Chapter Eleven #3
“Can I ask you a question?” I said as Darcy fell into step beside me. “How did you know about that bad review of Crispin’s book?”
I saw his cheeks color in the most adorable way.
“Yesterday, when I was at Mrs. Atallah’s residence, I happened to inquire if she knew anything of a Crispin Carter,” Darcy said.
“You had mentioned your former paramour’s name, and I must confess I was curious about the scoundrel who had clearly treated you so abominably.
Mrs. Atallah knew nothing of the man, but I believe her own curiosity was piqued, for she then proceeded to research the fellow on her electronic device.
It is she who found the poor review of his book, which I must admit we took some pleasure in reading. ”
I laughed. “Well, I’m very glad you did, as it was immensely satisfying to see Crispin squirm like that.”
Darcy gave a bashful smile, then turned serious again. “You had not told me that you were a writer.”
“That’s because I’m not. I gave up writing a few years ago, when I was still with Crispin.”
“May I be so bold as to inquire why?”
“Several reasons, but mainly because I wasn’t good enough.
Writing was something I’ve loved since I was a kid, and my mum always encouraged me to believe I could make a career out of it.
But eventually, I realized that my attempts at writing a romance novel just weren’t up to scratch, and I stopped wasting my time. ”
As I said this, I remembered Crispin’s words to me when I’d shown him various bits of my manuscript.
This is sweet, babe, but you’re not there yet…
I just don’t think anyone would believe in the chemistry between these two characters…
What is this story adding to the world, apart from a few lame gags and a couple of average sex scenes?
“Correct me if I am wrong, Miss Knight, but I have always believed that in order to become accomplished at something, one must practice,” Darcy said.
“Take the pianoforte, for example. My sister was very poor at it when first she began, but through tuition and practice, she is now quite proficient. Is the same not true of writing?”
“Sure, but natural talent is important too; otherwise every person who took piano lessons would become a world-class concert pianist,” I said.
“And I just didn’t have enough talent to make that next step.
I’d write a few rough pages and then compare it with the published romance books I love, and what I’d written was nowhere near as good. ”
Darcy frowned. “Is that not like looking at a lump of rock and complaining that it is not the Great Pyramid of Giza? I am no writer myself, beyond letters and my diary, but I would imagine that every great novel starts off with a few rough pages, which must then be edited and revised many times before they are published. So perhaps, rather than comparing yourself unfavorably to other authors, you should simply focus on your own writing?”
Darcy was staring at me with his intense brown eyes, and I looked away.
He was right, of course. How many times had I said the same thing to Crispin whenever he fell into one of his regular depressions about his work?
How many hours had I spent coaxing and cajoling him out of bed and back to his typewriter, telling him to stop obsessing about the end point and instead just focus on the joy he got out of writing.
Yet somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten to take my own advice and had allowed my love of writing to get crushed by doubt and fear.
I looked back at Darcy. “Did you say you write in a diary?”
“That is correct. My father was a prolific diarist and instilled in me the value of keeping a daily journal, not just as a practical record of my affairs but as an intellectual pursuit too. I confess that I find it highly therapeutic.”
I chewed my lip. I hadn’t written anything for years, but perhaps starting a diary wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, no one was ever going to see it, so I didn’t need to worry whether what I was writing was any good; it would be purely for myself.
“Do you mind if we take a quick detour to Owl Bookshop so I can pick up a notebook?”
I saw the hint of a smile spread across his lips, but he quickly hid it. “Very well. And after that, I wonder if we could pay a trip to the butchers?”
“What for?”
“I pondered what you told me yesterday, and I have decided that the idea of a male chef is not so abhorrent. After all, is cooking not just science? So Mrs. Atallah has given me a recipe for an Italian meat sauce from Bologna, which I was hoping we could attempt to make.”
“Of course we can, Darcy.”
As I said this, I remembered the previous evening, when I’d considered the idea of him wanting to stay here and what that would mean for us.
Could Darcy and I be an actual couple, living together and doing wonderful, ordinary things like cooking each other dinner?
The idea was a thrilling one, and I tried to stifle my own smile as we made our way toward home.