‘It’s a noble profession,’ Jericka said, earning her several thousand brownie points with me. ‘Encouraging the next generation, inspiring young minds.’
‘Yes, that’s very true and I’m proud of her for it,’ Mum replied. I leaned against the cold stone, steeling myself for the inevitable ‘but’ that hung in the air.
‘I know it’s a terrible thing to say but I expected something more from her. She’s such a bright girl, could’ve gone into any industry really but I always assumed she’d follow us into the publishing world. I’m not ecstatic about Charlotte deferring her education but you can’t help but be impressed by her determination. Where’s that ambition in Sophie? She’s too soft to be a killer agent like William but she would’ve made a marvellous editor and she did, like you say, alwaysalwayswant to be a writer.’
My thighs were already screaming from the deeply uncomfortable position I found myself in, physically and emotionally, and I very much wanted to leave. But how could I?
‘She’s still young, there’s time for her yet.’ Jericka sounded like she was trying to convince my mother I could still turn back from a life of crime. ‘Toni Morrison didn’t publishThe Bluest Eyeuntil she was thirty-nine.’
‘But she was already working in publishing then,’ Mum reminded her. ‘Not coddling toddlers and wasting her potential.’
‘And don’t forget,’ Carole added. ‘Those who can do, those who can’t teach.’
‘Carole, that’s a terrible thing to say,’ Mum replied, only waiting a second before adding, ‘but you’re not the first to say it.’
‘Could be worse,’ Jerick clucked. ‘At least she’s not a romance writer.’
Lowering myself to my hands and knees, I crawled away from the house and crawled back down the garden like a dog. As well as being thematically on point, it was the only way to make sure they wouldn’t see me and I was not in the mood to make my confession now.
I hidButterfliesfrom my parents because I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing them. What I hadn’t realised until tonight was how disappointed my mother already was. As a lifetime romance reader, I was used to snobbery. Ever since my fated meet-cute with the copy ofBridget Jones’s Diarysomeone left behind on a bus when I was fourteen, and I knew from the very first ‘fuckwit’, there was no turning back. Mum dismissed it all as ‘chicklit’ back then and I hid my ever-growing collection under my bed, pristine and treasured, while I distracted my parents with the dog-eared copies of Ayn Rand and Hemingway bought from second-hand shops. After a while, chicklit fell out of fashion and people started calling it ‘women’s fiction’ which I never really understood. The gender label made no sense. There was no ‘men’s fiction’ section in the bookshop, why were we the ones who had to be othered? In fact, if a man wrote a love story, or any kind of book with a romantic storyline at its heart, it went right in the window and won all the prizes, while my beloved books, the ones that talked about the lives of women, all the things that mattered to us, large and small, were tuckedaway on a shelf or squeezed together on one very pink table. Now things were different. Romance ruled, and younger and braver women than me shouted their fandom from the TikTok rooftops. There were still plenty of snobs around to judge them, but they didn’t care. That was the one thing my mum was right about. They loved what they loved, regardless of what other people thought, and that kind of love is a radical, rebellious act. But it didn’t make up for knowing your parents were disappointed in you.
‘She returns,’ Joe declared as I opened the door and skulked inside, head hanging low. ‘When you said don’t wait up I thought that meant you weren’t coming back. And by “thought”, I mean, hoped.’
‘I’m really not in the mood for this,’ I replied, keeping my chin down and my hair in front of my face. ‘Can I just brush my teeth and go to bed please?’
‘No one’s stopping you.’
I moved past him without looking up, one foot in front of the other, the bathroom was so close. Three more steps and I could lock the door, turn on the taps and wash the whole day away. But Joe stepped in front of me, blocking my path, his non-committal sarcasm replaced by concern.
‘What happened? Are you OK?’
‘More than.’
I ducked past him, closing the bathroom door and turning the lock before he could get a good look at my tear-stained face.
My disappointing, unambitious tear-stained face.
‘Sophie?’ he called my name doubtfully through the door.
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ I replied, hating how weak and shaky my voice sounded.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’
He was still outside the door, I could feel him hovering and I stayed stock still until his footsteps petered away. I didn’t realise I was shaking until I stopped.
The sight I saw reflected in the mirror was not a pretty one. My eyes and nose were red raw, my hair needed a good brush and what mascara had survived the walk back from the house had stained my under eyes a sickly, patchy grey. I looked disgusting but then I felt disgusting so it all worked out perfectly. Meeting myself in the eye, I gave Mirror Sophie a fierce look. A woman I followed on Instagram, who loved dispensing advice while contorting herself into a variety of advanced yoga poses, said no matter what, you should always be able to find one good thing about your day and I was determined to do it. There was Sarah, as always, but seeing her so happy and fulfilled by her new job only reminded me how confused I was. Her vanilla latte was definitely a highlight but if that was the best I could do, I really was in trouble.
The girl we met on our walk.Butterflies’ biggest fan.
That should’ve been something I could cling to, someone who willingly went to bat for me and my book simply because she loved it. But what good was the adoration of strangers when the people you loved most didn’t respect you? Even CJ, who had to be one of the top five most annoying people in the world, had dumped me. I wasn’t sad about the end of our relationship and I definitely wasn’t still hung up on him, no matter whathe wanted to believe, but what did it say about me if even a man like that ditched me at the first opportunity?
After ten minutes on the side of the bath with wads of cold, wet tissue paper pressed against my eyes, I opened the bathroom door. Facing me was a semi-transparent white wall suddenly erected in the middle of the cottage, dividing the room in two. My bed on one side, his sofa on the other. Shoelaces, four of them tied together in one long line, stretched from one end of the room to the other, the fabric that separated us draped over the top.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘I like privacy when I retire,’ Joe quoted from his side of the partition. ‘I’m very delicate in that respect. Behold the walls of Jericho!’
