‘Really!’ said Louisa, suddenly sounding very sober. ‘You do need to make them know what it’s about,’ she said. ‘We don’t want any tricky court cases, do we? Not when I just got you a six-figure deal.’
‘No, it will be fine,’ Rory had said far too quickly.
Why had she said that? When the book was part memoir, part cathartic novel, it had been lovely. The first piece of writing that had flowed out of her easily.
Therapy on paper: imagining the bits she’d have done differently, the bits her family might have done differently. But now – now it was very real.
Rory could still smell the cigarettes from Sunday night. They’d smoked so much even though she didn’t smoke anymore except on rare social occasions. Yesterday’s ones with Chloe were sheer nerves. But, of course, because they were drinking, she and Louisa had to smoke at the auction celebration. They were social smokers now which meant at least three packs during one drinking night, far more than an actual smoker would consume. The whole apartment still smelt like an ashtray instead of the bower of exquisite Diptyque candles Chantal liked to burn.
It was no good: she wasn’t going to sleep now. She sat up in the bed as Chantal appeared with a huge bouquet of flowers.
‘For me?’ asked Rory.
‘The publishers, perhaps?’
Chantal put the bouquet in its heavy glass vase on the floor and searched for the card, before handing it to Rory.
We are so thrilled to have won the auction!!! ToThe Eboli, the novel of the year!!!
Rory felt the shiver of nerves again.
‘They’re definitely calling the bookThe Eboli?’ said Chantal, who was staring at the small card with something akin to horror.
Rory nodded.
It was hard to explain even to Chantal that after writing the book for so long, she’d become wildly wound up when Louisa had taken her on as a client.
The book had been going nowhere until she’d met Chloe and then, only then, had it come to life. Up till then, she’d been skirting around things. But Chloe’s very existence had allowed Rory to mine her youth in great detail.
Then it had fallen into place.
Louisa had suggested calling the bookThe Eboli, which was the road on which the Sorrento Hotel sat. Another Italian place name in a place that seemed like a little piece of Italy.
Chantal had been horrified. ‘It is as good as saying: this is the truth in fictional form. It will hurt everyone. Your parents, your sisters.’
This morning, she returned to her theme. ‘You’re going to have to tell them soon.’
Chantal dressed neatly in a navy dress and ballet flats, with her hair up and looking as beautiful as ever, spoke over her shoulder as she carried the flowers into the kitchen.
Rory got up and followed her partner.
‘No, I’m not. They can read it like everyone else,’ said Rory, sitting on one of the emerald-green bar stools. She still felt a bit ropey after Sunday’s drink fest. Chantal always knew when to stop. Rory occasionally feared she didn’t. But she wasn’t going to think about it. She’d had enough pain. She deserved a drink when she was celebrating. Although now she was in her thirties, the hangovers seemed to last two days.
‘It will be in the publishing magazines and then the newspapers will write about it. They’ill see it and everyone will be furious.’
Rory shifted and her dyed black hair, cut bluntly so that it accentuated her jawline, fell over one eye.
‘They’ve no right to be furious,’ she replied simply. ‘It’s all true. Mum and Dad might be living in cloud cuckoo land, where we’re all one big happy family and ‘oooh, let’s get married again—’ her voice had segued into the fake tone perfectly but now it clicked back into the sadness it always held when talking about her parents and the family breakup. She’d been the youngest, damnit. The most affected – ‘but I know better. Now people can see my side of the story, even if I do tell people it’s fiction and only partly based on my childhood. OK, so there’s a gay character and it’s set in a hotel, but that’s it. I mean, all first novels are a bit about the writer, aren’t they?’ she added hopefully, not sure if this was always true.
In the IKEA subway-tiled white kitchen, Chantal paused at the sink. Rory was exquisitely gifted both in and out of bed. Superbly intelligent, analytical, thoughtful. But there was a self-destruct button in there somewhere and it made Chantal scared. The week-long wedding of her parents-in-law was always destined to be a wild affair but Chantal could not cope with it being angry. A little crazy, sure, she could do that – but anger, no. If Rory told them the truth, there would be much anger.
Rory could feel the vibes emanating from her darling. There was a sour, dangerous feeling in the air and Rory shivered.
Why was everything happening now? Why did bloody Mum and Dad want to get married now, for God’s sake? she thought. It was ridiculous. Surely once had been enough?
Savannah
‘Savannah, you’re here, thank goodness: it’s so exciting!’
