by Katy Cannon
I laughed. “Well that’s OK then.”
“It’s stunning, Tilly,” Anja said, her voice bright and sincere. “It’s perfect for you. Oh! And we got these, too.” She gestured to a shoebox on the bed, containing a pair of glittering high heels. I slipped them on; they were a perfect fit.
“So you kind of have to go to the Gala Dinner now, right?” Rohan asked.
I pulled a face. “I don’t know. I mean—”
“She wants you there,” Anja interrupted me. “And whatever is going on between you … I’m pretty sure you want to be there with her, too.”
“I do,” I admitted.
“Good.” Rohan handed me a golden clutch bag that matched the dress. “Because I already called the taxi.”
“Wait! I need to do my hair, my make-up…”
Anja popped open the clutch and showed me the essentials of my make-up bag, my phone and a sparkly hair clip. “You can do it all in the car. Now come on! You don’t want to miss it.”
“No,” I said as she shoved me towards the stairs. “I suppose I don’t.”
Outside, a taxi cab was waiting and Rohan yanked the door open for me to stumble inside, while I tried to fasten my hair into the clip. It all happened so fast that it took me a moment to realize I wasn’t alone on the back seat.
“Hello, Tilly,” Gran said as the taxi pulled away.
“Is this the end?” Avery asked, but Hollis shook his head.
“How can it be?” he said, his voice hoarse. “When there are still so many stories untold?”
Hollis shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his old bones aching as he stared out at the rising sun. “It just might be someone else’s turn to tell them. That’s all.”
Building the Dawn (Book 1, Aurora series) (2002), Beatrix Frost
She was wearing her favourite writing hat – the orange one that Grandad Percy had bought her when she sold her first book. It didn’t really go with her ballgown, but she was wearing it anyway, and for a moment she looked so much like the Gran I’d always loved that it almost broke my heart.
“I thought you’d already gone,” I said, staring at her.
“I decided we needed some time alone to talk,” Gran said. “Or rather, I thought it was about time I was honest with you. Told you the whole horrible story.”
“Hence the hat.” It was the one she always wore when she had to write her hardest scenes, the ones that hurt the most and made her dig the deepest.
“Hence the hat.” She looked at me, her eyes warm and loving, and pulled it from her head. “But you already know, don’t you?”
My eyes prickling, I nodded. “I think so.”
“I didn’t want to admit it to your father but I knew he was right when he said I needed to see someone. The doctor I chose … she’s still doing some tests, but I think it’s fairly conclusive, now. I got the call a week or so ago. It’s dementia.”
I’d known. Of course I had. But hearing Gran say the word broke the dam inside me I’d been hiding the full horror of the truth behind.
“It can’t be.” I shook my head so hard my hair came loose from its clip. “There has to be something they can do. Some way they can stop it.”
“Maybe one day,” Gran said. “But right now… I have good days and bad days. Some days, everything is easy, it all makes sense. Other days … I can remember perfectly something that happened twenty-five years ago but have no memory of what I did that morning.”
“And your stories…”
“They jump around on me.” Gran sighed. “I can’t follow them from start to finish any longer. Without your help over the last few years, I think it would have been far more obvious, much sooner. That last Aurora book would have been a disaster without you. That was when I knew that I couldn’t keep pretending any more. At least not to myself.”
“But to everyone else?”
“I just wanted to have a little longer. To figure things out, you know? And you bought me that time.” She squeezed my hand. “So thank you for that. And I’m sorry. I was so scared of losing myself, who I really am, that I pushed you to keep Beatrix Frost – bestselling novelist – alive for me. But I’d rather be Bea Frost, Tilly’s gran, any day.”
Tears burned my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t finish your book.”
“Tilly … one day you’ll write a book that will blow everyone away. And the best thing about it is that it will be all yours. Just as it should be.”
“I hope so.” I gave her a watery smile and she squeezed my hand tight, putting the words neither of us could find into her touch.
“Have you spoken to Dad about it?” I asked. “He said he tried but you didn’t want to discuss it.”
Gran shook her head. “Not yet. At least, not since it became official. I’ll talk to him and your mum tomorrow. Figure out how we deal with this together. As a family.”
I nodded mutely, too sad to find the words. The taxi turned off the main road, on to the track that led up to the farm where the festival was held. It was nearly time.
“But for tonight…” Gran gave me a dazzling smile, replacing her old hat with a bright fuchsia one with sparkles attached. “Tonight, we’re going to celebrate everything great in the world and forget the bad things.”
“Forget the bad things?”
Gran’s smile turned a little crooked. “Well, memory loss has to be good for something. Right?”
Gran was whisked away by the festival organizers the second that we arrived. I stayed in the taxi a moment longer to fix my make-up, then handed the driver the money Gran had left and set out to find the rest of my family.
The white marquees set up on Apple Brook Farm fields shone almost silver in the fading sunlight, and the lamps angled to light the walkways were just clicking on as I walked down them, towards the huge central marquee where the dinner was taking place.
As I reached the entrance, I could hear the chatter and clinking of glasses inside and a voice over the PA system welcoming everyone to the evening. Good. I wasn’t too late, then.
I was about to slip inside, to find my family and my seat, when the sound of footsteps behind me stopped me.
“Frost?”
I turned to see Drew standing in the dusk, dressed not in his waiter’s tux, but in a slim fitting navy suit with an open collared white shirt. His black curls hung almost to his ears, and his eyes were dark and blue. The very sight of him made my dress feel too tight. Or maybe it was the bones around my heart. It felt like I didn’t have space to breathe.
“I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” I said, after a moment too long of staring.
He gave me a smile that made my stomach jump. “Your gran isn’t the only one up for an award tonight, you know. Although the rest of us have to wait until our category is announced before we know if we’ve won or not.”
“You’re… An award?” You think you’re the only writer in this school? Was this what he’d meant by that? “You’re a writer?”
“I try,” Drew said cryptically.
Inside the marquee, the voice at the microphone grew more excited.
“They’re starting. Come on.” Before I could ask any more questions, Drew grabbed my hand and pulled me inside the tent. Immediately, I saw Gran waving me over.
“Go on.” Drew gave me a small push and I stumbled forwards a few steps. When I looked back, he’d already disappeared into the mass of tables and people, presumably to find his own seat.
I picked my way through the marquee to our table, hugging Mum and Dad, then Gran, before sitting down.
“You made it!” Mum said, toasting me with her wine glass. “We were worried you were going to miss it.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” I said truthfully.
“Nice dress,” Dad said, with a knowing look. “Could do with a hat, though…”
“I’m not sure I’m a hat person,” I told him.
I glanced around the table and saw that Molly and Isobel, Gran’s editor and agent, were a
lso with us. I wondered what Gran would tell them now. What would happen to her legacy.
I made small talk through the dinner and dessert but my mind was somewhere else. Thinking about Gran, yes, but also about Drew. What award could he possibly be here for?
I scanned the marquee again, looking for his dark curls, but I couldn’t see him. Too many people, and the candlelight didn’t help. I needed search beams or something.
“Looking for someone?” Gran asked, a knowing tone in her voice. Suddenly, I wondered where she’d been when I’d bumped into Drew. It would be just like her to have been watching.
“Only someone I know from school,” I said.
“A boy?” Gran asked.
“Another one?” Dad looked alarmed. “Didn’t we just lose the last one? I’m not sure I’m cut out for parenting a teenager.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone except Gran, who was looking at me, a wistful smile on her face.
Up on the stage at the front of the marquee, a man in a black tuxedo took hold of the microphone and announced the start of the awards. Waiters brought around tea and coffee as we listened to announcement followed by acceptance speech followed by announcement.
I paid close attention, because I was listening out for one particular name: Drew Farrow.
“Now, our second to last award is for a new category,” the man in the tux said. “And here to tell you a bit more about it is our Digital Co-ordinator, Hazel Myers.”
A willowy woman in a bright blue dress smiled as she took the microphone.
“Thanks, Geraint,” she said, before turning her attention to the crowd.
This had to be it, I realized. The only other award after this would have to be Gran’s Lifetime Achievement Award. So whatever Drew was nominated for, this was it.
I grabbed my cup of tea closer and listened for his name.
“This year, the Westerbury Literary Festival decided it was time to reach out to a wider audience of readers – however they chose to enjoy their books. And as part of that, we ran an online competition, aimed at young people aged sixteen to twenty-one. Run in conjunction with The Writers’ Room website, we opened it up to stories of any genre, any length, and style – as long as they were published only online.” I felt a jolt inside at the name of the website I knew so well. I’d even seen something about a competition but been too engrossed with the story I was reading to check it out.
Now I wished I had.
“We had hundreds of entries, and it took a lot of debate and discussion among our panel to even narrow it down to our top six shortlisted nominees. But all six of them are here tonight.” Hazel put a hand up to her eyes to try and shield her view from the stage lighting, and stared out into the marquee. “Can you all stand up, guys?”
There was a shuffling and the scrape of chairs on the temporary flooring, and then, in the bright glare of the spotlights, I saw Drew’s dark head, at the far end of the marquee.
After a smattering of applause, Hazel read out the nominations.
“In no particular order, the nominations for the inaugural Westerbury Digital Prize for an online read are: Maddie Tyler, for You, Me and Him. Morgan Black, for Looking Glass…”
I didn’t hear the rest of the nominations. I didn’t need to. Because I knew, in that moment, that Hazel wasn’t going to read out the name Drew Farrow at all. Drew Farrow wasn’t here tonight. He’d come as Morgan Black.
How had I not seen it before? All the time I’d spent reading and editing Looking Glass, how had I not noticed how familiar the language was, the cadence. How the themes played on so many ideas I’d heard Drew talk about in class, in Book Club, and in Juanita Cabrera’s works.
Did he know that I was the one who’d been critiquing his work? He had to, surely. Although, it was all done through The Writers’ Room anonymous messaging service, so maybe he was as in the dark as me. I wouldn’t know until I asked him.
“And the winner is … Morgan Black for Looking Glass!”
The crowd cheered and I watched as Drew’s long, lean form half-strode, half-jogged up to the stage.
He ducked his head to reach the microphone, looking self-conscious even in his suit, and holding the small glass trophy Hazel had presented him with.
“Um, I didn’t prepare a speech – which, with hindsight, might have been a bit of a mistake,” he said, and I couldn’t help but join the laughter. “But us digital types … we’re not always so good with the spoken word. Or, you know, actual people, sometimes. But I do have some real live people I need to thank, without whom I wouldn’t be standing here tonight. So, uh, thank you to my parents, for always encouraging me to follow my dreams. To my sister Eleanor, for keeping me humble by being far more talented than I’ll ever be. But most of all…” he paused, looking up over the crowd until he found our table. His gaze met mine and I realized I didn’t need to ask.
He’d known it was me.
“Thank you to all the readers who helped me improve my writing with their comments and critiques. Especially my harshest critic, the reader who never let me get away with anything – I won’t name names, but she knows who she is, and she happens to be here tonight, too. Without her, Looking Glass wouldn’t be half the story it is.”
He ducked his head again and stepped down from the stage, even as the applause went on.
“Tilly?” Mum said, eyebrows raised. “Was he talking about you just then?”
“Apparently Tilly’s been very busy this year,” Gran said, eyebrows even higher than Mum’s.
“It’s, uh, kind of a long story. Actually, do you mind if—” But before I could ask permission to go and find Drew, the man in the tux was back at the microphone.
“And now, our last – and in some ways, most overdue – award. Tonight, it gives me unsurpassed pleasure to present the Westerbury Lifetime Achievement Award to our very own – Beatrix Frost!”
This time, the cheering was overwhelming, the applause so loud it echoed back off the canvas until the whole marquee seemed filled with the sound of clapping.
I helped Gran to her feet – even though she was perfectly capable of standing up herself – and she held on to my arm as she started towards the stage.
“Walk with me,” she whispered as up on the screen behind the podium a show reel of photos of Gran’s book covers, signings, award ceremonies, weddings and Queen Bea Teas cycled round, one after another. The announcer talked over them, telling the story of Gran’s illustrious career. They didn’t know the half of it, I decided.
I kept my arm linked through Gran’s all the way up to the steps on to the stage, then hung back as she ascended – with absolutely no problem, of course. She accepted her – much larger – glass trophy with a gracious nod, before handing it to someone else standing behind her as she moved towards the microphone.
The cheering died down, at last, as she started to speak.
“I can’t express quite how much this award means to me,” Gran said. Except it wasn’t Gran speaking, I realized. It was Beatrix Frost, bestselling, award-winning author, talking to her legions of fans across the globe. (I was certain there was a Queen Bea in the audience somewhere, filming it to upload to one of the many fan sites.)
“I used to think there was no greater reward than seeing my stories in print,” Gran went on. “But I was wrong. For me, the greatest pleasure has always been the reactions of my readers – hearing how much they loved a story or what they hoped I’d do with the next one. At the point where money became less of a motivation for me, people would ask why I still bothered. And my answer was always the same. I write to be read. I write for my readers. Beyond them? Who cares what anyone thinks of my books.
“That said, I admit, I’m particularly touched to be honoured with this Lifetime Achievement Award, here in my home town. The place where I met my first husband, Percy. Where I raised my family. Where my son came back to live with me, bringing with him the only thing that’s brought me more pleasure than writing since Percy died: my granddaughter Tilly
.”
Gran reached out a hand towards me, motioning me up on to the stage as the audience clapped again. Self-conscious, I obeyed, smiling uncomfortably as I joined her in the spotlight.
“What many people don’t know – in fact, even my agent and my editor don’t really know – is that for years now, Tilly has been helping me with my books. She started out proofreading them, then typing up my longhand drafts, doing research and before long she was editing my manuscripts with me, helping me develop my characters, my stories, even my brand. And when I got sick last year … she took on her biggest job yet. You see, I was so ill that I couldn’t finish the last book in the Aurora series before my deadline. So it was Tilly who wrote the ending of the book and sent it to my editor.”
A gasp went up around the crowd, but really, they couldn’t have been more shocked than I was.
I grabbed Gran’s hand. “Gran. You don’t have to—”
She shook her head. “Yes I do,” she whispered back.
“To all those reviewers and readers who loved how that series ended, who commented on how perfectly the many story threads were tied up, I say – thank Tilly. Without her, that book would not have been the success it was and the series wouldn’t have had the ending it deserved.”
Gran ducked her head before continuing. “I’m sad to say that Aurora Rising might be my last novel. But I tell you all … watch out for the name Tilly Frost in bookshops in the future. Because my girl is one hell of a talent. Thank you!”
Confused applause rang out, slow and without rhythm, as we descended from the stage. My cheeks were burning, Gran’s praise still ringing in my ears. Gran believed in me and that helped me believe in myself. I knew that whatever I chose to write – even if it was nothing at all – she’d love me. And that mattered to me more than anything.
At our table, I could see Molly and Isobel frowning, and Mum and Dad talking intently over each other.
Gran sighed. “Well. I suppose I’d better go deal with all that.” I started to follow her but she turned and placed a hand in front of me. “I’ll deal with it,” she said. “I’ve asked too much of you already this year. Besides, I think you have someone else to deal with.”
