Dylan clambers down from his armchair and runs up to Simon with the iPad, bellowing something incoherent about a scooter.
“Okay,” I say, uncertainly. “Anything more specific than ‘lovely’ and ‘really good’?”
“Atmospheric,”Simon declares triumphantly, after a pause, in the manner of a game show contestant having a brainwave. He holds open his arms, letting Dylan climb onto his lap.
“Come on,” I say, impatiently. “What did you really think?”
Tash sips her wine. “I think your writing is great. Seriously.”
“But...?”
She hesitates. “I suppose I was a bit surprised you’d set it in the twenties.”
“Why?”
A light shrug. “I don’t know. I guess because you’d said it was loosely based on Mum and Dad. So maybe I was just expecting it to be a modern-day thing.”
“Well, hence the term ‘loosely.’ They’re only the inspiration. It’s not their biography.”
She sips her wine again. “Did you get in touch with that guy yet, about joining that writing group?”
I stare at her. “Oh, you actually hated it.”
Her eyes widen. “No, that isn’t what I meant! I just remembered you were going to try a session with that group, that’s all.”
Self-doubt and dismay spread through my chest like a bruise.
There have definitely been times over the years when the world’s seemed to be telling me to jack writing in. Like when that pipe leaked above my bedroom at uni and destroyed all my writing notebooks. And when I had that short story accepted for publication in an anthology just before I left, only for the small press to fold before it could ever get printed. The handful of submissions I made to magazines, all returned with form rejections.
I feel humiliated suddenly, exposed. My biggest fear has been that my novel isn’t good enough to share, or even exist—and this lukewarm response has proved me right.
Why,why,did I send it to Caleb?
“Youencouragedme to do this, Tash,” I remind her, childishly defensive suddenly.
My sister’s eyes get even wider. “Lucy, it was excellent—honestly.” She elbows Simon next to her. “Wasn’t it?”
He looks up. “To be fair, I’m not much of a reader, but... yeah. It was good.”
Hardly a resounding endorsement.
Tash rolls her eyes. “Lucy, I swear, Ilovedall the back and forth between Jack and Hattie, and you do tell it so beautifully...” She trails off, seeming to sense the need to pick her words carefully. “I just remembered that writing group and thought, you know... it might be useful. Only because you’re a beginner. You’ve never had any formal training.”
I scoop up the glass containing what’s left of my fake margarita. If I can’t even show my work to my own sister without feeling this way, what chance would I have in front of strangers?
Lifting the iPad close to Simon’s face, Dylan starts describing his preferred scooter from a short list of three, which thankfully saves us all from having to sit through the world’s most awkward silence.
“That came out all wrong, Luce,” Tash says, once Dylan’s finished his sales pitch. “We honestly loved it.”
I meet her eye. “Really?”
“Really.”
Dylan squeals with delight at something Simon has said and dashes from the room, iPad abandoned. Simon takes the opportunity to top up Tash’s glass, then his own. “So, how’s it going with your new bloke?” he asks, clearly sensing a need to change the subject.
Tash looks relieved. “Yes, come on—what’s the gossip?”
I smile. “No gossip,” I say primly, which is actually sort of true.
