After failing to make the longlist for the first-chapter competition that Ryan and Emma were so adamant I should enter last year, I finally mustered up the courage recently to enter a different competition, one I’d spotted in a writing magazine.
The e-mail came through today, and again—the same result. Not even longlisted.
“Maybe this is a sign,” I say glumly. “You know—a nudge from the universe to stop me pouring all my energy into writing.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious.”
Caleb hesitates for a moment or two, frowning into his wineglass. “So, what you’re saying is, people should only have to try once at a thing before they’re successful?” He looks up and meets my eye. “I think even you know that’s complete bollocks, Lucy.”
And there’s something so matter-of-fact and pragmatic about the way he says this that I have to laugh. “All right. Maybe that sounded a bit self-indulgent.”
He leans toward me, holding my gaze. His eyes are sweet and dark as treacle. “Look—as I see it, if you want to be a writer, you only have one option right now.”
“And what’s that?”
“Get up, dust yourself off, and keep going.”
I’ve recently finished the whole first draft of my book. Writing the last few chapters was pretty tough—Ryan and Emma had to practically tug them out of me—but now, finally, the words are all there on the page. There’s lots of polishing still to do, but at least I finally have a full story to work with.
And Caleb’s right. Of course he is. I didn’t come this far only to jack it all in now.
“So,” I say, keen to stop pressing on the bruise of my rejection, “was there another reason you wanted to have dinner tonight?”
That look again. Discomfort and unease. Something on his mind. I pull my cardigan more tightly around me, and wait.
Is it to do with Helen? Us? His happiness—or lack of it?
He takes a couple of moments to reply, swilling what’s left of his wine around the bottom of his glass. “All right. So, after I got the e-mail about the divorce, I had a dentist’s appointment, and in the waiting room... there was this magazine.”
“Okay...” I say slowly, not yet able to imagine where this is going.
“It was one of thoseNational Geographictype of things, and there was this advert in the back.”
He passes me his phone, open on a photo.
The advert is for a not-for-profit cultural heritage organization that’s seeking a photographer-in-residence to document overseas cultural sites across Southeast Asia, in return for a modest salary and all expenses paid. The application deadline’s in a month, and the trip would last for six.
“Oh” is all I can think of to say.
I don’t often wish I drank, but a nice neat shot of something would come in very handy just about now.
Caleb waits. I know he won’t launch into a sales pitch, and I’m glad. He shouldn’t have to sell it to me. Instinctively, I understand this is something he has to do.
So—though I already feel selfishly sick with self-pity—I reach across the table for his hand. “Youhaveto go for it.”
All his features seem to soften, his expression now daubed with guilt and uncertainty. “Lucy, I—”
“I’m serious. You have to do this.”
He’s quiet for a couple of moments. His hand is gripping mine fiercely. “It just... feels pretty weird to be suggesting this when you’re literally the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
I feel my forehead crumple slightly, succumbing to the weight of my emotions. “Look, I know they say love is about compromise, but I don’t think that should ever mean giving up on your dreams.”
He lets his head drop forward, releasing a long breath as he does so, and I realize he’d been nervous about telling me. “I guess the timing just seems off, somehow.”
“No—the timing’sperfect.” I squeeze his hand. “Caleb, seeing this advert on the same day as your divorce being finalized... That can’t have been coincidence. It’s meant to be. Youhaveto do this.”
