by Jane Fallon
‘Do you think Meryl Streep says that when she’s on the way to the Oscars?’
‘I’d put money on it,’ I say. ‘Right, let’s go.’
Edie and Joe head off to the pub together, to kill time before their trains, while we wait for our Uber. I watch from the window as they round the corner, both creased over laughing at something. Nick comes up behind me and puts an arm round my shoulders, pulling me in towards him. He smells of figs and dark wintery foliage.
When we pull up outside the vast Gothic building my first thought is that I’m glad I made the effort I did. It’s not so much church hall as a vast looming stunner of a structure. Two large torches burn either side of the huge wooden door, which is decorated with woven gold branches and twinkly lights. A projection on the wall reads ‘Gordon’s Book Emporium Children’s Book Awards 2020’. I recognize the well-known author of a fantasy series for the eight-to-tens being photographed next to it. A couple of autograph hunters wait patiently for him to finish. No one recognizes me, obviously – I may be successful but I’m a million miles from a household name, let alone a famous face – but, when I give my name and am handed a badge saying ‘Georgia Shepherd. Nominee’ I feel like a superstar. We all drop our coats off at the cloakroom and then I’m guided to a bank of three photographers. Someone hands me a copy of the most recent Wilbur (Wilbur’s Christmas, in which he buys ‘green mistletoe and a bucket of snow’ among other things. I told you it makes no sense. He also makes friends with a turkey, a duck and a goose and invites them all round to share his nut roast on Christmas Day. How can Bibi say he’s not woke?) and I hold it up, beaming, while the flashbulbs pop.
I help myself to a tall flute of champagne from a tray and look round to locate Nick and the others. They’re watching me with the same expression I know was always on my face whenever one of the twins appeared in a school play. Pride with a hint of indulgent amusement. A splash of fear that they might embarrass themselves at any moment and it all end in tears. We stand around in a huddle. I’m so thankful they’ve all come along. My gang of three. No way could I have coped with this on my own. Young waiters and waitresses in smart black shirts sweep around with canapés. I daren’t accept any in case I dribble food down myself or end up with spinach in my teeth. Harry takes one of everything. At one point he’s holding five used cocktail sticks, awkwardly looking round for somewhere to put them. Budget Edward Scissorhands. The room is cavernous. Subtly glowing with candles – I assume fake or a clumsy gesture could wipe out most of the UK’s children’s publishing industry in one fell swoop – and dramatic uplighters that highlight Gothic features. It smells like the church it once was. A string quartet plays quietly. Something soft and barely there. Achingly melancholic. At one end of the room is a stage of sorts. A lone microphone rising from a stone pulpit, dramatically uplit. I see several other authors I recognize. Big hitters. Surrounded by photographers and smiley PR people. It’s pretty overwhelming, if I’m being honest.
‘Well, this is better than takeaway round at ours,’ Anne Marie says, looking about her.
‘It’s actually rather fab, isn’t it?’ My default setting generally is to pooh-pooh these events – mainly, I’ve realized, because I never thought I would be invited to one, let alone nominated. But I’ve left my cynicism at home tonight.
‘Amazing. You do know how proud I am of you, don’t you?’
Usually I would bat the comment away, make a joke. Tonight I just accept it. I put my free, non-champagne-holding arm round her waist. ‘I do. And thank you. Wait …’ I prise my phone out of my little clutch bag (bought specially for the occasion and just slightly too small to be practical), hold it out and snap a selfie of the two of us. WhatsApp it to the kids. For a brief moment I wish I hadn’t deleted my Instagram account. A very brief moment.
We stand there, looking round, taking it all in. Eventually I spot a familiar face. Kate, Bibi’s assistant, pushes through the crowd and greets me with a huge smile. It’s a bit like seeing one of your teachers in Sainsbury’s on the weekend. It’s hard to compute that they actually exist outside the context of work, or that they might – in the case of Kate – actually be a bit of a babe. ‘Firstly you look fantastic,’ she says as we hug. ‘Definitely up for “Most Glamorous Author”. Did you meet everyone?’
‘What? No. I’m hiding.’
‘You have to meet the other nominees,’ she says, taking my arm. I look round and raise an apologetic eyebrow at Nick and he smiles indulgently.
‘Come with me,’ I mouth and he shakes his head, indicating Anne Marie and Harry.
‘I’ll stay with them,’ he mouths back. ‘Have fun.’ I pull a face.
The next half-hour or so is a blur. I’m introduced to a couple of my writing heroes, one of whom has heard of me, which blows my mind. She tells me she has a four-year-old daughter who has declared that kangaroos are her favourite animals, so much does she love Wilbur. I daren’t say he’s actually a wallaby. To be honest, I don’t know if I even know the difference. Which suddenly strikes me as massively disrespectful to my creation. But then he collects Tesco Clubcard points so I’m hardly trying to pass myself off as David Attenborough.
I meet countless industry people and forget half their names immediately but they’re all lovely. Everyone congratulates me (Kate introduces me to them all as ‘Georgia Shepherd, author of the Wilbur books. She’s a nominee’), most of them tell me about some young child they know who enjoys my books. Whether it’s true or not it’s a massive ego boost. Usually I’m not a fan of being the centre of attention but I’m not going to lie, I’m enjoying this. I say hello to my rivals: Sian Hepburn, writer and illustrator of Why? Said the Pig; Ian Tranter, who both writes and draws the Digby the Digger series about an anthropomorphized excavator that lives on a building site; and Jan and Peter Seymore, who together created Ferdinand the Flea Joins the Circus. We all gush over each other’s books; tell each other they’re bound to win. Only Jan and Peter seem to believe this is true. They are supremely full of themselves. I make a silent wish that one of the rest of us steals it from under their noses. Eventually we wheel back round to where we started. Nick, Anne Marie and Harry are still huddled together, chatting away animatedly. I tell Kate I’ll see her later and start to make my way back to them.
And then I see her.
Standing near the doorway, looking around as if she’s just arrived. Dark hair swept up in a tight bun. Figure-hugging dress with a mandarin collar. Vivid red lipstick. She looks amazing.
Lydia.
CHAPTER 45
She had had to beg, borrow and steal to get a ticket. Her shared assistant, Lana, has a friend who knows someone who works for The Bookseller and they had pulled a chain of strings and managed to find someone who wasn’t using their plus one. It was a hot ticket in the publishing world, apparently. So she shows up alone. She’s bound to know people here and, if she doesn’t, she’ll just chat to whoever she comes across. Making new friends has never intimidated her. Casual friendships are easy. It’s the deeper ones she finds it hard to sustain. She knows exactly what a therapist would deduce: that’s why she has never been to see one. That she has commitment issues because of the fear of that person being taken away from her suddenly. Irreversibly. No shit, Sherlock. Georgia was different. Their bond was already formed before the crash. Before she put the walls up.
The walls that have stopped her ever getting too close to a man. That she had been prepared to tear down for Nick because it turned out he had already been inside them before she even realized.
No way can Georgia refuse to hear Lydia out in front of all these people. Her admiring peers. She won’t dare cause a scene. Lydia asks one of the doormen to hold her coat and snaps a photo of herself outside the church with the stunning illuminations behind her. She had taken a day’s holiday and had her hair and nails done. She’s wearing a skin-tight dress in a deep purple. Her highest heels. She had wanted Nick to see what he could have had, but now that feels a bit cheap. It’s Georgia s
he’s here for. She steps into the foyer, showing her invitation. Hovers in a corner adding a filter that makes her pale skin look even more dramatic.
How lucky am I when this counts as work!!! she types, hashtagging the name of the awards. She’s pretty sure Georgia has deleted her Insta – not that she ever really looked at it anyway – so she won’t see it. She doesn’t want to lose the element of surprise.
Inside the space is packed. Fragrant with candles and that church smell, infused into the walls from hundreds of years of burning incense. She plasters on a big smile, accepts a glass of fizz from a young waiter and steps into the crowd. Another woman is hovering on the periphery too, looking around awkwardly.
‘Intimidating, isn’t it?’ Lydia says. ‘I can’t see anyone I know.’
‘A bit. I don’t think any of my colleagues are here yet. I knew we should have met up beforehand.’
‘Oh well, we can keep each other company till someone shows up,’ Lydia says. ‘That way we won’t look like a pair of saddos.’
Her companion’s name turns out to be Sara. She works in the marketing department of one of the bigger publishing houses, and has headed up the campaign for a couple of the nominated books. Lydia hates saying what she does, the dry factual company she works for. ‘I’m an illustrator too, though,’ she adds. She elaborates a bit on the book she’s working on, failing to add that the work is purely speculative.
‘I’m working towards giving up my job completely,’ she says, which isn’t entirely untrue. She just omits to say that she’s made zero progress so far.
There’s a tap on the microphone. She turns towards the stage as everyone gradually falls silent. A children’s TV presenter – mostly famous for having a mouthy alligator puppet as a sidekick – is standing in the pulpit.
‘Good evening, everybody …’
As he drones on, making lame book-related puns, she looks round the room. People are standing in groups, clustered around the nominees, most of whom she recognizes. She likes to keep an eye on the competition. She scans the groups, looking for Georgia. It strikes her that she has no idea what Georgia will be wearing. They have always planned for big events together. She had even been involved in every tiny decision about Georgia’s wedding dress. Pale grey, not white, to complement her dark hair. Sleek and fitted, the opposite of a meringue. Cap sleeves to show off her toned arms. Lydia had steered her towards an antique lace overlay on the bodice, tapered down to a V where the skirt flared out – just a little – from the hips. They had scoured websites for hair inspiration together and, in the end, Lydia had suggested she just leave it long, maybe weave in a few tiny jewels. She had cried when she watched Georgia walk down the aisle (they had necked down a glass of champagne each in the hotel room just before the cars arrived, and then Georgia had manically brushed her teeth to get rid of the sickly-sweet odour). Georgia had looked radiant. Of course this was long before Lydia fell for Nick so her feelings on the day had been of unequivocal joy for her friend. And, if she was being honest, it had been a huge relief that she liked the man Georgia was marrying. She had lost a few friends to relationships with bores or idiots over the years but the loss of Georgia would have been too much to bear. She can’t think about that now.
And then in the sea of faces she suddenly sees her. She had read somewhere once that the feeling someone was looking at you was innate. A defence mechanism that enabled you to outwit predators. Give yourself time to get away. When she locates Georgia, Georgia is looking right at her. It must have been her gaze that subconsciously drew Lydia’s eyes. There’s a split second where they both just stare. And then Lydia gives a nervous little half-wave. She sees Georgia turn away, whisper something to Nick. His head swivels in her direction. Next to him Anne Marie and Harry gawp round. She’s hurt momentarily that Georgia has invited them as her guests although interested to see that their relationship has survived Anne Marie’s dalliance. She’s pleased for them. She’s only met them a couple of times but they seem like nice people. A bit pleased with themselves maybe, as Georgia’s mum Irene might have said. That was one of her favourite put-downs. Anne Marie is a music teacher and he’s something in web design. Too many kids, all with jazz-musician-inspired names. She hates themed names for kids. Like they’re all part of a music-hall act. The Singing Siblings. When she was young Lydia had spent a disproportionate amount of time deciding on the names she would give her future children. She kept a list in an old diary that had been ever-changing as her tastes matured. The last entries just before she realized it was never going to happen, that there was only one man she wanted to have babies with and he was taken, were Gus and Lulu. She could picture them in her head. Twins (Joe and Edie came from Nick’s side of the family. He had twin uncles, he had told her once). Nick’s height and green eyes. Her bone structure. Beautiful over-achievers with her artistic streak and Nick’s kindness and humour (of course Joe and Edie had both those qualities of Nick’s and Georgia’s own artistic streak but looks-wise she and Georgia brought very different things to the table). Gus gentle and thoughtful; Lulu feisty, taking on the world. It saddens her that she isn’t a mother. That she has failed to make her tiny family any larger. But she never met a man she thought was good enough to be the father. She had frozen her eggs a few years ago, when she was worried time was running out, and had told herself that if all else failed she would give herself till forty-five (the oldest she could imagine dealing with a baby and not going completely insane, hormones permitting) and, if no suitable candidate had popped up by then, she would beg a friend, pay someone, anything. The fact that she has now accepted her motherless state speaks more about her dedication to Nick than anything. As soon as she realized how she felt about him she knew there was no point having another man’s child. She has given up so much for him. She doesn’t blame him. He’d had no idea, after all. But now he did and he’d rejected her.
Georgia is looking stunning. Bright orange dress, glowing bronze skin, hair cascading down her back. She carries her height so well – not like when Lydia had first met her, hunched in an oversized jumper in the college canteen, as if she were trying to blend in with the walls. Hair over her face like a curtain. Lydia had been looking around for a friend to sit with, but seeing no one and spotting a spare seat opposite a girl she recognized from class she had sat down and introduced herself. She’d expected Georgia to be shy but it had turned out she wasn’t, just awkward in her skin. They’d bonded over making fun of one of their lecturers, who punctuated every other sentence with a mention of a book he had illustrated. Georgia had looked it up, it turned out, and discovered that it had been published some twenty years earlier and garnered neither attention nor sales. ‘When you’re an established talent,’ he would say before rattling off a self-aggrandizing anecdote about his own career. ‘He’s been living off that one failed book since the seventies,’ Georgia had said, laughing. ‘How sad is that?’
Lydia had been a ball of ambition. She’d had a five-year plan for when uni was over. Work for a publisher, get a foot in the door, draw in the evenings, be right under their nose when they were looking for the next big thing. She had achieved the first three but number four was still eluding her decades later. Georgia had had a much more laid-back approach. She just wanted to draw. If she could make it her living somehow, then great. If not, then so long as she still had time to do what she loved, that would be fine too. Lydia had wanted the destination. Georgia would have been happy just to be on the journey. And look how things had turned out.
After that lunch they had become inseparable. BFFs. And Georgia had blossomed, lost her self-consciousness, started to stand up straight. All with Lydia’s encouragement. Unfurling like a sunflower reaching for the light.
The TV personality is still burbling on. The room is getting a bit restless. In half an hour or so three-quarters of these people are going to be disappointed. Losers. Their chance gone for another year. They don’t want jokes; they just want to know the results. She sees Nick place his han
d in the small of Georgia’s back. He’s looking good; she’s noticed a couple of other women give him a second glance already (publishing is not an industry that’s awash with handsome men, to be fair, or many men at all, for that matter). She feels a lump in her throat, seeing him be so attentive.
But if there’s one thing she’s realized since Georgia cut her off, it’s that their friendship is the thing she can’t do without. Her fantasies of a life with Nick always had the caveat that Lydia and Georgia somehow survived it intact. She’d rather have Georgia and not Nick than the other way round.
Lydia smiles at Sara and edges away through the crowd. She isn’t going to confront Georgia now; she’ll wait till the awards are over. But she doesn’t want to lose sight of her either. She doesn’t want Georgia to leave without speaking to her.
Finally the first category is announced. The crowd hushes. There are cheers, an interminable speech by a nervous writer. Lydia looks around for another drink. Waves to a waitress. She sees Anne Marie scowl at her as she notices how much closer she’s come. The second category comes and goes. This time a national treasure takes to the stage to rapturous applause. He holds up his trophy – a row of golden books – and thanks everyone he’s ever met. And their mothers. Pontificates on about his own brilliance, managing to make every thank you some kind of barely disguised boast.
This is interminable. She’s starting to lose her nerve. Georgia is steadfastly looking at the stage, at Nick, at the bar. Anywhere but at her. But the rigid set of her shoulders says that she is all too aware of Lydia’s proximity. Lydia feels bad. She hasn’t come here to ruin her evening. All she wants is the chance to speak to her, to apologize. To make it clear she temporarily lost her mind but that things could go back to the way they were. If only Nick hadn’t betrayed her. Fucking Nick. She has tried every way she could but Georgia has shut down every attempt. She never answered her phone, ignored texts, closed her social media – even Patricia has disappeared into thin air, for God’s sake. Lydia knows that Georgia had been there when she’d called round to the house in Primrose Hill. Even if the dog hadn’t given it away, she would have been able to tell. And now, short of camping on the doorstep waiting for her to arrive or leave, she doesn’t know what else to do. She has to say her piece. Convince Georgia that she did what she did from a good place. That she really did believe Nick was having an affair for some reason. That she’d had no idea Patricia was actually Georgia. That the idea she’d been making a play for Nick was ludicrous. She’ll tell whatever lies she has to. Whatever it takes. Georgia is her family. The only one she has.
