‘With my client, the trouble was a case of seemingly insurmountable writer’s block. When she overcame it and finally managed to type outThe End, poof, Prince Helmuth disappeared. And, between you and me, we were all ever so relieved. There was somewhat of a persistent halitosis situation. You wouldn’t have thought it, to look at him.’ Bridget ponders for a moment. ‘But anyway, writingThe Endcan’t be the solution with you, Gertie, because you don’t have writer’s block.’
Uh oh.
I sink back down to the sofa and stare at my feet, a grimace turning my mouth upside down.
‘Gertie?’ Bridget says in the same voice Mrs Casablancas uses when Squish tries to steal her sandwich. ‘What is that face? You don’t have writer’s block, right?’ Bridget crouches down in front of me.
‘Um …’
‘Gertie? How many pages of book five have you written?’
It’s time to come clean.
I bury my head in my hands. ‘None.’ I cringe. ‘I’ve not written a single page.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Text from Henry:
Where did you go?
Text undelivered
Text from Jim K:
Oh darling, I’m so sorry you felt like you had to leave the party. I knew I should have told you about Henry and Marisol. I feel like such a dunce. It was glorious to see you, either way. Be in touch soon. xx
Text undelivered
‘I’m not panicking,’ Bridget says brightly, extremely brightly, when I tell her that, for the first time in my life, I, too, am struggling with a seemingly insurmountable case of writer’s block.
‘You look like you’re panicking.’
‘How so?’ Bridget smiles so widely that it makes her neck muscles tremble a little with the strain of it.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Bridge. The general vibe, the Jammie Dodger you just crushed in your bare hand. The fact that when I told you there was no book you said, “Oh, fuck a fucking duck”.’
‘I say fuck a fucking duck all the time!’ Bridget says breezily, dropping the biscuit she just crushed with her bare hands into the saucer Mrs Casablancas hands to her.
‘You’veneversaid fuck a fucking duck.’
She takes a deep breath and pauses mid-pace. ‘All right. Maybe Iamexperiencing some mild alarm. But certainly not panic. Ha! I’ve been in this business a long time. You think I haven’t dealt with a blocked writer before? That I haven’t had a client skirting the edge of a missed deadline? That I haven’t had to chide and jolly authors along, hold their hands chapter by chapter, tell them every damn day just how much I believe in them?’
‘Have you ever had a client who hasn’t written even a single page and has only ten days left to write the whole first draft?’
Not to mention the fate of an actually not at all villainous man resting on her ability to write the whole story?
‘No,’ Bridget confirms, her knees seeming to wobble a tad as she sits back down in the chair, exhaling through her teeth so it makes a sort of high-pitched squeaking sound. It strikes me as funny that she seems even more panicked about the prospect of my non-existent manuscript than the concept of other parallel universes casually existing, and people like mefucking channellingthem.
‘Ten days? It’s never gotten that hairy before.’ She bitesthe corner of her lip. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have been saying “no pressure!” all the time. I incorrectly assumed you were putting enough pressure onyourself. I should have said “much pressure!” I should have kept calling when you didn’t answer … I assumed you really did have it in hand. I should have known. Authors are all huge fibbers.’ She looks at me, eyes big circles, all attempt at recovered professionalism out of the window, which is totally fair. ‘Do you have a plan for how to solve this? Or would you like my input? No pressure! I mean, some pressure. Gosh, it’s a habit saying no pressure. I really must stop it.’
I look over at River and together we explain how the block started when Henry left, and that we thought River – as a renowned lothario – was here to help me get Henry back.
Bridget pulls a face. She’s never been a fan of Henry’s. Not since the time she met him at a dinner party and he said Nora Roberts was ‘basic’ even though he’d never read any of her books. And also the time he rubbed his hand over my head and said ‘Silly Gertie,’ when I admitted I didn’t enjoyThe Catcher in The Rye. He was just joking, but still she took against him.
‘But it turns out that Henry is … otherwise involved. So Operation True Love totally failed.’
‘Henry is otherwise involved? No!’ Mrs Casablancas cries, although she doesn’t look distressed at all, in fact she seems quite pleased for some reason. I narrow my eyes at her.
