‘I sound lovely. Like a vulture. Anyway, you’re missing the point. There is only Plan A and it’s a novel.’ I go get his pizza.
‘Bet the kids are glad to have you home, though.’ Connor looks around. ‘Where have you hidden them?’
‘They’re in bed.’
‘So early?’
‘They were tired. I was tired.’
‘How are they? They must be pretty big now.’
I could tell him that Sam likes to throw things in the loo and he’s not fussy what. Or that Chloe makes ‘art’ out of her food. But he’s a single guy; there’s a danger of boring him to death.
‘They’re grand,’ I say. ‘It’s so good to spend time with them.’
‘It is so you, though, isn’t it, the whole art gallery idea?’
‘Enough with the art gallery.’ I look at Ian who, I realise, isn’t saying much. I clear away his unfinished but abandoned plate. ‘Connor, Ian got a new job.’
Connor turns to him. ‘Oh?’
As they discuss the intricacies of corporate finance, I try not to think of my wasted morning. Or Plan B. A time will come when I’ll look back on this day and smile knowingly, having achieved everything I set out to. ‘Ah, remember those early days of doubt, how you had to order a small library of books to learn how to write and how friends doubted that you could do it. Well, you showed them.’
‘A toast,’ Connor says, raising his orange juice. ‘To the corporate financier and the novelist.’
It sounds sexier than it is, I think as I raise my glass. Then I catch Ian’s eye. He winks as if to say, ‘We can do this.’ He has always had a special ability to read my mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The following day, I start with motive. This actually gets me going. By twelve-fifteen, I have a – kind of – plot, half a wobbly first chapter and an entire title. There is something a little iffy about Murder She Said but I can’t quite work out what. I’m not worried; it’s a working title.
I collect the kids from Sunny Side Up, their effervescent Montessori – feeling pretty effervescent myself. We head to Sandycove’s tiny beach. It’s only March but the sun smacks off the water as we pull up.
‘Shearave,’ Sam says, from the back of the car.
‘She’s a rave?’ I offer uncertainly.
‘Sheawuff,’ he insists.
‘See the wolf?’
‘No-oh. Seedavave.’
‘See the wave?’
‘Yeah. Seedawafe. Told ya.’
‘Yes, yes, I see the wave!’ I exclaim, so relieved at hitting the jackpot that I ignore the fact that the sea is, in fact, calm.
I unstrap them both and lift them out of their car seats. I walk them carefully to the beach. Then they take off, tearing headlong into the freezing water fully dressed. Too late to do anything, I let them play. When I do manage to get them out, I wrap their shivering bodies in towels I brought for feet. I will learn.
Next morning, I become borderline unhinged. Chloe won’t get out of bed, no matter what I say about mutual back scratching, general co-operation and Montessori. Sam wants Cornflakes having already requested and been given Cheerios. Chloe’s persistent chant of, ‘I want Sally back,’ makes me want to bang my head against the wall.
‘Will you put the bin out?’ Ian asks.
I stare at him. ‘You haven’t even unloaded the dishwasher!’
‘So?’
‘They’re your only two jobs.’
‘Yeah well, this morning I don’t have time.’
He hasn’t had time any morning this week. ‘What about my time?’
‘Kim you’re at home all day.’
‘Yeah, working. Writing.’ Or trying to.
‘Look, I gotta go.’
‘Go, then,’ I snap. Is this my future – cleaning up after everyone while the caveman goes out to track down the deer and antelope?
He’s not too happy that I’m not too happy. Leaves for work in a huff.
I’ve just brought out the bin, when he rings from the car.
‘I’m sorry.’
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s OK. It’s just you know how sensitive I am about turning into a doormat.’
‘I know.’
‘And you know I’m writing. I haven’t actually given up work.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And it takes time.’
‘I know.’
‘And I have to squeeze everything else into the rest of the day.’
‘I know.’
‘And being a mum is a full-time job. Sam, stop.’ He’s spooning soggy Cornflakes onto the table.
‘I know.’
‘And the thought of emptying the dishwasher day after day gets me down.’ I don’t mention the cooking.
‘Kim, I’m calling to say sorry.’
Sam is whacking his cereal with the back of his spoon, sending it flying. ‘Sam! Stop!’
‘Kim, I’ll do the dishwasher, all right? I’m sorry. OK?’
‘Sam, don’t you dare.’
He tips the bowl over. Cereal and milk oozes over the table and onto his lap.
‘I gotta go.’
‘OK. I’ll call you later.’
I lunge, right the bowl and slide the cereal into it with the side of my hand. ‘Sam, that’s bold. I told you not to.’
‘You given me two headaches,’ he says.
‘Do what you’re told in future, young man.’
I unstrap him and lift him out of the seat. I carry him upstairs to find that Chloe has dressed herself.
‘Good girl!’ Maybe I’ll survive another day.
I change Sam and hurry back downstairs to get Chloe’s breakfast and another for him. How did Sally always look so unruffled? How was she always so cheery? And how did she get them to Montessori on time? I should have paid her more.
I ignore the mess in the kitchen and open my laptop. I read over the one-and-a-half chapters I’ve written. Overnight, it has become unoriginal and clichéd. I reach for the phone.
‘Oh, hello, love. I was just going to ring you.’ Mum says this every time I call.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Did you read the first chapter?’
There’s a pause. ‘I haven’t really had a chance yet, love.’ Weak, very weak.
‘Mum, you’ve been dying to get your hands on it.’
‘I’ve just skimmed over it.’
‘And?’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t discuss this over the phone,’ she says as though the lines are being tapped.
‘OK. When do you want to do it?’
‘Eh, let’s see.’
‘I can come over now.’
There’s a pause. ‘All right, Kim. Just give me half an hour.’ Her voice is resigned like she knows when she’s cornered.
I shouldn’t go. I don’t need any negativity, right now.
Still, I have to know.
She makes coffee and talks about the children in minute detail. My tongue is hanging out and my head feels like a good pat. There comes a point when I can’t bear it any longer.
‘So what did you think of the chapter?’
‘Goooood.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
She starts to twiddle her pearl earring – always a bad sign. ‘Don’t you think the title is a bit like Murder She Wrote?’
‘Murder She Wrote! I knew it reminded me of something. That’s grand. I’ll change it.’ Easily. ‘Is that all you were worried about?’
‘Well, no.’ She grimaces. ‘It’s probably not ideal, is it, that I’ve worked out who’s going to be murdered?’
‘Not in Chapter One, no.’ But maybe she’s wrong. ‘Who do you think it is?’
‘Gerald?’
Shit. ‘How did you know?’
She shrugs. ‘There are just so many people who would want him dead.’
My plot is suddenly sounding very Agatha Christie. ‘Maybe it doesn’t matter,’ I say hopefully. ‘He’s killed off in Chapter Two.’ O
r at least he will be when I get into Chapter Two a bit more.
She starts to look like she’s in pain.
‘What?’
‘I might have figured out the murderer.’
‘You couldn’t have! Who?’
‘Grace.’
Oh. My. God. ‘How did you know?’
Super sleuth explains.
I drop my head into my hands and groan. ‘This is a disaster.’
‘Kim, I do read a lot of these.’
‘So do most people who read crime.’ I stand up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Home to fix it.’
‘You can’t go. Not like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Upset. You’ll crash the car.’
I roll my eyes like a teenager taking her frustration out on a parent.
She follows me into the hall then passes me out and stands blocking the front door.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘You’re not leaving until you promise me you’re not upset.’
‘I’m not upset.’
‘You are.’
‘Jesus, Mum, will you let me out of here? I’ll drive safely. OK?’
She looks at me carefully as though she can read the future of my journey home.
‘All right.’
‘Thank you!’
‘Kim?’
I turn.
‘Sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you till you were further along.’
‘Well, that would have been crap. At least I can fix it before I waste any more time.’ Fix it? I’ll have to come up with a whole new plot. Start over. I feel like going to bed for an extended period of time. Possibly a year.
Driving home, a voice inside my head asks, ‘What made you think you could write a novel?’
‘Nine years’ experience of PR writing, some of it very creative,’ another answers.
‘Not the same thing as a murder mystery, though, is it?’
‘I’ve done some very good articles. Remember the one on feet?’
‘Feet!’
‘Anyone who can make feet sound sexy can write a book that’s mysterious.’
‘Not looking good so far. Just saying.’
‘Where would we be if the Wright Brothers believed the sceptics or Leonardo da Vinci decided he should stick to the painting or Christopher Columbus was afraid of falling off the edge of the world?’
‘Don’t get carried away. It’s just a book.’
‘Exactly! It’s just a book. Doable. Entirely possible.’
‘Just focus on the goal, Kim. Visualise it.’
‘Better wait for a red light, though.’
It’s nearly noon already. No point starting now. I check my emails. There’s one from Sarah. I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind. Curiosity wins out.
Hello missus. Having a ball here in Sydney but time to move on. The Aussies aren’t bad for a quick sexpresso but no sign of Perfect Man. Right now, I’m thinking New Zealand, then Kenya. Thoughts? My first novel, The Other Woman, will be out in July. And I’m flying with Piece a Cake. Title inspired by the process of writing. How’s it going with you?
Sx
Thoughts? Here’s a thought: you make me feel like poo.
Here’s another: I’ve reverted to the mental age of two.
Next day, though, I do it. Start over.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My brother, James, is getting married in New York. Ian and I are going – on our own – for a long weekend. There is a God! Unfortunately, He doesn’t renew passports. I have just – miraculously – discovered that mine will expire when I’m due to be over there. Not wanting to impinge on a morning’s writing, I wait till I’ve picked up the kids to start the process. While they eat (and wear) their lunch, I fill out the form. Then it’s off to have my passport photos taken. Looking straight ahead is an extreme challenge as Chloe struggles to keep Sam safely inside the booth. He starts to scream. We narrowly avoid a meltdown.
Then it’s in and out of car seats. A trip to the police station to get the photos stamped is followed by a longer journey to the passport office. Treats are supplied en route. All is going reasonably well until we have to queue at the passport office. My self-help books say that my two-year-old is becoming his own person, learning that he is independent of me. I am to ignore bad behaviour, reward good. The book does not advise on what to do when the two-year-old lies on the floor of a public place, arms and legs flailing, pushing his vocal chords to the limit.
I give him my phone. And Chloe gives me a very adult look. My children are turning into the characters in the books I read them – Horrid Henry and Perfect Peter. I don’t want them to be either horrid or perfect. Then again, maybe they could both be perfect – just for a day.
My phone starts to ring as I carry a sleeping child through the front door. I lay Sam onto the couch, knowing that he won’t sleep tonight but not feeling up to waking him.
I take out my phone and call Mum back.
‘How much have you written now?’ she asks.
‘Three chapters.’
‘Send them to Deirdre French,’ she says, referring to a bestselling Irish author who happens to be a friend of hers. ‘I’m sure she’ll be able to give advice, tips, whatever. This is her email. Send what you have as soon as you hang up.’
‘OK, thanks.’
But when I do hang up, I sit down on the couch and pull Chloe up onto my lap. ‘Sorry about all the waiting, today. You were such a good girl.’
‘Was I perfect?’
I press her nose. ‘Perfect. But I don’t want you to feel you have to be perfect all the time. Cause that’s a lot of pressure.’
‘No it’s not. Sam is bold so you need someone good.’
I hug her. ‘He’ll grow out of it.’
‘He better.’
Three weeks later, my mother is asking if I’ve contacted Deirdre French to see what she thinks of the chapters.
‘I thought I’d give her a bit more time,’ I say.
‘Ring her.’
Her persistence wears me down. After a motivational mug of coffee, I dial the number she’s given me.
‘Ah, hello, Kim darling,’ the author says.
‘Hello, Ms French.’
‘Deirdre, please.’
‘Deirdre. Thanks so much for having a look at my… (writing, work, what?)… at what I’ve done so far.’
‘I hope I can be of some help.’
‘Mum thought you might have some advice…’
‘How is your Mum?’
‘Good, great. Getting ready for New York. James is getting married there.’
‘Ah, lovely. So what can I tell you? Let me see. Have you got a pen?’
I reach for one. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Take this down.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Writing’s a business. Treat it as such.’
I scribble ‘a business’.
‘Write two thousand words a day, every day. No excuses.’
I write ‘2,000’, wondering how many pages that is.
‘You need a good strong central character.’
‘That would be the detective?’ I confirm.
‘In your case, yes.’ Deirdre French writes romantic fiction.
Conscious of her own two-thousand-word deadline, I get to the point. ‘Would you have any advice on plot?’
‘Ah, people get way too uptight on plot,’ she says, as if I’ve touched a nerve. ‘Now, about your work,’ she says, pointedly, as though conscious of her own deadline. Given the publishing phenomenon that she is, I wonder how much each of her words is worth.
‘Thank you,’ I say, pen poised.
She sounds very encouraging as she breaks the news that what I’ve written ‘needs work’. My plot is ‘leaky’, my characters ‘one-dimensional’, my vocabulary ‘pedestrian’.
I put down the phone. And cry.
When I recover (it takes a while), I open my laptop and do a word co
unt. Five-thousand-eight-hundred-and-two words. According to Deirdre French, this should have taken me three days. It’s been four weeks. And it’s pedestrian.
‘Deirdre French thinks my book is crap,’ I say to Ian.
‘She really said it was crap?’
‘Well, she didn’t actually use the word. But she meant it.’
‘I’m sure she didn’t. Wouldn’t.’
‘She’s right, though. It is crap. You think it’s crap too. You just won’t admit it.’
‘Kim, you know I don’t read fiction.’
‘I know, but you must have some opinion.’
‘And it’s this: better no advice than bad advice.’
‘I’ve given up my business for nothing.’
‘Kim. Deirdre French is one person.’
‘Yeah, but she knows what she’s talking about.’
‘Does she write crime?’
‘No,’ I say grudgingly. I feel two-year-old grumpy.
He smiles. ‘Come here.’ He opens his arms.
I snuggle into him. And feel marginally better.
‘You’ll do it. I know you will. You’re great.’
‘You’re biased.’
‘I know. I’m your biggest fan.’
I start to smile. He pulls me closer.
‘Pretend we’re in a cave and there’s a blizzard outside.’
‘It’s you who should be writing books,’ I say but I do it – I pretend we’re in a cave and there’s a blizzard outside. It’s lovely.
I stand in front of an open case. Six condoms for three days? Call me an optimist.
We park at the airport. I’m raring to go but the (official) worker of the family has to make three ‘quick’ work calls first. I’ve no problem with that – easy to be positive when there’s a mini-break on the horizon. I take out my copy of On Writing by Stephen King, but get a little distracted by the man beside me. He’s got the most gorgeous profile. I sit forward to get a peak at his eyes, my favourite Ian feature – it’s the way they change from blue to turquoise depending on the sky.
All We Have Lost Page 4
