* * *
And so my life slowly returned to normal—or at least, as normal as it could when I was still mourning the love of my life being trapped insidea fictional story. Once my wrist had healed, I went back to work at Cake Expectations, where I listened to Enzo’s stories and served Gulliver’s Trifle and the Taming of the Stew to customers. In the evenings, I came home and tried to read Nick and Maggie out, always focusing on how much I needed them, and although with every day that passed my confidence faded a little more, I never gave up. I’d started cooking myself proper dinners, and then I’d write in my diary before heading to bed with a romance novel. I met Bianca for our weekly drinks, and at the beginning of December, I wore a gold dress and stood beside her as she married Steve in the most joyful, perfect wedding I’d ever been to.
I had my usual invitation to spend Christmas with B’s family, but this year, I turned the offer down to spend the day with Mrs. Atallah. She complained loudly about having to interrupt her scheduled reality TV marathon to host me, but when I turned up on Christmas Day morning, her entire flat was decorated in tinsel and she was already sloshed on sherry. We ate the extraordinary meal she cooked and watchedThe King’s Speech, after which Mrs. Atallah had a little cry about Charbel and Mr. Darcy, and I had a little cry about my mum and Nick. Then we cracked open the Baileys and consumed an entire tub of Cadbury’s Celebrations while watching a rerun ofRuPaul’s Drag Race Holi-slay Spectacular.
On Boxing Day, Mrs. Atallah went to spend a week with her brother and sister-in-law in Birmingham, Bianca and Steve headed off on their honeymoon to the Maldives, and I was left alone. Cake Expectations always closed for the Christmas period, so I had nothing to do with my days except sit at home reading. This was usually heaven for me, and I always saved a selection of my most anticipated novels to devour over the week. But this year, something felt different. Initially, I put my antsy-ness down to the whole boyfriend-in-a-book situation, but as timewent on, I realized that wasn’t entirely it. Something else was making me restless—something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
On New Year’s Eve, I arranged to meet some of Mum’s friends for a walk on Hampstead Heath. Mum had always loved it there and taken me most weekends as a kid, but I’d avoided it since she died, the place too full of memories. But the walk was wonderful, the Heath gorgeous in the frosty winter light, and afterward we had lunch at the Bull & Last pub, laughing and crying as we shared stories about Mum. At the end, we all hugged goodbye, promising to make this an annual tradition, and then I went home to readThe Love of My Afterlife, curled up on the sofa.
I finished the last page just before midnight, my face red and puffy from crying happy tears. As I put the book down, my eyes flicked toward the laptop on my desk, as they had done many times that week. So far, I’d always ignored the pull, distracting myself with another book or a trip to the fridge to eat some of the delicious leftovers Mrs. Atallah had insisted on giving me before she left. But that night, I picked up my diary and crossed to the desk.
I’d bought this laptop for myself when I was accepted into the novel-writing course seven years ago. It was on this keyboard that I’d written my many attempts at a novel, spending hours hunched over the screen, tapping away in a fever dream. Then Crispin had slowly worn my confidence down and I’d opened the laptop less and less frequently, and these days I only used it for random Google searches or watching films in bed. Now I ran my fingers over the keys. As I did, my mind swung back to that afternoon at Netherfield Park. I usually tried to stop myself thinking about my time inPride and Prejudice, the memories still too raw and painful. But that evening, I allowed myself to remember the afternoon when I’d lost myself in writing again, that extraordinary feeling of elation I’d experienced, and the promise I’d made Nick’s mum.
From outside the window, I could hear drunken revelers at the pub up the road, preparing to ring in the new year. At my feet, Mr. Wickham twitched, chasing an unlucky female cat in his dreams. Other than that, the flat was quiet. I glanced across at my bookcase, overflowing with romance novels: funny, powerful, heartbreaking books that celebrated love and friendship, healthy relationships and amazing sex, and above all else, the utter, indomitable, bloody marvelous strength of the human spirit.
And then, as the crowd at the pub started their countdown to midnight, I opened up a new Word document and typed two of the most exciting, terrifying, promising words in the English language.
Chapter One.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
TWO YEARS LATER
“Oh my God, this is a such a bad idea. I feel sick. In fact, I think I’m about to puke.”
“Zoe, calm down, you’re going to be fine.” Bianca stood in front of me, her hands on my shoulders as I hyperventilated in the middle of Cecil Court. “Just take a deep breath in and then exhale through your nose.”
I tried breathing, which worked for about ten seconds until I glanced over Bianca’s shoulder and saw the shop window, at which point I started freaking out again.
“Here, let me try.” Mrs. Atallah pushed Bianca out of the way and stepped in front of me. “Habibti, get a grip! This is a party, not a firing squad, so stop with this nonsense and get your butt inside.”
She was so loud that a well-dressed lady walking along the road swerved dramatically to avoid us.
Bianca laughed. “Have you ever thought about going into motivational speaking, Mrs. Atallah?”
I laughed, too, and as I did, I caught sight of the window again. Cupid Books had opened twelve months ago on the old site of Baskerville Books. I’d gone in the very first day, clutching Maggie’s copy ofPride and Prejudice, desperately hoping I’d be able to read her and Nick back within the walls of their own building. It hadn’t worked, nor the next time I tried. It was only on my third visit that I actually stopped to look around the new shop. Much was the same: It still had the gorgeous oak shelves and the cozy armchairs, although now the tables were crammed with romance novels rather than dick lit, and an enthusiastic woman wearing yellow-rimmed glasses was standing behind the counter, asking me if I needed any help. It turned out her name was Jing, and she and her girlfriend had invested every penny they had in renting the old Baskerville Books premises and opening a specialist romance bookstore. I had wanted to hate her—after all, she was running what should have been Nick and Maggie’s shop—but Jing was so lovely that we soon became firm friends. And today, on the one-year anniversary of Cupid Books opening, she was hosting a book launch.For me.
“Doesn’t it look gorgeous?” Bianca said, turning around to admire the window. “I’m so proud of you, Zo.”
“Thank you,” I said, leaning my head on her shoulder.
Neither of us moved, and I took another deep breath, allowing this moment to sink in. I thought back to that New Year’s Eve when I’d sat in front of my laptop and begun to type. Just like in Netherfield, I’d found that once I started writing, I couldn’t stop. My story was all there in the diary—thanks to Darcy, I’d gotten into the practice of documenting my thoughts and feelings each day—and so it had taken me little more than three months to write a first draft. Once I’d edited it, I sent it out to a long list of agents, and although I received many rejections, I had one offer of representation from an incrediblepowerhouse of a woman named Emma. Together, we edited the manuscript before she sent it out to publishers. It wasn’t a straightforward journey, with lots more rejection and heartache along the way, but eventually I signed a two-book deal with a publisher. And here I was now, standing in front of a window full of copies of my debut novel, about to celebrate its publication with everyone I loved. Or nearly everyone I loved.
“I can’t believe it’s really happening,” I said, and B squeezed me.
“I can. Even back in those dark days after Crispin, when you swore you were never going to write again, I knew you’d get here eventually. You just had to believe in yourself.”
“Nick said something similar once.” Even now, two years later, it still hurt to say that name, although these days the pain was duller, its edges worn down by time. I turned to look at B. “What if everyone thinks the story is ridiculous?”
She grinned. “It is kind of ridiculous, Zo! But that’s OK; life’s far too serious, so we all need a bit of fun in our lives now and then. Besides, there’s always going to be some people who hate any book, so there’s no point worrying about them.”
“I know this book isn’t for everyone, and I don’t care about getting bad reviews or how many copies it sells,” I said. “I just really hope that the people who itisfor—the people who don’t think they’re good enough or worthy of their own happy-ever-after—will find it and enjoy it. Because if just one person reads this book and decides not to give up on the thing or person they love, I’ll be delighted.”
“I’m sure they will find it. And even if they don’t, you still did an amazing thing, Zoe. You wrote a book, the thing you’ve always dreamed of doing. That’s incredible.”
“As the great RuPaul once said, success isn’t about money or fame,”Mrs. Atallah said, pushing Bianca and I apart to stand between us. “Success is about how you feel about yourself. And whatever happens, tonight you should feel unbelievably fucking good about yourself.”
I looked at the shop window again, my book covers sparkling in the early-evening sunlight. “You’re right, Mrs. Atallah; and I do.”
