Chapter 2
2
I started writing Wildest Dreams about four years ago. I was eighteen and on the cusp of starting uni to study English Lit. Devouring The Time Traveler’s Wife over the summer sparked the idea. A quirky romcom, Wildest Dreams follows a plus-size British Nigerian woman who has the ability to live out two separate lives – one in reality and the other in her dreams – and consequently finds herself caught in a love triangle between a dashing phantom and her college crush.
At uni, when I wasn’t studying or turning down parties and social events, I was tucked away in the library or in my room, chipping away at my manuscript, using tips I had picked up from creative writing books and the internet to improve my draft. I became so fixated on getting Wildest Dreams published that after I failed to pass my six-month probation period at my first job post uni – I worked as a junior ghost editor at a minuscule ghostwriting company called Bonsai – I didn’t even bother trying to find another full-time role. Instead, since last autumn, I’ve been working at a call centre, trying to flog sustainable bamboo tissue subscriptions to customers who’ll barely give me two seconds of their time. My rationale – as I explained to my concerned-looking parents – was that I needed a job with flexible hours that would give me time to write, finish my manuscript, and later edit it when it got sold. I needed to go all in and chase my dreams while the stakes were still relatively low.
This is why I can’t get my head around what Mayee is saying now. Had all my sacrifice and hard work been for nothing? Did I miss out on a once-in-a-lifetime uni experience and a foot on the corporate ladder for a delusion? It can’t have been in vain.
‘But what about Ocean?’ I cry, grasping at straws. Ocean Books is the world’s biggest publisher. My dream publisher. ‘We haven’t heard back from all of the editors yet. Can you chase them up?’
Before I’ve even reached the end of my sentence, Mayee is shaking her head.
‘As you know, I submitted your manuscript to multiple editors at Ocean, and have now heard back with passes from all but one. I’m afraid it hasn’t received the interest we were hoping for—’
‘Here you go!’
The waiter has returned and, with a flourish, he places our food and drinks on the table. A hotness creeps into the backs of my eyes. I will not cry , I will not cry . My manuscript wasn’t good enough for a top agent like Mayee to sell. I can’t let her think that I haven’t got the steel for this business.
‘But we saw this coming, didn’t we?’ She looks down to cut her cinnamon-dusted waffle, and I quickly swipe my finger under my eyes. ‘That’s why, as soon as we got our first “no”, I told you to start working on another book. How is Love Drive coming along?’
Oh, shit!
I hope my face hasn’t given me away.
Love Drive is the novel I told Mayee I’d start when she set me this assignment over eight months ago. So far, I’ve only written one chapter. Okay, half a chapter. It’s not because Love Drive has a bad plot – risk-averse actress makes a bet with a daredevil stunt driver to live on the edge for a month and ends up falling head over heels for him despite being a commitment-phobe – it’s just … Wildest Dreams is my baby! I never thought I would have to let her go – for goodness’ sake, I only needed one ‘yes’! And Mayee hadn’t given me a hard deadline to send her my new manuscript by, so I thought, like me, she was betting all her chips on it too.
I can now see that stalling wasn’t the wisest thing to do.
My brain ticks. I stuff a skewerful of sliced bananas into my mouth, washing it down with a gulp of blueberry margarita.
‘Oh, you know.’ I attempt a casual laugh. ‘It’s going.’
Mayee frowns. ‘What? Going well? Going badly? And how far along are you now?’ I’m in the hot seat. ‘When I checked in a few months ago, you made it seem like you were on a roll. Although you have been a bit cryptic about your writing process, which is fine if having a bit of space is how you prefer to work. But in order for me to support you, Temi, I’m going to need an update.’
‘I’m about halfway,’ a voice says suddenly.
A voice that came out of my mouth.
The mouth of an idiot.
Mayee’s eyes light up. ‘Oh, fantastic. You’re further ahead than I thought.’
Way to go , Temi .
‘Can you send me what you’ve got?’
I neck the rest of my cocktail. I desperately need another. My brain is running at fibre-optic speed. There is no way I can tell Mayee the truth. ‘Well, the thing is, there’s this part that I’m dying to write. I would love to send you my manuscript once that’s done. It’s a twist!’ Great , now I have to think of a twist. ‘I promise you it’ll be worth the wait.’
There’s a clatter as Mayee sets down her knife and fork. She reaches for her napkin and dabs it against the corners of her matte red lips, appearing both sophisticated and intimidating at the same time.
‘How long do you need?’
My gut twists.
If I say another nine months – which is probably what I do need – I can’t guarantee that she won’t rip up my contract and ditch me right on the spot. But if I say nine days … can I write half a friggin’ novel in a little over a week? That’s, like, 40,000 words!
Then again, I have blitzed a novel before …
My eyes pan to the TV screen. There’s a wide shot of all the cast members on the set of The Villa , with the host looking spectacular in a figure-hugging lime dress. Unlike the other contestants, who are grinning widely with their veneer-white teeth, Wale is slumped on his stool towards the back.
Hold up, should I tell Mayee about that manuscript? The one I wrote in the space of four weeks, spurred by a frenzy of red-hot, vengeful rage? The one about how a cold-hearted boy-man (Wayne) ditched his hopelessly romantic, anxiety-ridden girlfriend (Sophie) when she was at her most vulnerable moment after being rejected for twelve-plus acting gigs, then went on to appear on a reality TV dating show?! The one that I’ve titled The Ultimate Payback , where the protagonist writes an exposé about her ex, getting her sweet, sweet revenge.
‘Temi?’
I blink rapidly.
Mayee is poker-faced. ‘How about the week commencing the sixteenth of September? Which would give you about a month.’
‘Perfect.’ I grin. Fuck - fuck - fuck-fuck .
With one swift motion, Mayee pulls out her phone, locking the deadline in her diary. She gestures to the waiter for the bill.
‘I’m so sorry but I’m going to have to shoot off. My day is packed.’ The waiter returns with a card machine and hands it to her. Mayee inserts her gold AMEX card and taps in her pin. ‘Ooh, before I forget.’ The waiter snaps off her receipt and gives it to her. ‘An agent I know is looking for a British Nigerian ghostwriter to help write a short memoir for his client. Hope you don’t mind, but I threw your name in the mix.’
I shift in my chair and scratch the back of my ear. ‘Actually, I don’t work at Bonsai any more.’ And when Mayee’s brows rise in question, I add, ‘I work part-time now … shift work.’
To my surprise, Mayee looks overjoyed.
‘Oh, how about that? You have the time and the experience. I’ll send you the job spec so you can take a look.’
I don’t have the time! I have half a novel to write ! I want to yell.
‘Money’s good too.’
Ah . ‘Sure,’ I say with a shrug. No harm in having a look.
She taps away at her phone. Within seconds, my own buzzes.
‘Right. I’m off.’
At the same time, we rise to our feet and give each other a hug.
Mayee bounds towards the exit as I flop back down, her heels clanking against the floor.
‘Looking forward to reading,’ she calls over her shoulder.
I fake-smile.
As Mayee saunters past the window, tears teeter dangerously along my lash line. The second she vanishes, the dam breaks. Right in the middle of the restaurant, I have a meltdown. Shielding my face, I choke out a shuddering sob, tears sliding down my cheeks and in between my fingers. I’m too embarrassed to make a dash to the toilets. I feel like a failure.
Even though I knew there was a good chance that Wildest Dreams wouldn’t get sold, I’d shoved the thought down, scared negative thinking would cause it to happen. What was the point? All this positive thinking malarkey is a load of bull. I think it’s time I face up to the truth. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be an author. Maybe it’s time to look for a proper job.
Wiping my tears with a crumpled napkin, I tap on my phone with an ombre nail. Mayee’s email has come through.
Subject : Freelance British Nigerian ghostwriter needed for celebrity memoir
I choke on air. Okay. Mayee did not mention anything about the client being a celebrity!
Urgent. I am looking for a ghostwriter/editor of Nigerian heritage for my celebrity client. For confidentiality reasons, my client will remain anonymous until we hire for the position.
The ideal candidate will have:
past experience working as a freelance ghostwriter/editor and/or book-writing and editing experience the ability to write effectively in the English language and capture my client’s youthful voice access to a laptop with writing software (e.g. Microsoft Word) an interest in contemporary popular culture
My client’s memoir will be published by Kingston Books and will be released next spring. However, due to publishing schedules, the ghostwriter would need to submit a first draft in six weeks. (Please note: the final manuscript will need to be roughly 65,000–75,000 words). This deadline is non-negotiable, so please take this into consideration before applying.
Compensation: Between ￡15,000 to ￡20,000 depending on experience, plus food and travel expenses
Start date: ASAP
To apply, please reply to this email with your CV and an example of your work. Only shortlisted candidates will be contacted.
Kind regards,
Greg Butcher
Talent Agent
I hiss. Nope. Defo not applying for that. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. Sure, ￡15K would give my account a much-needed boost, but no way could I take on such a responsibility. And for a celebrity? What if I do a shoddy job and it gets terrible reviews? No, whoever this celeb is, they deserve to work with someone competent. Someone experienced. A safe pair of hands.
I’m about to archive the email when Patrick, my supervisor – well, the name I saved him as, Pat-dick – flashes across my screen. I groan. Why is he calling me on my day off?
‘Hi, Patrick,’ I answer. The Villa: The Reunion is now finished and there’s a programme about pets showing on the TV.
‘Where are you? You were supposed to be here over twenty minutes ago.’
Patrick’s tone gets my back up. ‘You do know today’s my day off, right? I put it in the staff calendar—’
Patrick sighs as if I’ve been keeping him on the phone for a long time. ‘Temi, if you did, I wouldn’t be calling, would I? You need to come in. Now.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘You either come in within the next hour or don’t bother coming back.’
My blood boils. I’ve had such a shitty day; I don’t need his attitude right now.
‘Fine. I won’t bother.’
The words slip out so fast that, by the time I try to retract them, Patrick is telling me when I should expect my last pay cheque.
He ends the call.
My eyes well.
Oh no. What did I just do?