Twelve
Stay
I’m in the pub with Emma—the girl from my writing group—and our tutor, Ryan. Over the past few weeks, the three of us have become friends, settling into a routine of postsession drinks to talk writing and books and our passions and life.
“I’m serious,” Emma’s saying, driving her index finger down onto the table, as if she’s arguing with it and not me.
I laugh. “I can see that.”
Emma’s not laughing. “But...?”
“I’m not ready,” I say, shrugging.
“Look.” She leans forward, blond hair dangling perilously close to her glass, the threat of a red-wine balayage alarming me momentarily. Our table’s next to an open fire-cum-furnace, so the sleeves of her sweater are pushed right up to her elbows, affording her a particularly no-nonsense demeanor. “If you won’t listen to me, at least listen to Ryan. An expert in his field, and all that.”
I glance toward the bar, where Ryan is chatting to two young guys. I guess they’re into writing, because they seem to be hanging off his every word, like they’ve bumped into Stephen King and not publishing’s greatest has-been (Ryan’s words, not mine). One of them has a notebook in his hand, and the other is clutching a copy of... Oh God. It’sUlysses.
Summer has surrendered to autumn’s advances now, the greenery turning gold, the air thickening with damp. I always think of Shoreley as a place better suited to cold weather, despite it being somewhere people flock to in summer. To me, the town improves the farther you walk from the beach, when you reach the cobblestones and winding back streets, and the medieval houses all lean against one another like they overdid it on the mead, and everywhere is lit up by those old-fashioned streetlamps that look like they’re straight out of a Dickens adaptation. I think the town’s history is at its most beautiful draped in lights and kissed with frost, when all the windows are glowing amber, and everyone’s walking around in hats and gloves, clutching hot drinks and taking selfies beneath the stars. I’ve even surprised myself by getting excited about planning festive displays at Pebbles & Paper, pitching stock ideas to Ivan—seashell wreaths, starfish tree toppers, beach sand baubles—and suggesting we put on a Christmas shopping event, with complimentary mulled wine to tempt in the punters.
“If you edit that chapter any more,” Emma says to me, “you’ll kill it. You’ll squeeze all the life out of it. You know I’m right. Tell her, Ryan.”
“Tell who what?” Ryan says, returning to our table with another round of drinks on a tray.
Ryan and Emma have been nagging me to enter my novel into a first-chapter competition being run by a major literary prize. The winner gets their chapter published in a glossy magazine, plus a meeting with a senior editor at a big-name publishing house and a top agent. The deadline’s in a week.
Briefly distracted, Emma nods at the drinks, her cheeks pink fromthe heat of the fire. “You’re such a rock star, Ryan. Did you get those on the house?”
He sits down and distributes our glasses before sipping from his pint. “Ha. I wish.”
“Did those lads recognize you? Were they angling for a selfie?”
“The guy behind the bar told them I was a best-selling novelist.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Christ knows how he knew.”
“Maybe you got a bit braggy one night after too many red wines,” Emma teases, to which Ryan elbows her.
“Must be nice,” I say, nodding over at the lads again. For some reason, I’m desperate for Ryan to have his moment. “To get recognized for something you’ve achieved. They looked pretty starstruck.”
He grimaces. “Yeah, for about two minutes, until I told them I haven’t actually been published for seven years. Which to them, of course, is like half a lifetime ago.”
Ryan’s told me a few times that he keeps wondering if he dreamed ever having had a book deal—that these days, the closest he gets to feeling like an author is handing out copies of his second and final novel,The Away Day, to new members of our writing group, at which point he always has to endure a spell of gentle heckling from Emma.
Ryan looks at Emma now. “Talked any sense into this one yet?” He means me.
“Nope. She’s more stubborn than my nan when we tried to make her wear compression stockings.”
“Lucy,” Ryan says, like he has a million times before, “it’s ready.”
“I just don’t feel like it is.”
“But why?”
I think about it. I’ve been writing my novel for nearly six months now, and although I’ve almost finished the first draft, I feel as though it’s taken me until now to really find my feet with it. I’ve been writing feverishly and greedily in the beach hut every afternoon, the hourspassing by unnoticed, sometimes without looking up until it’s dark. I’ve been lost in a frenzy of compulsion and inspiration, fueled by coffee and Haribo and not a lot else. It’s made me feel more alive creatively than anything else I’ve ever done—sometimes it even takes me half an hour before I’ve cleared my head sufficiently to be able to hold a simple conversation with Caleb, the thoughts still hurtling around my mind like the spacecraft in that video game Dylan’s so fond of. But I have an almost-finished novel to show for it, and for the first time in my life, I am starting to feel like a writer. I have created something, and stuck with it, even though at times it’s felt like an impossible hill to scale. After all this time, I have become reacquainted with my old means of self-expression, the way I used to make sense of the world and my own feelings. Writing this novel has been as cathartic as keeping a journal: I feel lighter after every writing session, as though I’ve unburdened myself, upended my mind onto the page. I guess, if I were to be really cheesy about it, I’d say writing was my therapy.
But I still don’t feel confident enough to show anyone beyond Caleb and the group yet.
“You need exposure,” Ryan insists.
I sip my lemonade. “Maybe I’m not ready to be exposed.”
