Chapter 19
Harriet whisked Stella into a booth in a busy trattoria a few minutes’ walk away from the publishing house.
A bottle of wine wrapped in raffia was plonked on the table in front of them along with a basket full of bread to gnaw on while they waited.
People kept stopping by the table to talk to Harriet and she introduced Stella as her latest discovery.
‘So tell me everything.’ Harriet was slathering butter onto her bread. ‘You’re the most intriguing person I’ve met for a long time.’
‘I’ve told you everything, really. I write and draw while Ted’s at school. Or when he’s in bed. And that’s … it.’
She realised it was. She honestly didn’t do much else. It was a lonely life in some ways, although she never really felt alone with Ted, they were such a little twosome. But it would probably drive most people mad. She’d trained herself to be stoic and self-sufficient and not want for much.
‘Where did you learn to draw? Did you go to art school? You must have done.’
‘No. I wanted to but … the war.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘It had been my plan but I was working, and volunteering for the fire service.’
‘Golly. That was brave.’
‘We all had to muck in, didn’t we?’
‘I like to think I’d have done something brave if I’d been older, but I was still at school. What did you do?’
‘Organising, mostly. Making tea. But I did some driving too.’
If Stella shut her eyes, the chatter in the restaurant could be the buzz inside the school where their local fire service had set up camp.
She’d loved the camaraderie, the banter between the fire fighters and the volunteers, the jokes that flew around even while they were preparing for a night of bombardment, the way the energy levels went up even higher when a call came in and it was all hands to the pump.
Even if she didn’t actually attend the fires, it was dangerous, for the school could take a hit at any time.
‘That’s incredible.’
Harriet was looking at her in admiration. She was leaning her head in one hand, her wine glass in the other.
‘I’m just glad it’s over.’ Stella took another gulp of wine.
She tried not to think about those days.
It had been an extraordinary time, with intense relationships, split-second decisions to be made, constant adrenaline alternating with the flat tedium of waiting, waiting, waiting for the next attack, fuelled by tea and biscuits, gossip and snatched sleep. And sadness …
‘And it’s just you and your son on the boat?’
Stella suspected wine was making Harriet ask questions she wouldn’t have asked in the office. Though maybe this was part of the interviewing process? Getting her to let her guard down.
‘Ted’s father was lost in the war. Towards the end.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m never going to find anyone else like him. So I haven’t even looked.’
It was the most she had talked about her private life to anyone for a long time.
Harriet frowned. ‘Don’t shut yourself away. You’re too beautiful, too clever, too talented.’
Stella found herself blushing. She wasn’t used to anyone taking any notice of her, let alone paying her compliments. ‘I’m used to being on my own.’
‘If you become an internationally bestselling children’s author, you’ll be beating them off with sharp sticks.’
‘If …’
‘I’ve got a good feeling.’ Harriet clinked her glass gently against Stella’s.
As the waiter arrived with bowls of steaming minestrone, Stella felt a surge of warmth.
Perhaps all she’d been missing was a friend?
Someone to confide in, and laugh with, to go shopping with and to get ready to go out on the town with, to share gossip and hopes and dreams?
She didn’t have anyone in Breverton, because she kept herself at arm’s length from everyone.
She supposed she was a recluse, and that wasn’t really in her nature.
She’d got used to her solitary existence over the years, but now, sitting at a table with someone bright and funny and interesting, it made her yearn for company.
Harriet might be a few years younger, but she could already feel a bond between them, a connection.
Perhaps now was the time to spread her wings, climb out of the shadows, and be the person she was always meant to be so Ted could become who he was meant to be. And perhaps Harriet had the key. She walked back to Mr C’s in something of a daze, full of minestrone and red wine.
‘Send it to me sooner rather than later,’ had been Harriet’s parting words. ‘With a fair wind we could publish next autumn, in time for Christmas. Oh, and any ideas for a sequel would really help. I think The Towpath Gang could run and run.’