Chapter 35
By noon the next day, the shop had grown quiet, giving Aurelia a free moment to call James.
“Is everything alright?” he asked once the receptionist had put Aurelia through.
“Yes, everything’s fine. How are you?”
“But… You never call me at work—you always text or call my mobile.”
“Well, this is a work-related call, since I’m calling about the book I’ve been writing.”
“Ah, the mystery project. How’s it going?”
“Really well! I’m almost finished with the first draft and starting to think about what to do with it. Would you be willing to give it a read?”
“Sure,” James said eagerly, then added, “Well, actually, I don’t think I should.”
“Oh, right. Okay. I understand—I’m sure you’re busy.” Aurelia suspected she hadn’t managed to hide the disappointment from her voice.
“No, it’s just that I don’t edit fiction very often. But Oliver does.”
“Oliver?”
“Mm-hmm,” James said, his smirk evident even over the phone.
“James, please! I thought David was the devious one, not you.”
“What?” he asked innocently. “Oliver does edit fiction.”
“I’m serious—I really want to talk to someone about my book,” Aurelia pleaded.
“I’m telling you, Oliver’s your man.”
“No, he isn’t. You and David have made a valiant effort, but he’s not my man.”
“Fine—he’s your editor, then.”
“Isn’t there anyone else? I know you say it’s a publishing closet, but there must be other editors tucked away in there.”
Her mind swam through visions of how awkward it would be to work with Oliver when their mutual friends were constantly trying to get them together. But then she remembered how supportive he’d been at dinner back in December, and how the books he’d recommended had actually been very helpful.
“There are but, kidding aside,” James said, dropping his teasing tone, “I think you two would work well together.”
Aurelia let out a heavy sigh. He wasn’t giving her any other options, and she didn’t exactly have a wealth of friends in publishing.
The goal was to get the book published for Vronsky, she reminded herself.
Couldn’t she push through her own feelings to help him?
And Oliver had offered to read a draft, even if she’d been terrified of the idea back when she was working on the early chapters.
“Do you honestly think he’s a good fit for my writing?” she asked.
“I do—he has a great eye for fiction,” James said excitedly, sensing she was giving in. “Lately he’s been working on a manuscript that came in at nearly a thousand pages. Everyone’s been raving about how much he’s done to help the author edit it down into something really beautiful.”
“Okay, then,” she said with another sigh, just for show. “Let’s give it a try. Should I ring him? I might still have his card somewhere.”
“I’ll stop by his office now and get a lunch date on his calendar.”
“I mean it, this isn’t another set-up—”
“‘Date’ as in a meeting. Don’t be so tetchy. I’ll get a lunch appointment on his calendar and ring you with the day and time. I assume your schedule is open?”
“You know it is,” Aurelia said. She dropped her salty tone and added, “James, I really do appreciate your help.”
“Oh, you’re going to have lots to thank me for!”
Sighs and eye rolls escaped Aurelia throughout the rest of the day as she thought back over her call with James. What would he tell Oliver? Would Oliver think she’d been pining over him all this time and was desperate to see him again?
A brief call from James just before closing confirmed lunch with Oliver for noon the next day at a bistro that was a short walk from the shop. Apparently, his schedule was just as open as hers.
Even though their lunch was not a date (as Aurelia kept reminding herself the following morning), she couldn’t help but worry over what to wear.
If she overdid it, Oliver might think she was trying too hard, but if she wore her usual work attire, he might wonder why she hadn’t tried harder to impress given that this was a writer’s equivalent of a job interview.
She felt silly to be facing the same dilemma, only slightly different, as she had before their first date.
In the end, she settled on a navy blazer, white t-shirt, and jeans, which seemed to send a mixed message that matched her mood.
When she walked into the bistro, Aurelia scanned the tables and spotted him. He hadn’t seen her yet and she caught a look of boredom, and perhaps annoyance, troubling his face. Almost the same expression he’d worn on their date: excellent. Determined to win him over, she put a smile on her face.
“Hi, Oliver,” she said as she reached the table.
“Aurelia. Hi.”
He half-stood and shook her hand, and her mind stuck on that handshake.
It felt formal given that they’d met a handful of times before.
Telling herself to ignore it, Aurelia sat opposite him, her smile flattening as she tried to calm her nerves.
She noticed that he was wearing an oxford shirt again, one button undone at the neck, this time in white with a dark grey jacket.
No, it was too hard to ignore the icy chill radiating from him.
“It’s good to see you again,” she said at last. “Without David’s maneuvering, for once.”
“You too,” he said, smiling though there wasn’t much warmth to it. “Well. James said you wanted me to look at the book you’ve been working on.”
Straight to business, then.
“Yes, I’m almost done with the first draft—the one I was working on when I saw you last—and I’d like to get it published.”
“I’m sure you would,” Oliver said, barely suppressing a laugh.
Aurelia bobbed her head, acknowledging that getting published generally took a bit of work.
“Right, I know. But this isn’t just a hobby or a one-off thing,” she said, deciding to level with him. “I have a master’s from Goldsmiths and I’ve had a few short stories published.”
She hated to boast, but right now it seemed necessary.
Hadn’t they left things on friendly terms?
But then her face warmed as she remembered the look she’d given David at the end of that dinner months ago—had Oliver seen?
It wasn’t until this very moment that she remembered it, but maybe it was fresh in his mind now that she was calling in a favor.
“If you want to give me your draft, I can take a look,” he said. “Let you know whether it’s something we’d be interested in.”
“Oh.”
Aurelia was instantly thrown off her high horse.
“I didn’t bring a copy with me, which seems stupid now, but I can drop it at your office after lunch, if that’s alright?”
“Sure,” he said, nodding.
They looked at each other, then shifted their eyes around the restaurant.
“I haven’t been here in ages, but it’s one of my favorite spots,” Aurelia finally managed to say. “Did James suggest it?”
“No, I did. I remembered your shop was in the area.” He paused before adding, “It’s one of my favorites too.”
Oliver smiled, then, one his genuine smiles that reached his eyes, and she was startled to find that the flutter she’d felt around him before was now a full-on tugging sensation. She was given a helpful distraction from that thought when the waiter came to take their order.
As soon as he’d gone, Oliver asked, “Why don’t you tell me about your book? What’s it about?”
Aurelia took a deep breath.
“Well, it’s not finished yet. Nearly done, but not quite there yet. I mean, it’s really just an early draft. I’m still working through—”
“Get to it.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re stalling—tell me the story. I’m going to read it eventually, anyway.”
He was right: she was stalling. The story meant so much to her that it was hard to finally let it out into the world, but if she wanted to get the book published, that’s just what she’d have to do.
“You said before it was a retelling, or a reimagining of an older story?” he prompted her.
She looked at him and saw he’d softened a little, as if he understood her hesitation. She wanted to linger over the fact that he’d remembered what she’d said about her book but reminded herself that this was business and she needed to press on.
She nodded. “Anna Karenina. Tolstoy’s novel?”
Oliver let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
“Right,” Aurelia said, shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Well, it’s set after the end of the novel, and it follows Alexei—Count Vronsky—after Anna’s death.”
“Uplifting.” His eyebrows went up again.
“He had such a tragic ending in the novel, and we thought—I thought—it would be interesting to see his life afterwards, to get a better sense of what happened to him and what he made of his life after losing Anna.”
“Maybe… But why Anna Karenina? What about a novel from Swift or Fielding, something less dreary?”
Aurelia steeled herself, insisting, “Vronsky is who I’ve chosen and Vronsky’s is the book I’m writing.”
“Alright, then.” Oliver gazed at her appraisingly. “What happens to Vronsky?”
“He fights for Serbia against the Ottomans. I don’t know if you remember, but he was heading off to fight there at the end of the novel.”
“Sure. Wasn’t he on a train with a bunch of other soldiers?”
Aurelia was impressed; his recall of the novel was better than hers. Or at least, better than it had been before she’d started this project.
“Yes, exactly. So he fights in Serbia, is there for two years, then returns to Russia to bring his wounded men back to the hospital he and Anna built at his estate.”
“Alright. What then?”
“He wraps up his affairs in Russia, then goes to Italy for a year to get his bearings.”
“He and Anna lived there for a while, didn’t they? Wouldn’t it be too painful for him to go back there?”
“Yes, but those memories will follow him anywhere—he can’t escape having lost her.”
Aurelia and Vronsky had been through the same conversation, only she’d been arguing Oliver’s side at the time.
“It’s a chance for him to get grounded after the war, after not having time to really consider a future and what he might like to make of it,” Aurelia continued.
“He’s left Russia, left behind friends and family, so it’s a big leap for him.
He needs the year in Italy to rediscover what he loves about life—like painting, going out, and being social.
After two years at war we—I—thought he needed a chance to recuperate.
He was raised as a soldier but even so, as mundane as it sounds, he needed a holiday. ”
Aurelia caught herself talking about Vronsky as if she’d just been chatting with him. Which, of course, she had, but she needed to rein herself in if she didn’t want to scare Oliver off.
“At least, that’s my approach,” she added.
“He goes to Italy, lets loose, and then?”
“Then he moves to France for what we—I—think will be a permanent change of address. He speaks French fluently and it’s close enough to the Russian society he’s used to, but a little less rigid, especially since he’ll be an outsider. He can make a start on a new life there.”
“Hang on,” Oliver interrupted, sounding irritated, “is there a co-author I should meet?”
“Sorry?”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ Are you cowriting this with someone? Is there a ghost writer or something? I don’t usually go in for that sort of thing. I want to work directly with my authors.”
Oliver put down his knife and fork and stared at Aurelia from across the table. It seemed as if the entire restaurant fell silent as she readied a response.
“No. No, there’s no ghost writer—no co-writer—just me.”
She was panicking, thinking quickly how to cover her mistake.
“I get a bit carried away when I’m writing. It’s going to sound ridiculous, but sometimes I feel like…”
She realized there was nothing for it—she might as well go all in.
“I feel like I’m in conversation with my characters. Like they’re guiding me through the story.”
She looked down and pushed the last few bites of lunch around her plate with her fork, waiting for Oliver to politely—or not so politely—decide against working together.
“One of those, eh? I’ve worked with your type before.”
He smiled, teasing her, and she gave a smile in return.
“Do you think you could work with one again?”
“Let’s see your pages first. You’ve given me the bare bones of a story. I need to see the innards and flesh before I can decide if there’s some life there.”
“‘Innards and flesh’? You’re lucky I have an iron stomach,” Aurelia said as the waiter arrived with a dessert menu. “Otherwise you would’ve put me off dessert and I’d never have forgiven you.”