‘What do you think?’ she says.
‘About what?’
‘What I’ve just said.’
He has no choice but to hedge. ‘It’s a lot to consider.’
‘I know. And I know it’s not easy to hear criticism from – you know, a reader of inferior genres.’
It’s a dig, and Alex shouldn’t bristle, but he does. Theusual internal hedgehog pose he adopts when hearing feedback on his work doesn’t seem to be working when it comes to Jess.
And that, no doubt, is going to be a problem.
Chapter Nine
Jess
It’s hard to stay frustrated with someone so good-looking, someone who has so tenderly cradled your ankle and produced peas from the freezer to reduce the swelling. But Jess is giving it a good go, nonetheless.
As she talks about Alex’s book, she can see him physically retreating, his shoulders slumping. Shouldn’t he be used to having his work closely examined? From what she understands of weird writing courses like the one he went on in America, you’re supposed to sit there and take it while a room full of people lob their feedback at you, then graciously thank them for stamping on a piece of your soul, and then go away and incorporate their suggestions into another draft of your piece of writing.
Isn’t that exactly what they’re doing here? And she is just one person. One person, whose criticisms he should surely be able to easily dismiss, since he seems to think she knows so little about what constitutes good writing. She knows writers can be tender-hearted and sensitive – although she’s seen no evidence of either trait in Alex so far – but she would have expected himto have grown a thicker skin by now. And she is being honest, but not unkind. She’s even looked up how to do the compliment sandwich!
‘Sorry,’ she says, and he looks up, startled.
‘About what?’
What she really means is that she’s sorry in the general British sense of wanting desperately to clear the air and not being exactly sure how. She’s sorry if she’s made things awkward. But mostly, she’s sorry they’re in this position, the two of them. Sorry she ever opened Nathan’s email and took his offer seriously. But she can’t really say any of that – not without making things evenmoreawkward and weird, so she goes with a truesorry, an apologysorry.
‘I’m pretty sure I sounded snarky back then, but I know I don’t enjoy hearing other people pick apart my work, either. You’ve poured a lot into writing this book, and it is good! A lot of it is working really well.’
‘Working really well,’ he repeats. ‘Working. People used that word a lot on my MFA course.’ He does air quotes with his fingers and puts on what is a truly terrible American accent. ‘The present tense is not working for me. That character’s motivations are not working for me.’
Jess can’t figure out what his tone means. Is he sad? Bitter? Nostalgic for the days when he was the golden boy with a whole literary future ahead of him, rather than stuck in the mire of trying to sustain his career? She also can’t work out why she cares. Or whether sheshouldcare.
But if they’re going to work together – if she’s going to be, essentially, his voice – she should probably takesome time to get to know him. Understand how he ticks. Understand … well, the character’s motivations. Whether or not they ‘work for her’.
‘Did you enjoy your course?’
It’s such a bland question; she hears that as soon as it’s out of her mouth. But she’s got to start somewhere.
‘Enjoyis an interesting word,’ he says. She waits for more, but he clearly enjoys being a man of mystery. She waits a little bit longer. Then she gets tired of waiting.
‘Say more about that,’ she says.
He laughs. ‘You sound like my therapist.’
She would definitely like him to say more aboutthat. A therapist? What does Alex have to be in therapy for? Writer’s block, perhaps? It did take him forever to write that not-exactly-brilliant first draft. And she’s also, despite herself, a little impressed. In her admittedly limited experience, it’s pretty unusual for a man not only to take responsibility for his mental health and go to therapy, but also not to be afraid to admit it to a near-stranger, even if – as Jess suspects – it did slip out accidentally. If Alex was anyone else, she might even find it a little bit attractive. But if she did, that would make this whole situation very awkward indeed, so it’s just as well it’s not the case.
‘The course was good,’ Alex says at last, probably realising Jess isn’t just going to drop this and move on. ‘I learned a lot, including more about literary theory than I ever wanted to. I made some good friends. And I loved living in DC. It’s a really beautiful place. So much history, and beautiful architecture. The restaurantscene is incredible. Lots of amazing bookshops, even if my favourite one did close, because the guy who owned it decided to be a piano teacher instead.’
He’s the happiest she’s seen him yet, when he talks about DC. His face opens up; his dimple pops. She’d like to ask him more about that. But she’s curious about something else, too.
‘You didn’t want to go to Iowa?’ She’s showing off. Letting him know that she, too, knows about American MFAs. She knows that Iowa is the birthplace of the writing workshop that the Publishing Industrial Complex has come to accept as normal, when it seems to Jess that it’s really, really not. She knows that Iowa is the Harvard of writing courses, stilltheplace for aspiring literary writers of a certain type. Exactly Alex’s type, in fact.
And just like that, the light has gone from his face again. ‘Thatwasthe plan.’
‘Or, you know … somewhere closer to home. I’ve heard that the Creative Writing MA in Norwich is good. The Iowa of the UK, I think someone called it.’
