‘I know it’s Bali, and it’s beautiful and everything, but does the sun have to be quite so bright?’ continues Harper, shading her eyes with her hand. ‘My brain is melting.’
Harper closes her eyes and remains still for a moment so Tilly turns back to her book.
‘Good book?’ Harper asks, the beanbag rustling as she turns on to her side and gestures at Tilly’s lap.
The question is answered for Tilly by the pang of irritation she feels. Couldn’t Harper remain prone and silent for just a bit longer so she can finish her chapter? She forces herself to stop reading, keeping her place marked with her finger.
‘Great, actually. I laughed so hard I snorted earlier. You know the characters are going to end up together from the beginning, and yet somehow I still can’t stop reading to find out what happens …’
‘That’s the joy of a romance,’ Harper replies, stretching her legs out in front of her. ‘It’s relaxing. I’ve got the latest Sarah J. Maas in my suitcase. It’s the size of a brick. I hope at least half of it is spice.’
‘By spice you mean –’
‘Sex, Tilly. Sex with faeries and monsters.’
‘And you find that relaxing?’
Harper shrugs. ‘It’s nice to switch off from the real world sometimes, you know? Sorry, of course you do …’
Tilly holds the book tightly on her lap. Getting back into reading feels like stepping inside the house of a beloved friend she hasn’t seen for a long time. It feels like coming home. And it also reminds her of why she wanted to work in publishing.Because she loves books. She wanted to discover new authors who would someday become someone’s favourite author. To put stories out there that would help people switch off, or understand themselves more clearly through meeting a character just like them.
Maybe Harper is right; shehasforgotten how to dream.
‘Right then, pool?’ says Harper, her hangover seemingly lifting as she leaps up, grinning. ‘And I’ve booked us a surfing lesson for later. No arguments, you’re coming with me.’
Surfing might usually be more Harper’s thing than Tilly’s, but the idea of focusing on something other than her own problems sounds suddenly very appealing. She doubts that she’ll be able to contemplate her career and what she’s doing with her life if she’s upside down in the water, having predictably just fallen off the board.
‘Surfing sounds great.’
There is a small gift shop next to the library and as they leave Tilly grabs hold of Harper’s arm.
‘Ooh, postcards, do you mind if I get some quickly?’
‘You must be the only person beneath the age of fifty who still sends postcards,’ says Harper with a dramatic eye roll.
‘That can’t be true.’
But as they step inside there is only one customer browsing the postcard rack: a leathery-skinned woman who looks about ninety years old.
Under the shade of a palm tree by the pool Tilly writes a card to their parents and gets Harper to sign her name. Once Tilly has finished the second card she looks up, taking in the view of the pool and the beach framed by palm trees and sunloungers, and saying a silent thank you to Joe.
It’s because of Joe that she is here and because of Joe and his books that she has got back into reading and started takingbetter care of herself, cooking meals from scratch rather than living off things that come out of jars and takeaway cartons.
But maybe itistime she started making some decisions for herself about her future. It feels strange to even think it when for so long it has felt as though her life has simply stopped. But looking out over the sun-kissed infinity pool Tilly has a sense of her future stretching out ahead of her, vast and unknown.
She follows her sister into the water, floating on her back and feeling the sun on her face.
Later, she will attempt to surf, falling into the water repeatedly while Harper sails by like a pro. But each time that Tilly falls off her board she will pull herself back up again, slightly battered and eyes streaming from the salty water – but still here.
15
‘So, how is the book business?’ asks Alfie’s brother-in-law, Stu, a large glass of Rioja held aloft. ‘Because I heard that indies are holding on by their fingernails these days.’
Alfie is sat in Tash and Stu’s open-plan kitchen in their Surrey home, on an armchair that probably cost more than he makes in several months. He can hear the giggles of his nieces in the playroom on the floor above and wishes he could be in there with them instead.
Tash whips her husband with the tea towel draped over her shoulder.
‘Don’t be such a pessimist. Just becauseyouhaven’t read anything since that Steve Jobs biography I gave you two Christmases ago …’
