by Katy Cannon
Every time I asked, she just told me how she was working on some exercises to get past her writer’s block. Or how she was so busy organizing the wedding that she hadn’t got time to work on it at all. Except for one time, when she stared at me blankly and asked me what I was talking about when I mentioned her writer’s block. Like Rohan used to when he was little, when he forgot what lie we’d told to get around his parents and their stupid rules. Like she’d forgotten her own cover story.
“Hey, ready to go? I’m looking forward to another of your dad’s dinners.” Zach smiled broadly at me, and I reminded myself that I wasn’t a third wheel. I had a boyfriend, too.
We caught up on our lives since we’d seen each other that morning on the walk home and just like in every conversation we’d had since before Easter, I tried to imagine saying it.
I kissed someone else.
But, like always, I didn’t say it.
Instead, Zach filled me in on his latest rugby practice and we discussed our English homework. I also warned him that the twins had learned to open the baby gate Dad had put on their bedroom door, after they managed to climb out of their cots, and they were now causing havoc anywhere, anytime.
“Seriously, it’s like having burglars breaking in and destroying things every day. And you never know where they’re going to strike next!”
Zach laughed. “They do sound kind of annoying. Makes me glad I’m the youngest in my family.”
“How’s your brother getting on at drama school?” I asked.
Zach’s face darkened. “Oh, you know. Great. Or not. Depends on your point of view. He just got a starring role in some new TV show actually, so he’s talking about dropping out and following the money.”
“What happened to him being a theatre purist?”
Zach shrugged. “I guess he got bored of being poor.”
“And you think he should stay?” I guessed, trying to explain away the sudden change in Zach’s mood.
“I think that some guys get all the luck.” Zach flashed me a smile that didn’t feel real.
No, tonight wasn’t the right night to tell him about kissing Drew. Although I was starting to wonder if there ever would be a right time. Or maybe, I just didn’t want to confess at all.
Dinner, at least, was a success. Zach sat between Edward and Dad, talking at length about the casting for Aurora Season Three and the problems of working with school-age actors. I lost track of their conversation when they started talking about awards and ‘playing the part of the star’ but Zach seemed happy enough. The food was excellent, as ever, and the twins even tried some of it which Mum celebrated as a huge victory. Everyone was relaxed and content – except me.
I was still trying to figure out how and when to tell Zach what I’d done.
“I got a letter today,” Gran announced suddenly, apropos of nothing, and I jumped on the distraction.
“Fan mail?” I guessed. Gran always got a lot of that.
“Better.” She handed me an envelope across the table and I took out a sturdy piece of crisp, white card with holographic lettering on the front reading Westerbury Literary Festival.
Westerbury, our local town, was basically famous for two things: the literary festival and the fact that Gran lived there. For years, the festival had focused on highbrow, complex books.
This invite suggested they’d changed their focus.
On the back (in much easier to read black type) was an invitation to attend the Gala Dinner of the literary festival – as a guest of honour.
Dad took the invite and the envelope from my hand. “Cutting it a little fine,” he commented. “It’s only six weeks to the festival – I thought the programme and guests of honour had already been announced, in fact.” He stared at the envelope for a moment, then passed it to Mum, who studied it too. They shared a look I didn’t fully understand but probably had something to do with trying to figure out who on earth they could get to babysit the twins. (We’d never quite managed to get the same babysitter to come back twice, so far. Which was why I kept getting stuck with the job.)
“They phoned, too,” Gran said as Mum passed the invite round the rest of the table. “Apparently they’re honouring me with some sort of lifetime achievement award.”
“A well-deserved one,” Edward put in, beaming proudly.
“I have to make a speech and so on.” Gran waved her hand, as if this sort of thing happened to her every day. (Which it didn’t. Once or twice a year at most. And this was our Literary Festival, here in our little market town, so it counted more.) “And they’ve given me a whole table, so you can all come.”
Across the table, I saw Zach perk up at this.
“All of us?” I asked. Because, actually, this could be perfect. A swanky awards dinner would be perfect for Eva and Will in my book. And with Zach as my date, I should definitely get some good, romantic material. Another reason not to tell him about Drew just yet.
“Well, maybe not the twins. But Zach can join us if you like,” she said. “I mean, you’ll need a date, of course. And obviously my agent and editor will want to join us, too. Tilly, maybe you could help me send some emails after dinner?”
“Of course, Gran.” If her agent and editor were coming, they’d want to know all about the new book. Which meant Gran would have to start helping me with it, right?
Gran and I left the others clearing up and, via the front door to say a perfunctory goodbye to Zach (he kissed my cheek, since Gran was watching, and relief flooded through me), we headed up to the study to send the emails to her agent, Isobel, and her editor, Molly, to tell them about the festival invite. Normally, I imagined that the festival would have gone through her agent or publisher in the first place. But with it being so local, it was kind of nice they’d come straight to her.
After all these years, Gran’s work was being recognized by her home festival. It just felt weird that right now, she wasn’t even writing her own book.
“Gran?” I said as I booted up the computer. “Are you going to tell them? Isobel and Molly, I mean?”
“Tell them what?” Gran asked absently as she settled into my usual armchair by the window.
“About the new book. The one I’m writing.”
Gran looked surprised. “How’s that going, anyway?”
“Still not great,” I admitted. “My heroine, Eva, she keeps getting away from me. Flirting with the wrong character, that sort of thing.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Gran said dismissively.
“I really do think I’m going to need your help for the next part,” I admitted. “I’ve got the set-up, like you asked me to do originally. But I don’t think I can write the whole thing. And… I’m not sure that I should. I mean, even if my name is on the cover—”
“Oh, we won’t be able to do that,” Gran interrupted as if she were stating the obvious – as if she were saying ‘I like tea’.
I stared at her, horrified. “What? But you said—”
“Tilly. Be realistic. People want to read the next Beatrix Frost – and that’s what we need to give them.” She sounded so reasonable, so matter of fact. Like she hadn’t said the exact opposite several times before.
“But it isn’t,” I said, my voice small. “It isn’t your book. You haven’t worked on it at all. Gran, can you even name the main characters?”
Gran frowned. “Emma? Or something like that?”
“Eva, Gran. I said it just a few minutes ago. Were you even listening?”
“I always listen to you!” And the thing was, up until a few minutes ago, I’d have believed her. “Darling, the thing you need to understand is that the name Beatrix Frost is the one that counts right now. It’s the brand, remember? We need to build up your credentials. So it’s like we said at the start. You write a few books with me, then maybe one on your own, and then we could look at starting to add your name on to the cover, too. A proper transition, so we don’t spook the fans. These things have to be handled carefully, you see. You’ll u
nderstand, when you’ve been in the business as long as I have.”
She settled back into her chair as if the whole thing was sorted.
“So, you’re going to help me finish this book?” I asked plainly.
“Absolutely,” Gran replied. “We’ll sort it together, Tilly. Don’t worry. I just have a lot on my plate right now, with the wedding planning and all. So maybe you just keep going for now and I’ll come in when you really need me. OK?”
No. It wasn’t OK. Something felt hugely wrong about this whole thing and I couldn’t figure out what it was – except that this wasn’t Gran. The Gran I’d worked with the last few years would never give up control of her books like this. She’d never ask me to do all this work for no recognition.
I was missing something. But what?
The last time she’d acted like this – mean and dismissive – she’d been sick. Was that what this was now as well?
“Gran … are you feeling all right?” I reached out to take her hand, feeling surreptitiously for her pulse like doctors on TV did, before I realized I had no idea what it was supposed to feel like anyway. “Is it the pneumonia again? Have you seen the doctors?”
“I don’t need any more doctors,” Gran snapped, snatching her hand away from me. “All I need is for my family to support me as I’ve always supported them.”
I stared at her for a long moment, my heart thudding in my chest like a countdown, then I swivelled the chair back to the computer screen. “Let’s send these emails.”
There was no point arguing with her right now. But I was certain.
There was something the matter with Gran.
I was still stewing over my conversation with Gran the next day as I worked in the library. (At least it gave me something to focus on other than the fact that Drew was sitting at his usual table, studiously avoiding me.)
Gran had always been very focused on her fan base, on giving the Beas what they wanted, but this seemed to be taking things to another level. I’d never have imagined, not for a moment, that she’d put her fans above her family.
Which meant that either she didn’t realize that was what she was doing, or that I was right and there was something else going on here that I was missing.
Or the worst of the three possibilities – that I didn’t know my grandmother as well as I thought I did.
Suddenly I remembered the looks my parents had exchanged at the dinner table last night – and realized that it wasn’t the first time I’d seen them recently do that silent communication thing that married couples do. And always when Gran said something unexpected. But what had she said last night? Something to do with the invite? Was there a problem with the award – was that why she’d been acting so strange? Or did they know about the writer’s block and were worrying about the new book?
I sighed. I needed to talk to Dad about Gran. But how, without letting on that I was writing her next book for her?
Unless, of course, that was the real problem: despite all her confident words, Gran didn’t believe I could write the book. And she couldn’t either, because of her writer’s block, which meant there would be no new Beatrix Frost book.
That, I could definitely see her getting upset about.
I stared down at the notebook Gran had given me, filled with notes and thoughts that just wouldn’t come together to make a whole book. Sighing, I thought wistfully of my old notebook, sitting in my desk drawer at home. The one with all my ideas in.
Would this be any easier if I was working on one of those?
A new email notification flashed up on my phone, distracting me. I checked it quickly, smiling when I saw it was from Morgan Black.
Scanning through the lines of text, I found myself nodding along with all Morgan’s observations on my comments on the last chapters and ideas for fixing the areas I’d identified as needing work. I sent a quick reply, and within moments got one back.
You OK? You sound kind of … terse. M
I scanned back over my previous email and winced. Yeah, that was kind of blunt.
Sorry, I sent back. Am working in the school library, and typing on my phone. Plus not in the best mood ever today. But shouldn’t be taking it out on you!
I pressed send and put my phone down on the counter as I waited for a reply.
And then, because I couldn’t help myself, I watched Drew for a moment.
He sat slouching in his chair, staring at his computer screen, his dark curls falling just over his forehead. He clicked the track pad on his laptop and then, as if he could feel me watching him, looked up suddenly, his deep blue gaze locking on to mine immediately.
I wanted to look away. Really I did. But in that moment of connection, I felt every sensation I’d felt when we kissed coursing through my body. As if he were touching me, kissing me, not sitting across the room just looking at me.
Which was crazy.
I broke the staring contest we seemed to be having, and checked my phone. No reply. Come on, Morgan… I needed the distraction of a good old chat about story structure, or pacing, or characterization.
Anything, really, except what was actually going on in my life.
Finally, my phone buzzed and I grabbed it, swiping the email open as I lifted it.
No worries. But … if you want to talk at all, I’m here.
I sighed. I appreciated the sentiment. But what would I say? I’m a sixteen-year-old girl ghost-writing my gran’s romance novel, even though a few months ago I’d never even been kissed, and love is a complete mystery to me, and now Gran won’t tell anyone I’m the one writing the book, and I think there might be something going on I don’t understand, and I kissed a guy who isn’t my boyfriend, and who I didn’t even like until we stopped arguing about books and started listening to each other, and now I don’t know what I’m doing with my life…
Yeah, Morgan Black didn’t need to know all that. They just needed to know what was wrong with the last chapter of Looking Glass.
So I typed:
I wouldn’t even know where to start.
Better to just stick to the story.
The door to the library opened, and the lower school Book Club started to file in, all chatting about this week’s book – Juanita Cabrera’s second novel for younger readers, Under and Over. (Rachel had let me pick the first book this term and I’d gone for comfort reading.) I’d loved re-reading it again for the Book Club and hoped they’d enjoyed it, too. Something about the idea of a magical world hidden under and around our real one appealed to me at the moment. Plus I’d realized, late one night as I approached the last chapters, it reminded me of Looking Glass, just a little.
It made me wonder what sort of books I might write, if I wasn’t so busy pretending to be Beatrix Frost. I loved Gran’s books and still believed that nothing could beat a good romance. But there were so many ways you could tell a love story. Sometimes I wished I could explore a few more of them.
As the Book Club settled down around the table, I saw Drew shut his laptop. I expected him to stand up and leave – not wanting to risk getting corralled into helping out again. But instead, he tucked his computer into his bag, crossed to the table where the Book Club met and sat down with them.
I couldn’t hide my smile. When he caught me smiling at him, Drew shrugged.
“It’s Juanita Cabrera,” he said as if that explained everything.
Maybe it did.
I realized, too late, that the only chair left was next to Drew. I took it, aware that I was bracing myself to be close to him again, as if I wasn’t entirely sure I could trust my body not to launch itself at him and demand more kisses.
But I managed it. And as I opened my copy of Under and Over, I thought again about my other notebook, and all the different ways there were to tell a love story.
Maybe it was time for me to find a new one.
But first, I had a Book Club to run.
“So,” I asked, smiling around at the group. “What did everyone make of the book?”
My own story would have to wait just a little longer.
Tomasz tilted his head as he looked at her. Eva wondered just what it was he was looking for in her eyes.
And why she was so afraid he might find it.
Ten Things I Never Knew About Love (first draft), Matilda Frost
“Are they always like this?” Zach nodded to the other side of the shop, where Anja and Rohan were trying hats on each other and giggling. Rohan placed a tartan fedora on top of Anja’s pale hair and she posed for him to take a photo before kissing her. It was sickeningly adorable.
“Lately? Yes.” I looked at Zach and had absolutely no urge to put a hat on his head.
Was that a sign? I didn’t know any more.
I was glad to see my friends so happy – even if it meant that now I was subject to their unending cuteness and Anja’s concern that I wasn’t as happy as she was.
I’d confessed at last, to Anja anyway, about the kiss with Drew and the weirdness with Gran, when we’d been shopping alone that morning. She’d nodded understandingly, even though we both knew it didn’t make any sense at all.
At least she hadn’t asked me what I planned to do next. If only because it was blatantly obvious that I didn’t have a clue.
“So, what are you looking for, anyway?” Zach asked. He and Rohan had missed most of the intensive clothes shopping (and talking) Anja and I had done before lunch, by meeting us and a bunch of other friends at the shopping centre food court when we were ready to eat. But I still hadn’t found a dress for the gala dinner, so now he was trailing around after me as I looked at things that weren’t quite right somehow.
Like most things in my life right now.
“I need something to wear for the Literary Festival dinner,” I said, not adding that I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go any more.
Gran had been back to her normal, charming self the morning after our argument but I hadn’t broached the subject of the book with her again. Instead, I’d spent the last week and a half reading back over the chapters I’d already written, trying to figure out a path to the end of the story, making notes then scribbling them out again.
