“That’s really brilliant, Georgia.”
“And what are you up to these days?” She’s looking at me hopefully, like I’m a lover she once dumped and she’s praying I’ll say I’m married with two kids, never been happier.
“Well, I work mornings at Pebbles & Paper. You know, the gift shop in town?”
“Oh yes? Adam gave me one of their salt lamps for my birthday.”
I smile without telling her those damn salt lamps are the bane of my life. Ever since Ivan made the questionable decision to stock them, customers have been queueing up to tell me they’ve broken, or haven’t cured their insomnia, or have failed to resolve their many allergies.
“And... I’ve been writing a novel,” I say quickly, to move on from the sodding salt lamps. “Which I probably wouldn’t ever have done if I was still at Figaro. All I ever wanted was to be a writer, so—”
“Wow, that’s... Are you published?”
“Not yet.” I think of Ryan’s agent, the disappointment still churning in my chest.
Behind us, someone wins on the fruit machine, the coins paying out with a clatter that resembles applause.
“Have you finished it? What’s it about?”
I nod. “I have. And, I guess... love, at its heart.”
“Well, look,” Georgia says, “since you’ve written a novel, maybe I can do something to finally make amends for having been such a crappy boss.”
I frown. “How do you—”
“Adam’s sister is a literary agent. If you’re up for it, I’d love to sendit to her. Her name’s Naomi Banks. E-mail me the manuscript—I’ll happily forward it on and ask her to take a look.”
Naomi Banks?Naomi is my Secret Dream Agent. She represents several authors I love, and—according to her website—is on the hunt for exactly the kind of book I’ve written.
Georgia gives me her e-mail address. “But,” I falter, as I’m tapping it into my phone, “you haven’t even read it yet.”
She smiles at me. “Happy to take a chance on that. I know how good your writing is. I should have recognized that while you were working for me. Youdeservedsomeone to recognize it.”
I smile, then reach forward again, pull her into a hug. She smells impeccable, of perfume and fabric conditioner. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m so happy I’ve seen you again, after all this time.”
—
After she’s left, I stand where I am for a few moments, trying to remember what I’ve come here to do. Finally, I check my phone, which is still on silent after the writing session, and see a string of messages and missed calls from Emma.
I ring her. “Where are you?”
“The White Hart. Waiting for you, two glasses of wine later. Why—where are you?”
“Ah. The White Horse.”
“You’re in the wrong pub.”
“I’m in the wrong pub.”
—
When I get back to the cottage a couple of hours later, I e-mail my manuscript to Georgia before nerves can get the better of me. Then I slip on my coat and hat and head down to the beach.
The end of winter is tantalizingly close. The days are getting longer and warmer. Greenery is bursting from the trees and hedges, pushing up through the pavement cracks. I’m still swimming occasionally, and every time I do, the sea feels slightly less like taking a dip at the South Pole. That tingle of risk has started to ebb away.
In the early hours, I video-call Caleb from the beach hut, warming my hands around a cup of sugary tea. We try to talk a few times a week, but it can be hard to coordinate, because of the time difference, the patchy Wi-Fi, and our conflicting schedules.
