Love Your Life(102)

“I’m not really a stay-at-home housewife,” Felicity confessed that same evening, as we drank wine and dipped crackers into fava bean puree. “I’m a literary agent. But I couldn’t divulge that to the group. I would have been besieged by manuscripts. It would have ruined the dynamic.” She shook her head. “So I told a white lie.”

“A literary agent?” I stared at her. “So, what, you were looking for writers? It was all a lie?”

“No!” she said, turning pink. “I am trying to write, in my spare time. After a fashion. But I suppose the real reason I came to the retreat is that I’d met Farida at a literary festival in Milan. Couldn’t get her out of my mind.” She looked at Farida fondly. “So I booked a week’s retreat. Just to see. Just to…give it a chance.”

“Thank God,” said Farida emphatically. And she clasped Felicity’s hand and I felt a little misty. Because it just shows, it can all work out. It can.

I brush my hair and teeth, apply lip gloss and scent, and throw an embroidered shawl over my clothes. (Farida’s style is kind of catching.) Then I head with Harold through the courtyard to the anteroom, which is a small sitting room lined with books and made welcoming with a huge fire, heavy throws, and fat candles that Farida lights every night.

    Felicity is sitting on a low ottoman, watching the flames, but she leaps up as she hears me enter.

“Ava! I hear you’ve finished! Congratulations!” She envelops me in a hug, and Harold barks in appreciation.

“I don’t know if it’s any good,” I say as she releases me. “But I finished. That’s what I wanted, to finish something.”

As I say the words, I have a sudden, almost painful urge to tell Matt. See? I finished. I did finish something.

But Matt was a long time ago now. And I try not to think about him.

“I can’t wait to read more of Harold’s story.” Felicity’s eyes dance as they meet mine. “Ava, you know how much I loved the first ten chapters. May I read the rest?”

“Touting for business, my love?” says Farida briskly, coming into the room holding a terra-cotta bowl of olives. “Felicity is the best agent,” she adds fondly.

“I’m one of many,” corrects Felicity. “I’m merely petitioning to be considered. Ava must manage her career as she sees fit.”

“I don’t have a career!” I retort, smiling at them both yet feeling a bit unhinged. I’ve only just typed The End and my eyes are still bloodshot from peering at the screen and an agent wants to read what I’ve written?

“I have a feeling,” says Felicity, and she pats my arm. “But tonight just enjoy your accomplishment. Relax!”

Farida pours me some red wine and we raise our glasses, while Harold settles down in his favorite spot by the fire. These two feel like old friends after so many months together. They’ve been my world, while the rest of my life has been shadowy and distant. I’ve WhatsApped with Nell, Maud, and Sarika, but not in the same intense way as before. Not day to day. Not minute by minute.

    It’s not that I’ve been single-minded these last six months. Of course other ideas have popped into my head. (Import Italian pottery! Learn about frescoes!) But I’ve told myself, Not now, which is something I never did before. And instead of chatting on WhatsApp all day, I made myself strict rules for social media. I guess you could call them my own personal deal-breakers.

I feel like a different person now. A stronger person. A person in charge of herself.

“Oh!” Felicity’s exclamation breaks my thoughts, and she looks up from her phone. “Oh, this is marvelous! Ava, have you seen?”

“What?”

“I’ve just received an email from Aaron. Remember Aaron—Kirk? I think you must have got it, too; you’re on the list.”

I pull out my phone to check. The Wi-Fi is alive (this room is one of the few hotspots), and sure enough, I have a new email. It’s from Aaron Chambers, and it’s an invitation to the launch of his self-published graphic novel, Emril Announces. He’s holding it in a pub off Leicester Square, and he’s added a message:

Hope to see all you guys from the retreat, couldn’t have done it without you!!!



“Good for Kirk!” says Farida. “You really were one of my more promising groups.”

“Are you going to go?” Felicity asks me, and I blink at her over my wineglass. Go? How can I go? I’m in Italy. I’m writing a book. I don’t “go” to things anymore.

    But then it hits me, as though for the first time. I’ve achieved what I came here to do. I’ve typed The End. That was my goal and I’ve done it. So what do I do now? I never thought that far ahead; I never made any plans; I was too focused on the task in hand. I feel a tiny flicker of panic, which I try to suppress by gulping my wine.

“Ava, darling, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” says Farida, reading my thoughts. “It’s wonderful to have you. You don’t need to rush into any decisions.”

“Thanks, Farida,” I say gratefully, and for a moment I let myself imagine a sunlit existence where I never leave these walls but just eat olives and drink wine and play with Harold till I’m ninety and fluent in Italian.