Chapter 8
‘Oh, God. Look what you made me do!’ Darren yelled in panic as Claire gingerly touched the wound on the back of her head where the blood was pouring from.
She was surprised more than shocked at this point.
Technically, Darren hadn’t hit her, although he’d pushed her roughly enough that she’d lost her balance and hit her head on the side of the kitchen worktop on the way down.
This was a new low, though, but she was too confused and upset to process it right now.
‘You need to take me to hospital,’ she murmured. ‘I think I’m going to have to have stitches.’
Darren looked horrified. ‘What will you tell them? You’ll say you slipped, yeah?’
She didn’t have the energy to fight with him any more. ‘Yeah.’
‘How’s it gooiinnng?’ my agent Tamara’s voice trills. ‘Are you going to send me some sample chapters to whet the publisher’s appetite?’
This is the phone call I’ve been dreading. Although there are parts of the book I’m reasonably happy with, it’s still not going very well and I’m a long way behind schedule. I need to try to deflect her until I hopefully get back on track.
‘No, Tamara,’ I tell her firmly. ‘You ask this every time and I say no every time because there’s no point sending sample chapters if I’m only going to change them when I come to read the finished manuscript through.’
‘They’re champing at the bit, darling. You need to give them something.’
‘You’ve got the synopsis, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, and they absolutely love it, but they want more.’
I don’t believe her for a minute. She knows as well as I do that the publisher has already contracted for this book, and they’re probably up to their ears with their other authors right now.
This is just her way of pressurising me into showing her where I’ve got to, because she doesn’t trust me to hit the deadline.
Even though I’ve never missed one yet, I share her nervousness this time.
The new chapters are proceeding at a snail’s pace, and I’m wasting lots of time going over and over passages I’ve already written, wondering if they’re shit, or the whole concept of the book is fundamentally flawed.
It sounded like a good idea when I was pitching it to Tamara, and she was certainly enthusiastic, but now I’m not so sure.
Maybe I can use that to buy a bit of time.
‘The thing is,’ I begin carefully, ‘now that I’m actually writing it, I can’t help wondering if the whole dual timeline thing is going to work.’
‘Nonsense! It’s a brilliant concept, as I told you when you pitched the book to me.’
‘Don’t you think the reader might feel like it’s two books glued together?’
‘No. It’s definitely got two distinct parts, but they’re so closely linked that it just wouldn’t work as two books.
What if we did that, and someone read the second part first?
They wouldn’t have a clue what was going on.
No. Stick with the original plan, darling.
It’s genius, and I know your writing will fizz just as it always does. ’
‘I’m just at that stage where I doubt everything,’ I tell her with a sigh.
‘Hmm.’ She doesn’t sound pleased. ‘It sounds to me like you’ve lost your way a bit. Have you?’
I should have known she’d see through me.
The doomsday spiral has now started to play in my head and I can practically hear her telling me the publisher has lost faith in the project, I need to pay back the advance, and she’s also dropping me.
To my surprise, her response is almost sympathetic when she continues.
‘I’m going to take your silence as a yes,’ she says gently.
‘Look, I know you’ve been through a lot lately, with the breakup of your relationship, moving house and everything.
Maybe you should think about getting away.
A change of scenery might be just the thing.
There are some great-sounding retreats coming up. I can send you details if you like.’
This is another well-worn topic of hers.
She’s a big believer in writers’ retreats and seems to think that every writing problem can be fixed by going on one.
To be honest, being stuck with a load of other writers sounds like my version of hell and I’ve always shut her down.
It’s not that I don’t like other writers; the ones I’ve met have all been fine.
It’s just that I have visions of everyone sitting round in a circle at the end of the day, discussing what they’ve written and giving each other ‘helpful critique’.
If anything is going to worsen my writer’s block, it’s ‘helpful critique’.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I say. ‘I just need to fall back in love with the story, that’s all.’
‘And what better place to do that than the South of France or Tuscany, darling? There’s also a retreat coming up in Wales, but who’d want to go there when you could be soaking up the sun and culture with a glass or two of vino while you chat all things authorly with your fellow writers?
I’ll send you through the details. Promise me you’ll have a look at least?
I really think this would be good for you. ’
‘Fine.’ I like Tamara, and we generally work well together, but I have to admit that her obsession with retreats does wind me up.
Hopefully, letting her send me the details of these ones will get her off my back for a while and, by the time she follows up, I’ll be able to tell her that I don’t need it because I’m back on track.
‘I’m home!’ Liv shouts from the bottom of the stairs an hour or so later.
This is something she’s started doing ever since vibrator-gate.
I think she does it to alert me in case I’m in the middle of a passionate moment with the Silver Bullet but, although I followed the instructions on the website, both it and the LadyBliss have been about as successful as Angus in the ‘rocking Laura’s world’ department.
To be fair, I suspect the problem may be less to do with them and more to do with ten years’ worth of bad sex making it difficult to conjure up the right level of enthusiasm but, after a few disappointing attempts, I consigned them back to their box under the bed.
‘Hello, Meggie. Did you miss your Auntie Liv?’ she’s saying to an ecstatic Meg as I come out onto the landing to greet her.
‘Honestly, I sometimes wonder whether that dog loves you more than me,’ I say, feigning irritation.
‘Of course she does,’ Liv coos. ‘You and Laura are both much happier living with Auntie Liv, aren’t you?’
She’s got a point. She’s not perfect – which of us is? – but living with her is definitely a lot better than being on my own, and I’m grateful for my shifts in the patisserie too.
‘Your lovers were in again today, so Bella tells me,’ Liv says as I follow her into the kitchen, where she flicks on the kettle without even breaking her stride. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please. How were they?’
‘Looking very happy, according to Bella. She wondered out loud if they were having sex yet, but then the image of “old people doing it”, to use her phraseology, gave her the ick. I think she’s a little bit obsessed with them.
Do you think I should have a word? I don’t want her being intrusive and putting them off. ’
‘I’m sure she’s very discreet,’ I assure her. ‘It’s just Bella’s thing – psychoanalysing the customers. It’s harmless and keeps her entertained. Actually, it keeps me entertained too. I might use some of her backstories in future books.’
‘And how is the book coming?’ Liv asks as she gets two mugs and a teapot out of the cupboard. ‘Any better?’
‘Not really. I had my agent hassling me about it on the phone earlier. She wants me to go on a writers’ retreat because she thinks it might help.’
‘Sounds sensible. Are you going to go?’
‘I’d rather drill holes in my head, and what would I do with Meg?’
‘I could look after her.’
‘You’re at work all day.’
‘I’m sure there must be dog sitters and people who can come and spend time with her while I’m not here.’
‘There probably are, but she was so upset when Angus left, and I don’t want her thinking I’ve abandoned her too. Anyway, it’s academic as I don’t want to go.’
‘Why not?’
‘It just sounds cliquey and rarefied. Every time I think about it, all I can see is sniffy authors looking down on each other and being generally insufferable.’
‘Is that what they’re like then?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just what I’ve imagined. Some haughty so-and-so telling me my writing is nothing more than commercial doggerel.’
‘Umm, sorry. But your commercial doggerel, as you put it, is probably outselling their weighty tomes by thousands to one. If anyone should be looking down on anyone, it’s you on them.’
‘I’m not sure, Liv. Do you remember exams at school?’
She laughs. ‘I hardly took any, remember?’
‘Good point. OK, when normal people, who aren’t you, take exams, there’s this moment at the end where everyone checks in with everyone else. “What did you put for question three?”, that kind of thing.’
‘What’s this got to do with writing retreats?’
‘I’m getting to that. The point is, I hated that moment, because all it did was make you second-guess yourself. You’d put the answer as twelve, for example, and you’d find out everyone else had written down fourteen. Then you’d spend the rest of the day riddled with self-doubt.’
‘Still not seeing the connection.’
‘It’s the same thing, don’t you see? People ask you what you’ve written today, and you tell them all about how your serial killer has chopped up their latest victim, only for them to rip into you and tell you all the anatomical reasons why that wouldn’t work.’
‘That sounds pretty unlikely, unless they were either in the medical profession or a fellow crime writer. Anyway, I’m sure a bit of online research would clear that up, and better to be corrected during the writing process than having some smug reader leave a shitty review because you’ve got something wrong. That always winds you up.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’