‘No, Gertie,’ Henry says sharply, seemingly offended at the very suggestion. ‘Takes me a little longer than that to move on.’
‘You were the one that declared the break.’
Henry puts his hand on my arm. ‘A break, yes. But not an ending.’
My spirits lift a little. ‘So you definitely don’t want an ending?’
Henry runs his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t know what I want. That’s the trouble. I just … sometimes you come to these split points in your life, right? And you know that whichever path you choose is the one that will dictate the rest of your days. I just want to make the right decision. Be certain, you know, about us. About our future. Can you understand that, Gert?’
My shoulders slump, spirits dashed as quickly as they’d been lifted.
So my display with Riverhasn’tworked yet. Henry’s still on the fence about us. Fine. I’m here to help him get off it. He needs certainty? I can show him that we belong together.Like River said, he just needs a little more nudging in the right direction. I can do that.
‘I understand,’ I reply, although I don’t really. Not at all.
I’m about to bring up the possibility of going for some couples therapy, when Henry suddenly swipes up a thick cardboard file from the coffee table between us and drops it into my hands. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Take a look.’
‘What’s this?’ I ask, my first ridiculous thought that he’s handing me divorce papers even though we aren’t married.
‘I wrote a new novel,’ Henry replies, voice full of guarded excitement.
‘What?’ I whip open the folder to see a title page for a manuscript calledThis Curious Beauty. ‘When?’
Henry chuckles and shakes his head. ‘Over the last four weeks. I know! It’s utterly insane. I got this mad urge and, forgive the cliché, but the words have beenflowing. It’s almost like I’ve been tapping into another realm, like a sort of creative conduit. It’s the most fulfilling writing experience I’ve ever had, Gert. As soon as Jim texted me to say you were coming this weekend, I knew I had to show you the pages. After all, you were the one who encouraged me to plot this idea in the first place.’
What? In the four weeks since he moved out he has written a whole entire draft of a book?All I’ve written in the past four weeks is three terrible lying emails to Bridget about how much I’m getting done and a Google search of ‘best meat-based curries near Bloomsbury’.
‘An entire manuscript?’ I open up the file and flip through the neatly typed pages, crisp and fresh and full of potential.
‘Yep,’ Henry says proudly. ‘It’s the first time I’ve never toiled over every sentence and I genuinely think it’s made it better. Mademebetter. Free-er somehow. I don’t know if it was simply a matter of trying to distract myself from the pain of … this,’ he indicates the both of us, ‘but something happened and it just sort of … slipped out.’
‘Wow,’ I say brightly. ‘Well done. Really. That’sgreat, Henry.’ Despite my shock, I do mean it. Henry’s last novel, while an award long-listee, took him three years to finish. So the fact that he’s written something so quickly is great. And … insane. ‘I’m so pleased for you, wow,’ I say again, ignoring the loudhailer in my head telling me that he’s done this infourweeks. Did he start writing the same day he moved out? Shit. Have I been the one stifling his creativity all this time? No. It can’t be. He once said I was his muse. I’m the person he discusses all of his ideas with. I literally helped him plot the chunky pile of papers that now rests in my arms.
‘Thanks, my Gertie,’ he says softly. Then he scooches closer on the sofa, his face contemplative as he gazes into my eyes. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. My breath catches with the anticipation of it, but to my huge disappointment he just reaches out a hand and double-taps the file of papers on my lap.
‘I was hoping you’d consider reading the pages? Give me notes? You always were my best beta reader. I trust you more than, well,anyone.’
For the book that got him longlisted for the Booker Prize I did an entire manuscript edit and completely re-wrote at least three chapters. I’d say that was more than beta reading.I quash down the small spark of irritation that prickles my chest.
My face must betray me though because Henry takes a hold of my hand, gives it the quick triple squeeze we used to do – our way of sayingI love youwithout speaking out loud. ‘You know I don’t trust anyone else with my first drafts.’ He stares down at his knees and half-shrugs. ‘I need you, Gert. I think, despite everything, I’ll always need you.’ His eyes meet mine, full of pleading.
I soften immediately.
‘Of course,’ I say, triple squeezing his hand in return. ‘Of course I’ll give you notes, silly. When do you need them for?’
Henry grins, and pretends to wipe the sweat from his brow. ‘Asap if you can? I’m hoping to send it to my agent soon. I really think this could be something special. How about by next week?’
‘No worries,’ I say, though, of course, there are worries. My own late manuscript being one. The cowboy in the room next door being another. But the whole point of even coming here with said cowboy was to make Henry see that he made a mistake when he decided we should go on a break. To make him end the break, stop this foolishness and move back into our flat. And if I turn down his request for help, then essentially all I’d be doing is confirming that he was right to be unsure about us … This here is a great opportunity to sway his decision in my favour by doing one of the things I do best – being helpful. ‘I’d be happy to.’
‘Hoorah!’ Henry bounces up from the sofa. ‘You’re the literal best, Gertie.’
I stand up with him. ‘Would you, uh, like another cup of tea? I was hoping that maybe we could talk about—’
I trail off as Henry stifles a huge yawn. ‘Eek. Sorry. God, I’m wiped out. That quiz was tough, right? Accessing general knowledge is exhausting. Like rummaging around an old basement for items you didn’t even know you’d lost. Shall we catch up tomorrow?’
My stomach thunks. Henry’s invitation wasn’t even a bootie call, let alone a chance to talk properly about our relationship. I swallow down the bitter acid that slithers its way into my throat.
‘Okay!’ I chirrup as brightly as I can manage. ‘Tomorrow then.’
