Twenty-five
Words were tumbling out of Jemma onto the page on her laptop, like a waterfall fed by a fast-flowing river. Her fingers couldn’t keep up with the ideas in her head and she was laughing and crying and screaming with excitement as letters and words and sentences and paragraphs and chapter after chapter filled her screen and her document grew page by page.
At this rate, this book would be done by next week. That visit and overnight stay at Betancourt had filled her empty well of inspiration and now it was overflowing.
She had never written a book this fast.
When Molly had phoned her on Saturday, she had briefly answered. ‘I’m sorry, Molly. Can I take a rain check? This book is going really well now and I don’t want to leave it even for a second.’
‘Oh. Of course. Call me when you’re free. But … I may be going away for a holiday so I do need to speak to you before then because it’s a long holiday.’
‘How exciting. We’ll speak soon. Bye for now.’
She went back to the book without even registering what Molly had actually said. Something about a holiday?
It wasn’t important.
She only left her laptop for trips to the loo, and to make coffee, for quick meals and snacks, and to sleep. For seven days and nights she typed. Sometimes at the table in the window, or, if the weather was good, she took her laptop into the garden.
One day she went to the beach as the sun was rising and a hot day was dawning, and she hadn’t returned until the sun had set. She had worn her new white and purple sun hat that day and she had been glad of it. It had shielded her eyes from the sun, and it had also helped to keep her identity hidden from the few people who had also gone to the beach that day.
Exactly one week after she had been a guest at Betancourt, the last book in her series was written. Now she would need to edit it and then send it to Clarice for her thoughts.
She leant back in the chair and stretched out her arms in the air above her head. Her back ached, her body felt like a lead pipe, her neck and shoulders were stiff, and her eyes were red and tired. She would give her right arm for a full body massage.
No. Not her arm. She needed that to help her type.
She smiled at her screen and then tapped the photo of Esme that sat beside her laptop. She kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them against her gran’s cheek in the photo.
‘We did it, Gran. We did it. I think it’s time to celebrate.’
She called Clarice to give her the good news.
‘It’s done? That’s the best news I’ve had this week. Betancourt Bay was obviously where you needed to be. Is it ready to send to me or do you need to do more work?’
‘Well, I need to edit it for typos etc., but other than that, it’s done. Give me a few more days and it’ll be with you. It’s Friday today, so let’s say I’ll send it to you next Wednesday. Does that work for you?’
‘That’s perfect. After that, you can go out and have some fun. Have you done much while you’ve been there? Other than write a new bestseller, I mean.’
‘Have I done much?’ She felt as if she had fit half a lifetime into just over two weeks. Although she had spent an entire week of that writing this book. ‘Nope. Not much.’ How could she tell Clarice that she thought she had met the love of her life but it had turned out she was just a substitute for Laurence Lake? ‘I might come home early. There’s no reason for me to stay here once this book is done.’
‘Really? You don’t want to stay and enjoy whatever Betancourt Bay and Folkestone have to offer?’
‘I … I think it’s time I decided where I’m going to live. I got a message from the estate agents today. They’ve had an offer for my flat. And it’s for the asking price.’
‘That’s fantastic. Congrats. Any idea where you might like to move to?’
She had hoped it might be to Betancourt Bay, but that obviously wasn’t the case.
‘No. But the sooner I decide, the better. I need to get on with my life.’
