One Small Mistake(23)

Knowing she won’t stop guilt-tripping me, I say, ‘What time do I need to be there?’

‘Six. And, Elodie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wear something nice.’





Chapter Nine


14 Days Before


Elodie Fray

From: Lara@Beckwortha?ndGoldAgents.com

To: [email protected]

Subject: Harriers

Hi Elodie,

How are you? I hope you’re enjoying this glorious weather!

Harriers have come back to us and it’s bad news, I’m afraid. They’ve rejected all three of the new, grittier pitches. I’ve forwarded their email feedback separately but, in summary, as much as they love your writing, they still don’t feel your ideas are quite right for their list. They did say the story about you finding the body of your best friend’s father was closer to what they want but they felt it was better served as a subplot to a bigger piece.

A couple of times now, you’ve expressed how unsettled you are in your decision to leave your career in the hopes of getting a book deal. Maybe now is a good time to take a break from writing and dip back into marketing. Perhaps you could give Arabella (?) a call and see what she can do. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep and, although I think you’re a good enough writer to succeed, the current market just isn’t on our side. Right now, I don’t feel I can be the best champion for your work. If you do decide to step back from writing, I can keep you on our list for a year or so or we can terminate your contract. That way you’ll be free to reach out to other representatives if that’s what you feel is best. Have a think and let me know.

Kind regards,

Lara

I read and reread the email over and over, standing on the stone steps of Ada’s house, my hands shaking so hard, I can barely keep hold of my phone. She sent the email yesterday; late Friday night and I’ve only just seen it. I imagine her firing it off at the last possible second, hoping if she gives me the weekend to digest it, I’ll be easier to deal with on Monday. For a moment, the world tilts on its axis and I am free-falling. That was it. My last shred of hope. Gone.

And it’s my fault. I placed all my hopes and dreams and happiness into this one glittering, almost-impossible achievement. I’ve spent over a year trying to break into that exclusive club of published authors. I see them on Twitter, talking about copy-edits, book birthdays, cover reveals – and my desire, my want, to be a part of it is a physical need. It’s so tangible, I could reach inside myself, pull it out and hold it in my hand. An emerald green rock of envy. As I read Lara’s email again, the future I’ve wanted since I was a little girl writing stories for my father, shrivels up, and the voice that whispers I’m not good enough, that this incredible achievement isn’t for me, it’s for others, for people more worthy, is now screaming so loudly, my head pounds.

I stare at the sage green door of my sister’s beautiful house; I can’t go inside. I cannot sit at a dining table with my family when I feel this wrecked. As I turn to leave, the door opens and Ada is standing there, looking equal parts perplexed and gorgeous with her furrowed brow and floral midi dress which probably costs the same as a week’s rent.

‘Why are you dithering out here?’ she asks, exasperated. ‘Everyone’s waiting.’

‘I …’ My words wither on my tongue and all I can do is blink and stand.

Patience snapping, Ada reaches forward, snatches my wrist and drags me inside. I’m too numb to resist so I stumble alongside her.

They’ve rejected all three pitches. We can terminate your contract.

Lara’s email runs through my mind like an electric current around a circuit without an off switch, buzzing and sparking.

Ada leads me down her hallway.

They’ve rejected all three pitches.

She squeezes my hand and glances over her shoulder, excited.

We can terminate your contract.

She pushes open the door to the formal dining room.

I cannot believe they have rejected all three pitches.

‘CONGRATULATIONS!’

I jump, startled by the bright burst of noise. By the roomful of people. I blink and blink and blink. Trying, and failing, to make sense of the situation, of the sea of faces and their champagne flutes raised in celebration.

Mum and Dad are standing together, glasses held high. I scan the room; I see Ruby and Uncle Gregory and Ethan. I see friends from university – Katie, Olivia and Ivy. Jack’s mum Kathryn is standing with her eldest son Charlie and his husband Tobin. And in the back, I spot Jack. Everyone is staring at me with huge, jubilant grins. Everyone except Jack who is mouthing, ‘What the fuck?’ at me. I feel as though I’ve just staggered on stage in the middle of a play without a script to follow.

Ada squeezes my arm. ‘Surprise!’ I tear my gaze away from Jack and look at my sister. Her smile is white and wide and radiant. ‘You didn’t have a clue, did you?’

I shake my head dumbly. ‘What …’ I lick my dry lips. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You didn’t think you could keep it from us, did you, love?’ says Mum, rushing forward and pulling me into a hug. ‘We are so proud, Elodie. So proud.’

When she lets go, my hands are clammy, and I can’t catch my breath. What the fuck is going on? I glance around the room. There are flowers and food and congratulatory balloons and bunting.