‘I’m so sorry, Elodie,’ she says, voice creamy with sympathy. ‘These rejections are tough, but all the editors have been so positive and encouraging. Sometimes I just get a one-liner which says nothing more than “not for us, thank you” so, although a rejection isn’t what we want, the feedback is useful.’
I nod and nod and nod. There’s something heavy pressing down on my chest. I think it’s devastation. Lara is staring at me, waiting for me to react but on the back of the devastation is shock. Ridiculous really because I knew there was a very real possibility I’d fail like everyone said I would. I knew that, but surely this can’t be the end of the road? It can’t. I take another sip of water. ‘So,’ I manage, and swallow thickly around the hard lump in my throat. ‘So, what happens next?’
There’s relief in Lara’s smile. I get the impression she’s dealt with a few crushed artists dissolving into tears and I’m pleased that I’m not one of them. ‘Well, the reason I asked you to come up with some new ideas is because Darcy is giving us a second chance.’
I take another sip of water, and take a second to organise my thoughts before asking, ‘Does this mean there’s no hope for The Kissing Rock?’
I wait.
Lara takes a sip of her drink and I can see she’s mentally sprinkling sugar on what she’s about to say. ‘I think it’s best we concentrate on a new project.’
But it still leaves a bitter aftertaste because the answer is no, there’s no hope for the manuscript I devoted over a year of my life to. It’s been thrown out like a carton of old milk. I’m afraid I might let us both down and cry. Lara has put so many hours into my manuscript; I’ve not just failed myself, I’ve failed her too. I give this crushing realisation the moment of silence it deserves.
She leans forward. ‘So, let’s hear these new pitches.’
I blink, surprised we’re moving on so quickly when I still feel raw, like I’m in mourning, but apparently, we’re not giving my book a proper burial; we’re just tossing its tattered corpse into a hole and skipping the wake altogether.
‘Sure, yeah, okay.’ With trembling fingers, I pull my phone from my bag and scroll through to my notes. I take a breath, hoping my voice will stay even. ‘Well, I had an idea about childhood sweethearts in the wild moors of Scotland who are torn apart when their families move away, and they spend the next decade trying to get back to each other, their paths always almost crossing.’ I glance up, trying to gauge her thoughts but she isn’t giving much away, so I go on. ‘I wanted to play with the idea of fate and soulmates. Something timeless, classic.’
Lara nods encouragingly but her smile is fixed. Fake. ‘That’s a great idea,’ she galvanises. I wait. The ‘but’ is coming. ‘The thing is, Elodie, it’s got quite similar themes to The Kissing Rock. Do you have anything grittier, as Darcy suggested?’
‘Well …’ I’m staring at my screen, not able to read a single word thanks to the rising dread. ‘Urm …’ I bite my lip and scroll pointlessly up and down through my notes because I know I don’t have anything resembling gritty.
‘It’s not the first time an editor has come back to me recently and expressed that true crime is selling right now,’ she starts. ‘I wouldn’t usually suggest assessing the market and writing for it because by the time you’ve jumped on a trend, the next one has come along, but true crime has been around for years. There’s always a place for it.’ She’s looking at me expectantly, but my mind is blank.
I can’t even bullshit my way through this. ‘Look,’ I say flatly. ‘I don’t have anything like that. At least, not right now. Or maybe …’ My pulse quickens. ‘Something about a stalker? A woman being followed or …’
‘We’d need a new spin on it.’
She waits. I lick my dry lips and, just for a second, consider offering up Noah’s story but it’s too real, too raw. I can’t.
‘Why don’t you go home, have a think, come up with a few ideas and send them over to me? Then we can schedule a call to discuss them. Sorry to dash but I’ve got another meeting in half an hour.’
‘No problem.’
She insists on paying even though the book hasn’t sold, and I feel even guiltier. Still, there’s a glimmer of hope, isn’t there? I mean, Darcy wants me to pitch more ideas. She likes my writing. I haven’t completely failed. Not yet. It will take me another six months to write a new manuscript … after editing and submitting, it could be another year or more before I have an offer. If I have an offer. How long do I spend working in a coffee shop, earning minimum wage, with nothing to show for it, before I accept my parents are right and throw in the towel?
When we step out of the cool, air-conditioned café and into the burning sun, Lara turns to me. ‘I’m glad we had this chat.’
‘Me too. I’m looking forward to starting something new.’
‘Good, perfect. Obviously, I want us to continue to work together but it must be on the right project, you understand?’
I nod, even as her ultimatum creates a fog of dread in my chest, cold, dark and spreading: come up with a winning pitch or she’ll drop me.
I met Margot in the first year of university when I went to my lecturer’s office to discuss my ‘Introduction to Media Law and Regulation’ paper and there she was, fucking Anthony Roberts on his desk. After that, I’d sit in his seminars, listening to him talk about the difference in regulatory guidelines between print and broadcast media, all the while knowing he bites his lip just before he comes. Weeks later, I found Margot crying in the self-help section of the library. We went to a bar where she lamented about how she was madly in love with Dr Roberts, but he was banging at least two other girls on campus. Margot swiped a bottle of tequila from behind the bar and we drank it on the way home, shouting ‘Olé!’ at one another and bursting into shrieks of laughter. We’ve been friends ever since.
I’m supposed to be meeting her in forty-five minutes but knowing my book has failed and having Lara’s ultimatum sitting inside my mind like a spring-loaded trap, I’m low. Really low. I’m not sure which is more selfish: cancelling on Margot because my pity-party is single occupancy only or meeting Margot knowing I’m going to be miserable company. Jack would tell me to pull myself together, meet her and put everything else to one side, even just for a few hours. So, that’s what I do.
The heat is so close that by the time I reach the restaurant, I’m sweaty and exhausted, but it’s worth it because the rooftop bar has a breathtaking view of the London skyline. Glass skyscrapers glitter against the horizon and to my right is the Thames, which from all the way up here, looks good enough to bathe in. If I can get through the next few hours without a dark cloud of misery creeping in, I’ll have won.