Chapter Twenty-Two
Seeing as Nick and I were both going to stops on the Northern line, we headed to the Tube station together. As we walked, I fired off a text to Enzo, asking him if “Mr. Darcy” had come back to the café this afternoon, given that was the first place we’d met. Enzo responded with a thumbs-down and a ghost emoji, followed by a question mark, but I didn’t reply. There were lots of people I owed a proper explanation to, but Bianca was top of the list. I scanned to her number and considered ringing her, but something told me she wouldn’t want to chat with me right now, if ever. I shoved the phone back into my bag.
“She’ll forgive you,” Nick said, as if reading my thoughts.
“I hope so. We’ve always told each other everything, so I know how betrayed she’ll be feeling right now.”
“She’s also clearly a pragmatic woman, so she’ll understand your reasoning.”
I bit my lip, not so confident. After all, I wasn’t sureIeven understood my own reasoning. I’d been so determined to keep Darcy a secret, as if revealing his identity would somehow make the bubble burst andhe’d disappear. But it turned out that my not trusting people and hiding Darcy was what was making him disappear, rather than the other way around.
“How long have you and Bianca known each other?” Nick asked, in what was clearly an attempt to distract me from my own spiraling thoughts.
“Seventeen years. We met in our first year at Camden School for Girls, and we’ve been best friends ever since.”
“From what I’ve seen of her, she seems to be an incredible woman.”
“She is,” I said, smiling. “She’s smart and tough and unbelievably driven, but she also has the kindest, most loving heart. And she’s supported me through so much shit over the years: when my dad left and then when Mum died, and when Crispin—” I broke off, unsure I wanted to discuss my personal life with Nick, a virtual stranger.
“Is this Crispin ‘Void of a Generation’ Carter you’re talking about?”
“The very same.”
“I’m still finding it hard to imagine you ever going out with someone like him,” he said, shaking his head.
“You mean because he’s a literary genius and I’m a romance-loving airhead who works in a café?”
“No! I mean because you seem like you’re cool and interesting, and he’s such a boring tosspot.”
For some reason this made my face feel warm, and I coughed. “We met at a novel-writing class. Crispin was a few years older than me, wore black, and had read loads of serious literary novels I’d never heard of, and I thought he was the most impressive person I’d ever met. I was so naive.”
We’d reached the Tube station and headed through the ticket barriers.
“So you’re a writer too?” Nick said as we made our way onto the escalator. He was standing on the step below me, but because he was so tall, our faces were at the same height.
“Yes. I mean, no.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, you mean no?”
“I always wanted to be a writer, and I did seriously try for a couple of years after uni. But I started to lose confidence in what I was doing, especially compared to Crispin’s writing, and by the time he got his publishing deal, I’d given up.”
Nick frowned. “Were you writing dick lit too?”
I smiled at the reference. “No, definitely not. My book was a romance,quelle surprise. But I guess I kept comparing what I was writing to Crispin’s serious, profound book with its fancy prose, and I felt like what I was writing was all a bit one-dimensional and pointless.”
“Hang on a second!” Nick said. “You were the one who told me that romance novels are just as valid and worthy as literary fiction.”
“And they are! Good romance novels are incredible, powerful, life-affirming stories. But they also need a happy-ever-after, and for some reason, I was never able to write a convincing one. Honestly, I tried and tried, but every time I got to the last act, everything would fall apart, and I could never give my characters the ending they deserved. Eventually, Crispin and I decided that I’m just too sad and broken to ever be able to write a truly happy ending, and it was better I just give up than keep wasting my time.”
I meant the last sentence a bit flippantly, but Nick was staring at me with piercing eyes. “You’re not broken, Zoe. And if Crispin ever made you feel like you are, then he’s even more of a fucking arsehole than I first suspected.”
We’d reached the bottom on the escalator, and I looked away fromhim as we made our way down the stairs toward the platform. I wasn’t sure how to reply to what he’d just said; there was something about the intensity of his expression that confused me. I think it might have confused Nick, too, because when he spoke again, his tone was lighter.
“Look, this may sound trite, but I genuinely believe it’s better to keep trying and failing than to give up on something you love. And if you loved writing once, maybe you can find that joy again?”
I smiled. “You know, Darcy said something similar. He’s encouraged me to start writing a diary again for pleasure, and although it’s only nonsense about my daily life, I have to admit it’s felt good to put pen to paper after all this time.”
Nick’s eyes went wide in mock surprise. “Wow, maybe Mr. Darcy isn’t so toxic after all.”
