“Ouch.”
“That’s what I said.”
We head back into the living room. It’s pretty sparsely decorated, with walls in that shade of magnolia that nudges toward peach, and a well-trodden beige carpet. There’s hardly anything personal in the room, aside from a few framed photographs, a potted plant, a tripod with some lenses, and a handful of books. One’s aNational Geographicpublication; another’s about the natural wonders of the world. There are some crime novels too with creased spines, a Nick Hornby, a Ben Elton.
We cozy up together on the tiny sofa, which smells very faintly musty—but in the sense of being cherished and well-used, like a beloved grandmother’s armchair, or the perfect find in an antiques shop.
“So,” Caleb says, sipping his coffee. “Tell me more about yournovel. I mean, I know you said girl-meets-boy... but what girl? And what boy? And how do they meet?”
I’ve fully drafted the novel’s opening now—a loose reimagining of my parents’ meeting, but with an interwar twist, in that my two protagonists fall for each other on holiday in Margate, in the fabulous Roaring Twenties. I’ve decided that their subsequent marriage should be cut cruelly short by war—though everything will come together to give them a happy ending eventually. Beyond this vague plot, though, I still have no real idea what I’m doing. I haven’t a clue about structure, or pacing, or characterization, or anything, really. I’m just writing what I feel. What’s in my heart.
TheShoreley Gazetteonce ran a story about my parents for its Valentine’s Day edition—a splashy feature about the serendipity of Mum and Dad’s meeting, their whirlwind romance, their happy-ever-after. Dad had it framed—it still hangs in their spare room, albeit in a tongue-in-cheek kind of way. I remember being so starstruck, seeing my parents’ love story making the paper—the actual newspaper!—and perhaps that’s where it started, the idea that I might one day immortalize their fairy tale even further. That maybe I could do even more for it than a spread in theShoreley Gazette.
Because while my school friends’ parents were divorcing and bickering and slinging pints of cider at each other at summer barbecues, mine were taking ballroom dancing lessons and learning Italian together and holding hands on the sofa in front ofBlind Date. They fully bought into Valentine’s Day, and loved nothing better than big romantic gestures—like the hot-air balloon ride Mum bought Dad for his fortieth, or that trip to Paris Dad arranged to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
Anyway. Over the past week I’ve spent my days immersed in all things 1920s, lost in P. G. Wodehouse and Nancy Mitford, absorbed by images of flapper dresses and cigarette holders and women showingoff newly bobbed hair, of Coco Chanel and Marlene Dietrich, of cocktail bars ringing out with ragtime and jazz. I’ve become happily reacquainted with all the great love stories I admire too, dipping into them as I go. And I’ve already found myself tearing up at the prospect of sending Jack, my main character, off to war.
I explain all this to Caleb, describing my parents and how the way they met has loosely inspired what I’m writing.
“So why the twenties?” he asks me, leaning forward, his expression attentive and keen. “Why not the present day?”
I hesitate. “I think it was just such an intoxicating time on some levels, you know? I like stories about hope, and the start of the twenties were so optimistic, and glamorous, and even frivolous.”
“Sort ofGreat Gatsby–esque?”
“Yes,” I say, getting more animated now. “Like, there was that mood of escapism and hedonism and empowerment...”
“Before it all came crashing down.”
“Well, that’s sort of the point. I want what’s happening in society to mirror what’s going on in their marriage, with the Depression and then the war, and everything.”
“It sounds brilliant,” he says, sipping his coffee again. “I’d read it.”
“You would? Do you read much?”
“When I get the time.”
“What kind of thing?”
“Whatever catches my eye. I’m a sucker for a decent cover. Couple of times a month I go into a charity shop and just buy whatever looks good.”
I smile. “Incredible.”
“What?”
“You’ve not even tried to pretend you’re readingUlysses.”
A bark of laughter slips free. “Should I?”
“Definitely not.” I tell him about the two guys in my course at uni—one of whom was nicknamed Ulysses and the other War and Peace,on account of the answers they gave when our tutor asked everyone to name their favorite books in our very first seminar.
“So, will you let me read it? Your novel, I mean.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling briefly flustered.
Caleb waits for a couple of moments, which is fair enough, given I haven’t actually answered his question. Then: “I’d love to take a look. If it doesn’t feel too personal to show me.”
A few seconds’ silence. It’s not that it feels too personal—more that I’d like to get to know Caleb better, and if he hates my writing... might that change what he thinks of me? What if he reads it and he decides I’m a talentless fantasist?
