‘Writing about it is cathartic. People experience their childhoods differently,’ Rory would say. ‘I see my family one way and they see it another way. The book just vaguely sees a family in a hotel my way.’
‘But Rory, it’s a novel about a family in a hotel. It’s your first novel. Everyone will think it’s a thinly disguised memoir even though you say it’s not. You must tell your family,’ Chantal would say.
‘I’ve been writing this book for years,’ Rory had protested. ‘They know I’m a writer at heart.’
‘Perhaps,’ Chantal had replied. ‘Perhaps. But writing a book for years like a cathartic diary and releasing it as a novel are two very different things. If only you’d let me read all of it.’
‘Nobody’s read all of it,’ said Rory, which was also a lie.
Because Louisa had read all of it, Louisa knew all the secrets. And the publishing company had read all of it and they adored it. Apparently, they loved all the thinly veiled references to the famous actors and bands who’d come to stay in the hotel and filmed their videos there.
Only the editor had asked her how much of it was autobiographical and would she be prepared to give in-depth interviews, and Rory, hyped up on the thrill of doing a huge deal, had said: ‘Yes!’
She’d worked long enough in the advertising industry and knew enough about how the media worked to understand that the editor hoped this was the sort of novel that garnered vast features in newspapers about families and the experiences of them. And what it felt like to be a gay girl growing up in a dysfunctional household with such a macho father and beautiful mother amidst drinking and gambling which, ultimately, had cost them everything.
The heroine’s story mirrored Rory’s so well.
And it had a character like Chloe in it. A delicious twist.
Last night, before she’d gone off in a taxi, Louisa had grabbed Rory’s hand and stared into her eyes.
‘This book will make both our names, you know,’ she’d said. ‘It’s so raw and truthful.’
Quite plastered at this point, Rory had let all her fears fade away and grinned. ‘Fabulous,’ she’d said.
But now, in the cold light of day, she felt a shiver of unease. The book was supposed to be fiction, yet it was so full of real life. She’d changed places, people, names and added in lots of stuff but still, if she was totally honest, the ring of truth was as clear as a bell in the novel to anyone who’d been there. To her family.
She’d have to make a lot of subtle changes before it was published, but that was fine, wasn’t it?
Twenty-five minutes later, she arrived at the Sorrento with a Tupperware container of Chantal’s date and cacao energy balls and her own third strong coffee in a keep cup.
She found everyone in the ballroom and conversation was going on about the curtains, wall washing and whether a lot of tealights strewn around the place would be a fire hazard or a very good plan indeed.
‘From a fire safety point of view—’ Eden was saying and Rory, despite hangover and unease, smothered a grin.
Eden noticed and grinned back.
They’d always understood each other, Rory thought, and then felt the pang of guilt. Eden would kill her when she found out: literally kill her. Eden had once gone out with a biker boy who’d had a swagger in his step and a deadly right punch. Eden always said he’d taught her how to street fight.
In hand-to-hand combat, Eden would undoubtedly win. For all that Rory liked androgynous clothes and her Zadig biker boots, Eden was waaay tougher.
Rory sighed.
What if she couldn’t tweak the book to lessen the harder bits?
Eden would find out – they’d all find out and then what? The Chloe stuff? They’d kill her over that. To drop that into a novel and tell nobody about it first.
She hugged her mother and Vonnie.
‘What have I missed?’ she said. ‘’I can do cleaning but don’t ask me to do anything flowery. Chantal’s much better at that.’
‘Where is she?’ said Vonnie.
‘She’s on the way to work,’ Rory replied.
‘I wish she was a bridesmaid,’ Vonnie said wistfully.
‘I asked,’ said Meg, ‘but she said no. Said she’d be better behind the scenes.’
