Chapter 34 #3
With Slay, it is different. I can type whole paragraphs, one after the other, and they just flow.
I think of Leo, of what he told me, the way he acted and held himself.
I don’t even feel the need to go back and edit.
It just feels so easy, because there is no thought.
I enter a space that feels other. Removed.
Limitless. There is such a strange feeling when I resurface into the reality of the bathroom, having spent hours in a completely different world.
I ache to have it back every time.
I wonder if P.K. Anderson’s fingers hurt this much from typing so fervently, or if her eyes burn, like mine do, from staring so intently at the words on the screen as they pour out of her.
I am currently three quarters of the way through. All I need now is the ending.
And I have realised that when it comes to the ending, I am a little blocked. Not blocked blocked. But I just need to understand what happens to Liam... Where the story will end, in a way that feels authentic. And for that, I need Leo.
Tricky. Considering everything. But I have a plan.
The day after the night on the porch, Ronan called the police and asked for their advice.
They told him to put a security camera up on the front of the house, in case Leo returned.
Ronan loved the idea. He ended up choosing a video doorbell that detects motion on the porch, just like the halo light does.
He has been working from home for the past two weeks – to look after me – and today is his first day back in the office.
If I leave the house, it will alert his phone.
He knows this.
I know this.
We both know this.
But he is going back to work today. Which means I have a window of opportunity. I can get out through the back door and go to the bridge. Try and find him again. I won’t need my phone. The bridge is in walking distance.
My excitement peaks. Just to make sure the story is correct.
And of course, I want to check he is OK.
Over the past two weeks I’ve had to embellish a little bit without him.
Invent some things. Just a few details. To heighten the tension, to provide emotional depth.
At times I have wondered if these additions read as genuine or realistic.
Without Leo it’s been more difficult to feel confident that they are authentic to Liam’s character. But I think it’s good.
In fact, I know it is.
Because Stanley agrees.
More than agrees. He loves it.
Wow.
He typed this just a few days ago.
You’re really pushing this forward, Mal. It’s deeply moving, and shocking. Keep going.
So I did.
I kept pushing it.
And last night, finally, he told me he was ready to submit it to the publisher.
I thought I might have to finish the whole thing, which I was worried about doing without seeing Leo again.
But he explained that if a concept is strong enough, sometimes a publisher will accept a submission on a partial.
This means that he is going to submit the first two thirds of Slay – tomorrow – with just an outline of the final third.
He thinks what we have is good enough to get an offer, and that we might even hear a financial figure before the end of the day. All we need is a strong ending.
Tomorrow.
He forwarded me the email from the editor – Gina – at the publishing house. I quickly pull my laptop out from under the bed as I hear Ronan in the kitchen below, and re-read it, enjoying the fluttering sensation in my chest.
Stan,
Jesus Christ – you do deliver. I thought maybe you were getting too old for this (!) but Slay is SO fresh. This is very, very exciting. It’s so bleak – but also somehow so funny?
Tell M.M. Johnstone we can’t wait to read what happens next. She has a real handle on what the market is after.
Amazing amazing amazing – relevant, urgent and necessary. I’m sure I’ll be in tears at the end.
Best,
Gina
Three amazings from Gina. Each time I look at them my brain floods with an organic ecstasy, heightened with each repeated word. Three hits in one. It almost makes me audibly groan. The way she hasn’t even separated them with commas, because she was just too excited to type properly.
Relevant. Urgent. Necessary. Only the best books get called those three words all at once. I don’t even think Sally Rooney’s books were called those things. Maybe only books like To Kill a Mockingbird, and the Bible.
I did that.
M.M. Johnstone did that.
I asked Stan if we can use a pseudonym for this book.
He was reluctant at first. Said it wasn’t necessary.
But I explained I wanted a fresh start, and to move on from the YA days of Shallow Embers.
I wanted to appear more mature, and a little mystery goes a long way.
The name M.M. Johnstone seems to work. Johnstone sounds reputable enough and I think the double letters sound serious and intentional.
Like P.K., it has a nice ring to it, but it’s not too pretentious. Stan agreed.
This is the beginning of something for you, Mal.
All I will need is the outline for the ending – can you get this to me for tomorrow?
Trust yourself. Your instincts are on point. Or should I say, M.M. Johnstone’s instincts!
I didn’t want to tell you this, but I have had an indication of their pre-emptive offer. It is ￡70,000 for a two-book deal. And I think I can push them up. Submit the outline for the ending, and we will make this happen.
Well done – you’re nearly there!
￡70,000.
I nearly fell over when I first read it. It is more than enough.
A deep warmth floods through my blood, awakening a thrill in the pit of my stomach. This could work. A mental snapshot of the future invades me. In it, there is no husband. There are no children.
I am alone.
And I am by the sea.
Not in a suicidal way. In a I will live out the rest of my days by the ocean way. In a P.K. Anderson way. Although – no. The snapshot is less California sun-kissed chic, and more rural country bumpkin. I want to keep it British. I want to keep it woolly jumpers and a dog.
A dog.
Yes.
A German vizsla. One that runs along the beach while I sip my coffee that I have bought from the café on the headland. Rain-soaked, wind-battered. Warming my hands by a log fire before a day of writing. Am I in Wales? I could be.
I could.
The Gower. I loved it there.
All the coves. All that space. I could swim in the sea every day.
Rent a little cottage, whilst drafting the sequel to Slay.
I could start an Instagram account and upload pictures of the waves, or a bench overlooking the shore, with captions like: Not a bad view for a day of plot construction.
P.K. Anderson would comment with a single love heart from across the pacific.
A small acknowledgement, a secret code of affirmation that I have joined her club.
One of freedom. Liberation. Creativity. Unhinged Bravery.
The Gower.
I love it.
This time, Ronan is not there. I could reclaim it. That’s what people do – isn’t it? – when they are healing. They reclaim things. I will heal by the sea.
As I reread the emails, the buzz in the back of my brain erupts again.
I have been chasing it for the past two weeks.
I feel alive. I feel in control. I hate to say it, but I feel powerful.
Should I hate to say it? M.M. feels powerful.
I have surprised myself at how good at this I am. How good at pretending.
It’s not lying – I’m not telling lies.
It’s planning.
It’s survival.
But I have to be careful. Incredibly careful.
It’s not been easy. Ronan has taken more than just my phone.
He has taken my bank cards. For my safety – of course.
Last time I was unwell, I spent a lot of our money on unnecessary things like the deposit for the boat, and I agreed we didn’t want that happening again.
But then I panicked. I didn’t know how I would receive the payment from Stan (should it come to that).
Then I remembered an old Monzo account I set up years ago for groceries.
The card is in the bottom drawer of my bedside cabinet.
I am all set.
I am in control.
There is a part of me that feels indestructible.
‘You want oat milk?!’ Ronan shouts up from the kitchen. ‘We’re out of almond!’
‘Yes, please!’
I push the laptop back under the bed, listening to his feet padding back up the stairs.
‘Here you are,’ he says, reappearing in the doorway, soft in the light, just as before. He is holding a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and three tablets in the palm of the other. They are vitamins, and my anti-depressant. He hands his cargo to me, careful not to spill liquid on the bedding.
This bedding was two hundred pounds. I could do with that money now. When I spent all my money making this attic conversion a safe space, I didn’t realise.
Or I did, and chose to ignore it.
I will not ignore reality anymore.
He tuts. ‘Oh shit, I forgot water.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take them with the coffee.’ I smile.
He smiles back.
I am about to place them on the bedside table, to take later, but he puts his finger in the air and says, ‘Aah’ in a way that makes my skin prickle. Aah, meaning No. No – take them now. While I’m here. I’m keeping you safe.