that he knows make no sense to people who don’t write, who haven’t experienced this phenomenon first-hand.
Of course, it’s always possible that he’s confusing his sense of connection with his characters with connection with Jess.
She, too, talks about the characters as if they’re real, with fondness and affection for them.
Maybe this is part of the reason why she had wanted them all to survive – she has become attached to them.
That is always a dangerous thing as a writer.
A good plot often relies on catastrophes and difficult situations for the characters to show their mettle, for them to grow and change and learn.
You have to be willing to turn the pressure up, to throw your characters into tricky quandaries, to have them experience pain and jeopardy.
He has tried to explain this to Jess, as gently and unpatronisingly as he knows how.
But he caught her wincing, and then caught himself not wanting to hurt characters because of how much they mean to her.
Just as she’s become too attached to their characters, he’s become too attached to her. All of which is a little terrifying.
‘Hey.’
Jess is sliding into the seat opposite him, flat white in hand.
He hadn’t noticed her come in – hadn’t noticed that he has been sitting with his notebook open and his pen poised above it in the air for goodness knows how long.
He’s shaken out of his thoughts by the sight of her, by how pretty she looks today, with her hair down and the burnt orange jumper which seems to bring out the colour in her face and the green in her eyes.
Yes. He’s definitely too attached.
‘Hi,’ he says, his voice cracking a little. A throwback to his inability to speak to his teenage crushes. His cheeks burn.
‘You seem very deep in thought.’
It’s charitable of her not to point out the strikingly deep red he has probably just turned.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘Penny for them.’
‘Ah, sorry. I don’t take cash.’
‘Contactless? No problem.’
She holds out her phone as if about to pay. It’s silly, but it makes him laugh, and he loves how satisfied she looks to have provoked this reaction. But then she says, ‘No, but seriously. Tell me.’
‘Fine.’ He sighs. She isn’t going to like this. ‘I was just thinking that we need to push a bit harder on tragedy. Amp up the stakes, make the characters face some hard things.’
‘They’ve just been in a plane crash,’ she says. ‘You don’t think that’s enough trauma?’
‘The more trauma the better,’ he says, and there’s that wince again, followed immediately by the pinch in his own heart.
‘I was thinking the opposite,’ she says. ‘I was thinking that maybe what this narrative needs is for us to lean a little harder on the romance.’
He’s been expecting this. He’s surprised it hasn’t come sooner.
They’ve explored plot lines with marriages in trouble, with feuding friends reconciling, with one passenger thinking about his long-ago lost love as he plunged, he assumed, to his death.
It’s bad enough that they’ve had to pair up a couple of passengers.
So obvious. A little cinematic, and not in a good way – in an angling-for-a-film-deal kind of way.
And now Jess seems to be suggesting that she wants to dig deeper into their story.
Surely, she’s not going to suggest a third-act breakup and a grand gesture at the end?
He knows, though, that in pairing him with Jess in the first place, this is exactly the kind of thing Nathan had in mind.
Alex takes a deep breath in, then a slow breath out, aware of Jess watching him intently as he does so.
‘Okay,’ he says eventually.
‘Okay?’
‘In exchange for some additional trauma.’
Her turn, now, to breathe in deeply; his turn to watch her as various emotions cross her face: fear, thoughtfulness, resignation. Something like the stages of grief.
‘Deal,’ she says. ‘It’s only fair. We can at least try.’
He hadn’t expected her to agree so readily.
‘We’re really only at the drafting stage,’ she says. ‘Who knows what Nathan will cut. We might as well throw everything at the wall and see what sticks.’
Ah. This explains it. Jess is clearly aware that Nathan won’t cut the romance.
She might, however, think he’ll cut some of the near death, the injury, the heartbreak.
But Alex knows he won’t. Trauma is, after all, where Alex shines – ‘intricate examination of the psychology of suffering’ is a phrase that has been used in reviews of his novels.
‘Insightful empathy,’ another. This is what his fans come to him for.
Romance – not so much. But maybe Nathan is right: maybe romance will bring Jess’s fans along for the ride.
Maybe this book will be his most successful yet, the one that entices a whole new audience.
The key will be to tread delicately, so as not to alienate his original readers.
But Alex also knows the pain of editing.
The pain that Jess feels when a character is plunged into hot water is the pain he feels when a carefully drawn character is removed or an intricately plotted storyline is cut.
Editing is a logistical nightmare for a thoughtfully written book, the kind where each part of the plot links together, each character’s storyline propelling the others’.
Removing planks is intellectual Jenga, requiring just as much care.
If you edit out the wrong thing, the whole structure crumbles, even when that thing does not appear to be foundational.
Weaving in new plotlines isn’t without its risks or its difficulties.
So it’s best if once they’re in, they’re in for good.
‘I’m fairly certain the added trauma will stick,’ he says. It will have to.
‘We’ll see.’ She’s smirking; she knows that in some sense she has won.
And their old rivalry – the chemistry of that competitiveness – is back.
He relishes this. It seems less dangerous than other kinds of chemistry, and almost, though not quite, as enjoyable.
It’s going to be a good session, he can tell already – brainstorming new angles for the plot, maybe zooming in on characters who until now had only been in the background.
In his pocket, his phone vibrates. Should he ignore it?
He should probably ignore it. Allow the creative buzz he can feel bubbling in the pit of his stomach to take over the afternoon, enjoy the creative process with Jess.
But when – aside from those addle-brained days in Godalming – has he ever been able to ignore a ringing phone?
It could be someone from his family. Someone might need him.
Jess is looking at him, waiting for him to continue their verbal sparring. Expectant. And he very much wants to be able to concentrate on that. But he knows he can’t concentrate until he has picked up his phone and at least checked it’s nothing urgent.
‘Hold that thought,’ he says to her, and reaches into his pocket.
His heart sinks when he sees the name: Francesca.
Sister number three. ‘I’m sorry,’ he tells Jess.
‘I have to take this.’ He doesn’t focus on her face; he doesn’t want to see the disappointment there, doesn’t want to see her wish he would give her his full attention, when that’s all he wants to do himself.
He stands up from the table, paces a little until he finds a spot in a recessed corner.
‘Hello,’ he says into the phone, and has to stop himself from adding, What do you want? But once Francesca starts speaking, he softens. He loves all his siblings; he can’t say no to any of them. They all know this. Do they take advantage? Maybe. But is he glad they do? Also maybe.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘How’s my favourite big brother?’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ he says, evenly. Instead of, I’m a little annoyed that you’ve interrupted this moment, actually. ‘You?’
‘Oh, you know.’ She laughs, but he can tell it’s forced, an attempt at bringing light-heartedness into a stressful moment.
And he knows there are a lot of stressful moments in Francesca’s life, that she barely has time to breathe, let alone eat or shower, with three under-fives at home.
She’s logged dozens, if not hundreds, of hours at A it’s an expression of love.
‘Okay,’ she says. She takes a sip of her flat white – a performative sip, surely, as she must have finished it by now. A pause, he guesses, for dramatic effect, or to give him a chance to re-evaluate what he’s just said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing.’
If there’s one thing Alex has learned in his short time on this earth, it’s that when a woman says nothing, that is almost never what she means. He chews on the inside of his cheek, considering whether to pursue this any further.
‘Come on,’ he says at last. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’
She takes a deep breath, as if preparing for something intense. He braces for impact.
‘It just seems like your family maybe takes you for granted a little bit.’
He leaps to their defence, as he always does – as a loyal brother should. ‘I don’t get that sense.’
‘When was the last time someone in your family did something for you?’
‘Oh, they do all the time.’
In that moment, though, he’s unable to think of a specific example.
His sister Jen planned his last book launch, but that was more than four years ago at this point.
And he used to get invitations to dinner all the time, but he can’t remember when that last happened without it being linked in some way to babysitting or another favour.
He opens his mouth again, hoping something will come out, but it doesn’t. He closes his mouth again.
‘When you were in the US, they just had to cope, right? Figure things out without you?’
‘There were fewer nieces and nephews then. Life was easier.’
‘Oh, so before nieces and nephews, they never asked you for anything?’
She is backing him into a corner, and he isn’t sure why. Where is she going with this? He wishes he hadn’t opened up to her about the frustrations of family. About being the Reuben, the boringly reliable older brother.
‘I worry about you,’ she says. Her voice is gentle, her brow furrowed with compassion, but the words don’t land gently. ‘I worry that you let your family take advantage of you too much.’
‘Yeah, well.’ His voice is louder than he intends. ‘At least I have a relationship with my family.’
The instant the words are out of his mouth, all he wants to do is take them back. Jess winces, bites her lip. He is mortified, devastated. Here he is, having done the very thing he was trying to avoid by not getting too close: hurt her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, but it’s too late. Her eyes are filling. ‘I didn’t mean it.’
‘I think you did,’ she says.
He wishes she were wrong. A high-pitched sound rings in his ear: the sound of panic. What to do, what to do? How to make this better? He doesn’t know. He’s ruined everything. He has to go.
‘I have to go,’ he says, gathering up his things. Maybe she’ll think the emergency babysitting is now. Let her think that. He’ll figure it out later. For now, he needs to get out of here, before he forgets how to breathe.