“Hmm,” she says again, and I have to bite my tongue. I know she doesn’t give Harriet this much of a hard time about settling down. But then, she is a few years younger, and Mum and Dad have never been as hard on her as they are on me. She doesn’t exactly give them much to complain about.
“I don’t mean to be discouraging, sweetheart,” Mum says. “But surely there are other things you could write about, without having to sign up for some crazy project like this?”
“It’s not crazy,” I say, feeling defensive. “I’m choosing to focus on my writing and that means not dating for a while. It’s not like I’ve had my uterus removed.”
“Don’t be sosensitive, darling.”
A frustrated breath gusts out of me. My parents have always complained that I’m too sensitive, and the minute I get even the tiniest bit annoyed or defensive, Mum whips out that line. I have to hand it to her, though—it works. Because what am I supposed to say to that?
“I’m surprised you’re even wanting to write about this,” she continues. “I assumed you’d be writing one of those ridiculous romance novels you love so much. Always dreaming of Prince Charming.”
My cheeks heat with shame. Good thing I didn’t mention my novel, then. She’d just see that as concrete proof that I’m living in a fantasy.
And then I think of how much I’ve been enjoying writing about Matthew and Annie. Except, it’s not really aboutthem, is it? We all know who it’s really about. Which would be fine, but I don’t justwriteabout Michael, Ithinkabout him. All the time. Like a bloody lovesick teenager.
I swallow back the acidic taste of disgust in my mouth. What iswrongwith me? How did I let myself end up back here again?
“Yes, well,” I mumble, resolving to sort myself the fuck out. “Don’t worry about that, Mum.”
An uncomfortable silence stretches between us and I’m about to end the call when Mum speaks.
“Have you given any thought to when you might come home?”
I frown. “What? No.”
“We’re going to miss you at Christmas. And then it’s Harriet’s birthday later in January, so if you’re back by then, we could—”
“Jesus,” I mutter, staring at the ceiling and wishing it would cave in on me. “I won’t be home in January. You know I’vemovedhere, right? Ilivehere now.”
“Well, yes. I know you wanted to move to the big city and do your writing, and the blog is very nice. But you did give up an awful lot just to write a few words on a little website.”
Irritation fizzles in my gut and I make myself take a deep breath. “Mum—”
“I just think that maybe it’s time you grew up and got back to the real world. If you came home, darling, I’m sure I could talk to Julie about getting you another job at the bookstore. It probably wouldn’t be assistant manager again, but—”
“Mum, stop,” I snap, sitting up on the bed. I press my balled fist into my eye, willing myself to stay calm. I should have known this is exactly how this conversation would go. “I like living here. I like writing my blog. And I’m not coming home.”
There’s silence on the other end and I grind my jaw, knowing this is going nowhere.
“I have to go,” I mutter. “I’ll… speak to you soon.” I hang up the call and toss my phone aside. My eyes land on my laptop and I reach for it, determined to get this blog post finished.
Determined not to indulge any more fantasies of Prince Charming.
21
There’s something about being drunk at midday that feels kind of naughty, like sneaking into the copy-room to have sex at an office party, knowing you might get caught.
Not that I’ve ever worked in an office. Or had sex in a copy room.
I don’t make a habit of drinking in the middle of the day, but according to Cat, “boozy brunches” are a thing in New York. Basically, you go to brunch and eat as normal, but you also get bottomless cocktails.Bottomless cocktails.
It’s bloody brilliant.
Cat decides that I’m not a proper New Yorker until I’ve had a boozy brunch, so she takes me to a restaurant in Chelsea on Friday.
We meet Mel outside the restaurant and I immediately shrink when she approaches us. I’d forgotten how stunning Mel is. Today she’s wearing a charcoal wool minidress with tan, suede over-the-knee boots, her long dark hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Next to her I feel like a teenager in my jeans, knitted sweater and ballet flats.
We sit at a tiny table and order. It’s not long before a huge pitcher of margaritas is placed on the table and I pour a generous glass, taking a big swig. Ooh, this is delicious. Another big swig. I could get used to this life.
