by Beth Morrey
Rooting in my bag, I fished out the postcard that had arrived that morning. Sylvie was still looking after her mother in the South of France, though the operation had been successful. She’d invited me to go and stay with them for a week and I thought that after we’d got Aleksander settled, a trip to Provence might be just the kind of adventure I needed. Thinking of French bread and cheese, my stomach rumbled and I remembered Angela had said she would try to make a Sunday roast tonight. It was good of her, though the kitchen always looked like a bombsite after she’d finished.
We hadn’t got round to getting our dog, though Angela regularly trawled rescue home websites and showed me pictures of ones she liked the look of. In the interim, we had acquired a cat, Angela bringing him home one night just after they’d moved in. A family nearby were moving up north and couldn’t take him with them. An enormous ginger tom with wild yellow eyes and a nick in one ear that told a tale, he was called Sourpuss, and lived up to his name—aloof, unfriendly and occasionally vicious. We were all devoted to him. I still wanted my dog, all the same. We weren’t sure how Sourpuss would react to an interloper, but they’d just have to learn to get along.
I walked up the path to my house—our house—and stopped for a second to gather myself. Move on, Leo had written in his letter. Let go. Luó—“to untie, release.” I was getting there.
“Hello, I’m home!”
As I opened the front door, I could hear Otis making engine noises, just like Alistair used to. Little boys are all the same. Hanging up my coat, I threw my keys on the hall table and went to see what they were up to. I found them in the living room; my rug had been rolled up and shoved to one side, and they were both on their hands and knees, holding pieces of chalk. The wooden floor was covered in white marks. As I looked around and made sense of it, I realized they’d drawn an enormous racetrack, weaving its way all around the room.
“Look!” yelled Otis. “We’ve drawn roads for the cars!”
“Don’t worry,” said Angela. “It’ll wash off.”
“It’s a vast improvement,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. “Now, who’s going to give me a car so we can have a race?”
“Brum!” growled Otis, sliding one in my direction. And off we went.
Acknowledgments
Back in 2014, I spent New Year’s Eve with some very dear old friends in Whitley Bay. During the evening we each made three resolutions. Mine were something along the lines of “1) eat less meat, 2) have a baby and 3) write fifty thousand words of a novel.” I accomplished the second the following year, but didn’t manage the third until 2016. Still working on the meat thing. But I want to thank those friends—and all my friends—for egging me on. Like a marathon runner nearing the end of a race, any writer needs encouragement to keep them going, and I had lots of flag wavers who were excited simply by the idea that I was giving it a shot. Thank you for that excitement, that enthusiasm. It really made a difference.
To the dog walkers of Clissold Park, bless you for opening up a new world. Before we got a dog I was barely aware of the park’s existence; now it frames my days and I’ve met so many interesting, funny and brilliant people there, all with leads around their necks and poo bags in their pockets. What a great bunch you are, though you know I’ll always prefer your dogs to you.
To the nursery and primary school staff who look after my sons while I work—thank you for providing the security for me to lose myself in a café for a little while.
Cheers to everyone at RDF, my telly family, and the best training ground any writer could hope to have. And to Jack—you spurred me on; hope I can do the same for you.
A huge thank-you to my former Director of Studies at Newnham, Jean Gooder, who hosted me in Cambridge one morning and regaled me with glorious anecdotes to inspire the St. Botolph’s party scene, and life at Newnham generally. Jean also directed me to the fascinating Newnham College Library archives, where the staff kindly helped with my research.
Marianne Levy, a fantastic writer and excellent friend, took my submission in hand and gave me wise and robust advice about how to sell my book. It was invaluable. And the marvelous Meg Rosoff, who I’ve idolized ever since I devoured How I Live Now, was kind enough to read some early chapters and critique them. Her encouraging, bracing insights were heartening and helpful in equal measure. Thanks also to Alison Carpenter, who let me text her random queries about various classical references and Latin verbs. To preserve her reputation, any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
I am indebted to the Greek poet Maria Polydouri, who wrote the beautiful poem “Because You Loved Me” that Leo puts in a cracker for Missy to translate. I hope she wouldn’t have minded the liberties I took with my own translation.
To my wonderful editors, Martha Ashby at HarperCollins and Tara Singh Carlson at Putnam: you joined forces in the finest possible way and every note you gave me opened up a shaft of light. Thank you for your pushing, your pedantry, and your occasional “tumultuous rounds of applause” that made the editing process a total joy. Thanks also to the teams alongside you—the publicists, copy editors, designers and many others who come together to create a book.
Then to Madeleine Milburn . . . Wow. Personally responsible for two of my best days on the planet (behind getting married, getting a dog and having children, but only just), you are the empress of agents, and quite possibly have supernatural powers. Thanks so much to you, Giles, Alice and everyone at the agency, slogging away to bring our books into the world. You all work miracles.
Edging closer to home, thank you to my mum and dad for providing unfailing support and steadfast devotion to your spoiled only child. Dad, thank you for reading the manuscript and giving your notes, especially the one to lose the last chapter. You were quite right.
Obviously I couldn’t get through this without giving Polly a mention. To my favorite girl, the apple of my eye, my guiding star and muse, thank you for being the world’s best dog. And to my favorite boys, Wilfred and Edmund—the loudest, craziest, funniest and best boys. Thank you for keeping me in the moment and making those moments utterly awesome.
Finally, to my husband, Tom: I don’t say it enough, but you are also the best. Quite simply, this book would not have been written were it not for you. Not just because you helped make it happen, giving me the confidence and the opportunity to go for it, but because when you’ve run the marathon, you need someone to come home to who’ll rub your feet and say you did great. There’s no one I’d rather do that with than you.
About the Author
Beth Morrey's work has been published in the Cambridge and Oxford May Anthologies and shortlisted for the Grazia Orange First Chapter competition. She lives in London with her family and dog. The Love Story of Missy Carmichael is her debut novel.
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