‘Goodbye,chérie,’ Chantal had said this morning, kissing Rory on the cheek as she left. ‘I won’t leave you a cup of coffee, not yet, go back to sleep.’
‘Love you,’ Rory had muttered and had sunk back into a deep sleep full of crazy dreams involving the hen-night guests and then her father, herself and Eden shouting at each other. She woke up at half eleven, hot, sticky, thirsty. Why did she never remember to bring water to bed when she’d been drinking?
Half eleven, she realised with a shock. Today she was having lunch with the publishers. The triumphant, isn’t-it-wonderful lunch. In a fancy restaurant, the sort of place that clients got brought to in advertising agencies. Not somewhere the lowly copywriters went to.
She dragged herself out of bed, went into the kitchen to drink about two glasses of water straight down. Then she went into the bathroom and stood under the shower for a climate-change battering ten minutes. When she got out, she felt more human. The long hot shower, cold at the end, had done the trick.
Something human faced her in the mirror. Normally Chantal was brilliant at telling her what to wear at these events. But, she was on her own today, she thought, as she rubbed a bit of wax into her hair, making it stand up because she didn’t have time to dry it, and rubbed moisturiser on her face. Chantal wore the make-up; Rory didn’t bother. Although, she did have her eyebrows shaped. They were great, her eyebrows: strong, like her face. She liked her strong jawline and so did Chantal. She loved running her fingers along the edge of it up to Rory’s full bottom lip and sliding her finger inside. She was lucky, Rory thought, lucky to find someone as beautiful, wonderful, giving as Chantal. In the bedroom she realised that Chantal had thought of an outfit for her. It was her tux-approximation suit, a dinner-style jacket and similar trousers. Because it was warm, she wore a sleeveless white shirt that showed off her shoulders and her arms. She had great muscle tone, she was lean, fit. A splash of cologne and she was ready.
They were all there at the restaurant when she arrived.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Rory, uncharacteristically for her. She was a big fan of the never-explain, never apologise school of thought. But for this, eating with publishers who were going to pay her a lot of money, she thought she might just modify her behaviour. ‘Got caught up doing something,’ she said. There was no point explaining too much, didn’t want to confuse people. Nobody seemed to mind.
‘We ordered champagne,’ said Emily, the editor.
‘Oh good,’ said Rory approvingly. This was her kind of party.
She sat down, allowed her glass to be filled and they all toasted her.
‘To the wonderful Rory Robicheaux. The newest superstar writer. This time next year, everyone will be reading your wonderful book,The Eboli,’ said Emily.
Everyone raised their glasses again. And Rory felt the faintest hint of a shiver. Everyone reading her book, yes, that’s what happened. People wrote books and people read them and they made judgements. She thought of the story. Judgements on her and her family. It seemed so long ago that she’d had a thought about writing about her life and how she’d come through everything, and how that had morphed into something else, something that would now hurt the people she loved.
Immediately, the grand publisher, a stately lady with a slight purple tinge to her hair, who was definitely wearing Moscow Red MAC lipstick, was talking about something and Rory got caught up in the conversation.
They were onto pudding, cheese for Rory, who rarely had anything sweet except when it came from alcohol, when Emily finally turned to Rory and hit her with the big question.
‘I know it’s tricky, but how much do you think you’ll want to get into about the autobiographical parts of the story?’ she said.
Rory felt her face freeze. ‘Em—’ She was never at a loss for words, never. But here, now, she felt tongue-tied. ‘Em—’
‘Because people will want to know, they’re going to ask you that.’
‘But it’s not autobiographical,’ Rory said, the words tumbling out of her mouth. She could see Louisa looking at her with mild concern.
‘But it’s quite a lot about you and your family, isn’t it?’ said Emily.
‘Hints of it, but, you know, one takes the real world and …’ Rory cast around desperately for some explanation and then realised she was with people who worked with writers all the time, and there was absolutely no way she’d get away with fudging this here. ‘And one puts them into the story, but you know nothing in fiction is taken from the real world. I mean, it couldn’t be.’
She could see the grand-dame publishing lady looking at her, eyes hooded.
‘Yes,’ Emily said, ‘I understand that, absolutely.’
And suddenly Rory felt seen and not in a good way. She felt as if she was found out. People were going to be reading this book and it hit her even more forcefully that what had been a way of working out her thoughts as well as combining her love of writing, and of finding out her family’s truths, was not a triumph of literature. But something akin to the worst betrayal of all time.
Just beyond the restaurant was a stone wall and beyond the stone wall was the most beautiful view of Dublin Bay, the sea glistening like the Mediterranean. Lots of little yachts were out in the Bay, sails bobbing. There must be some sort of regatta going on, Meg thought fondly. The restaurant had put them outside and they sat on the veranda with an umbrella shading them from the sun and a glorious breeze taking away the heat of the June day.
‘I love this country when the sun shines,’ said Sonya, stretching luxuriously.
‘So that’s why you left it,’ said her brother.
Meg glared at Stu. ‘Stu,’ she hissed, ‘what is wrong with you?’
‘Oh, it’s just a bit of sibling teasing,’ he said.
But Meg was not convinced.
He sounded irritable and she didn’t know why. Sonya, however, didn’t appear in the slightest bit put out. All those years nursing, Meg thought. First Sonya and then Indy had shocked her with stories of patients who had screamed and yelled at the nurses caring for them, demanding to see doctors, their superiors, the boss of the hospital so they could complain in their attempts to go outside for a fag/have a nicer dinner/get more painkillers than was recommended for a human being in a single day.
