Chapter Twenty-Eight
Text from Henry:
Where did you go?
Text undelivered
Text from Jim K:
Oh darling, I’m so sorry you felt like you had to leave the party. I knew I should have told you about Henry and Marisol. I feel like such a dunce. It was glorious to see you, either way. Be in touch soon. xx
Text undelivered
‘I’m not panicking,’ Bridget says brightly, extremely brightly, when I tell her that, for the first time in my life, I, too, am struggling with a seemingly insurmountable case of writer’s block.
‘You look like you’re panicking.’
‘How so?’ Bridget smiles so widely that it makes her neck muscles tremble a little with the strain of it.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Bridge. The general vibe, the Jammie Dodger you just crushed in your bare hand. The fact that when I told you there was no book you said, “Oh, fuck a fucking duck”.’
‘I say fuck a fucking duck all the time!’ Bridget says breezily, dropping the biscuit she just crushed with her bare hands into the saucer Mrs Casablancas hands to her.
‘You’ve never said fuck a fucking duck.’
She takes a deep breath and pauses mid-pace.
‘All right. Maybe I am experiencing some mild alarm. But certainly not panic. Ha! I’ve been in this business a long time.
You think I haven’t dealt with a blocked writer before?
That I haven’t had a client skirting the edge of a missed deadline?
That I haven’t had to chide and jolly authors along, hold their hands chapter by chapter, tell them every damn day just how much I believe in them? ’
‘Have you ever had a client who hasn’t written even a single page and has only ten days left to write the whole first draft?’
Not to mention the fate of an actually not at all villainous man resting on her ability to write the whole story?
‘No,’ Bridget confirms, her knees seeming to wobble a tad as she sits back down in the chair, exhaling through her teeth so it makes a sort of high-pitched squeaking sound.
It strikes me as funny that she seems even more panicked about the prospect of my non-existent manuscript than the concept of other parallel universes casually existing, and people like me fucking channelling them.
‘Ten days? It’s never gotten that hairy before.
’ She bites the corner of her lip. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have been saying “no pressure!” all the time.
I incorrectly assumed you were putting enough pressure on yourself.
I should have said “much pressure!” I should have kept calling when you didn’t answer …
I assumed you really did have it in hand.
I should have known. Authors are all huge fibbers.
’ She looks at me, eyes big circles, all attempt at recovered professionalism out of the window, which is totally fair.
‘Do you have a plan for how to solve this? Or would you like my input? No pressure! I mean, some pressure. Gosh, it’s a habit saying no pressure. I really must stop it.’
I look over at River and together we explain how the block started when Henry left, and that we thought River – as a renowned lothario – was here to help me get Henry back.
Bridget pulls a face. She’s never been a fan of Henry’s.
Not since the time she met him at a dinner party and he said Nora Roberts was ‘basic’ even though he’d never read any of her books.
And also the time he rubbed his hand over my head and said ‘Silly Gertie,’ when I admitted I didn’t enjoy The Catcher in The Rye.
He was just joking, but still she took against him.
‘But it turns out that Henry is … otherwise involved. So Operation True Love totally failed.’
‘Henry is otherwise involved? No!’ Mrs Casablancas cries, although she doesn’t look distressed at all, in fact she seems quite pleased for some reason. I narrow my eyes at her.
Bridget takes hold of my hand. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I know how much you adore the man.’
‘I properly messed it up,’ I say with a sigh. ‘He was kissing Marisol Keats. The poet.’
‘Ooh, she’s gorgeous,’ Bridget says apologetically. ‘I love love love her Instagram. Sorry.’
‘No, I get it,’ I huff. ‘So chic.’
‘SO chic.’
‘What is her IG?’ Mrs Casablancas asks. ‘Do you think she would like a hat? A chic hat made by me?’
As Bridget helps Mrs Casablancas to find Marisol’s account, Henry’s face flashes into my mind – the way he looked at me when he saw me on the first night in Little Crumpet, full of possibility.
And now it’s all over. Last night I was mostly angry and embarrassed about the whole thing.
But today? Now it’s sunk in that he was kissing someone else.
That he had possibly been kissing someone else for quite some time.
Isn’t this what I was most afraid of? Shouldn’t I have at least shed a tear by now?
‘You didn’t “properly mess it up”,’ River cuts in, pulling me out of my pondering. ‘You were wonderful in Little Crumpet and honestly, Henry is …’
He trails off and I notice Mrs Casablancas giving him a curious look as she furtively pops another sugar lump into Bridget’s tea. ‘It just tastes better,’ she whispers to me.
‘Look,’ River continues as Squish, now asleep in his arms, starts to snore, every puff of breath making a lock of River’s hair waft upwards.
‘If Gertie finishing her final Bedlam Creek novel is the only way I’m getting out of here then we need to figure out another way to make that happen.
Something that doesn’t involve Henry. We need to help her start writing again.
Not to put a rush on it or anything, but it’s pretty vital that I get back home.
In two weeks, the town council are auctioning off the land behind my ranch.
I need to be there to buy it up so that Buddy McGinty doesn’t use it to build a fucking mall or a dude ranch or, God forbid, a high-end gym.
The landscape could be ruined. So many local businesses could potentially be in danger.
The wildlife could …’ He turns to me. ‘We need to get you writing again, Gertie. We have to find a way to finish this story.’
‘And this …’ Mrs Casablancas says, standing up grandly and spreading her arms widely. ‘Is where I think I may be of assistance.’
‘I am not doing another manifestation ceremony!’ I grumble. ‘No way. It’s too unpredictable. And anyway, there’s no full moon at the moment. It wouldn’t work.’
‘No more manifesting,’ Mrs Casablancas says firmly. ‘What I was going to say is you need some practical, real-world help. Some actual intel.’
‘So why didn’t we just do that in the first place?’ I cry.
‘Because that wouldn’t have been anywhere near as much fun for me.’
‘What practical advice do you have, ma’am?’ River asks hopefully.
Mrs Casablancas peeks at her watch. ‘I’m actually short on time right now as my date is in a few hours and I need to go wax myself. I assume you’re still okay to take Squish for the night?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m not yet sure what time I will be back,’ Mrs Casablancas tells us. ‘Possibly tonight, possibly tomorrow – depends how it goes with Desmond. I am hopeful that since your manifestation worked, that mine will too and that Desmond is the answer.’
‘Wait …’ I scrunch my nose. ‘You said you’d manifested for an exciting creative opportunity to come your way?’
‘River, be a dear and put away the biscuits, won’t you?’ Mrs Casablancas says, lowering her voice once he’s on the other side of the room. ‘I did! And also to get a good old-fashioned rogering. I’m a woman in my prime of life. I have needs.’
I blink and try to keep my face passive. ‘Okay then. Good for you,’ I say.
‘Ditto,’ she replies, tilting her head towards River in the kitchen and wiggling her eyebrows.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I say primly.
‘Oh, I know the face of a well-rogered woman when I see it.’
‘River and I have not … rogered.’
‘Well, you must both be thinking of nothing but rogering. It’s clear as can be on the pair of you.’
‘Excuse me?’
Mrs Casablancas starts ticking off on her hands, ‘Lips plump, cheeks pink, eyes shiny like a freshly walked Squish, secret glances when you think Mrs Casablancas is not looking, you stroking your own neck, River watching you stroke your own neck—’
‘What? That has not been happening. We’re in a complete panic here. We have more important things to focus on than—’
‘You’re a romance writer. I’m a woman of the world. We both know that mild peril is a potent aphrodisiac, it will—’
‘What?’
‘No judgement from me. In fact—’ Mrs Casablancas’ voice changes swiftly as River approaches us. ‘While I personally may not have time to help today, I do have a guy I can put you into contact with.’
While I’m still trying to get my head around what she just said about mild peril being hot, Mrs Casablancas heads over to her piano, where on top of it is a stack of business cards. She shuffles through them, handing one to me.
I read it aloud.
It says Aled the Librarian. General Manager at Paddington Library.
‘You want us to go to a library?’ River rubs the back of his neck. ‘That’s your suggestion?’
Mrs Casablancas starts clearing the teapot and cups away.
‘Aled is the one who gave me the book about manifesting. I’m certain he will have practical books about writer’s block on his shelves and he will absolutely know which ones are the best ones because he is tremendous at his job.
And forgive me for saying this, but it was books that got you into this mess.
I don’t think it’s too unreasonable to suggest that it might be books that get you out of it. ’
Bridget’s phone beeps. She peeks down at the screen. ‘Duty calls. I should get home.’
I start to panic again. ‘But we haven’t fixed this!’
Bridget pulls on her motorcycle helmet. ‘Like Mrs Casablancas said, it’s perhaps time to go back to the basics. Research. Read. Get some help the old-fashioned way.’
‘Do you think you could try to get me a two-week extension on the deadline? That’s when River has to get back.’
‘I can try,’ Bridget says. ‘The main thing is that you’ve told me now. It’s all out in the open and we can move forward. You must not fret—’
‘Oh, we’ve been fretting,’ River mutters, now rocking Squish from side to side like a baby, while Squish continues to snore.
‘Bugger. I really do have to leave,’ Bridget mutters as her phone beeps again.
She hugs Mrs Casablancas and pecks me again on the cheek. Then with a quick wave goodbye at River, she exits the flat, tapping away on her phone the whole way out.
Mrs Casablancas grabs Squish’s carry case along with a stuffed Sainsbury’s Bag for Life from beside the fridge.
‘Puppy pads, kibble, toys, lead and some extra kibble just in case. Call me if there are any issues. But please make sure it’s an actual issue if you do call.
I really, really would like to sow these oats. ’
And with that, she nudges River, Squish and me out of the door, with nothing but a bag of puppy paraphernalia and some random librarian’s business card.