Dad excuses himself to join Ethan, and a small band of men gather around the BBQ. Ethan chucks a piece of meat onto it. Flames shoot up from the grill, hissing and spitting, and the men look on with childish delight.
‘Not right now …’ I trail off. Mum’s brow creases in dismay. I haven’t dated anyone since Noah. My parents adored him; he was easy-going and funny and always bought flowers for Mum and cider for Dad when we visited from London. They loved him almost as much as they love Jack. I feel guilty for not putting myself back out there; it means a lot to my parents to see me happy and settled but, even though it’s been nearly a year since Noah, it’s still too soon. ‘I mean, I’m focusing on my book,’ I offer by way of distraction. ‘I spent all morning at the library, coming up with new ideas for my agent.’
Mum’s frown deepens and I’m hurt. I didn’t realise how desperately I wanted her to smile warmly and ask questions the way she does when Ada announces another unnecessary renovation. I remember how proud my parents were the day I graduated. Mum wore her best heels, the satin ones with the little bow detail reserved only for extra-special occasions; Dad teared up as I stood in front of that mottled blue backdrop, holding the plastic scroll used as a prop for photographs. I was the first in the family to go to university, but that achievement has paled against the glittering glory of Ada’s grand wedding on the Amalfi Coast and her grand house and her grand car and her grand husband. Ever since I decided to try for publication, there’s been a wall between us.
‘It’s going really well,’ I lie, even though Mum didn’t ask. This lie adds another layer of bricks to the wall. ‘Lara’s had loads of interest. Loads. She’s expecting big things.’
Mum frowns. ‘Lara?’
‘My literary agent …’
‘Agent?’
‘Lara from Beckworth & Gold.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’
We’ve lapsed into silence again. Mum’s the first to break it. ‘Have you heard any more from Arabella?’
Arabella was the founder and CEO of ACH Marketing. The last time I saw her was when I handed in my notice. Nine months later, Arabella started another company with a huge investor and asked if I wanted to join – by that point though, I had an agent and I couldn’t fully commit to my career and writing. So I turned her down. My parents knew I always loved to write but I don’t think they believed I’d ever quit my job to do it. The truth is, I only took a job at a fancy marketing company to please them, but after Noah died, my happiness was more important than a job my parents could tell their friends about. ‘No,’ I say, honestly. ‘Not for a while now.’
Mum swirls Merlot around her glass, not meeting my eye. ‘Well, darling, maybe you could give her a call, see if she still needs your help.’
There’s a pang of pain, sharp and hot, like she’s accidentally knocked a pot of scalding tea into my lap. She really doesn’t understand or, more to the point, doesn’t want to understand. Some people write for years without ever getting this far.
When I don’t respond, Mum looks at me, a hardness in her gaze. ‘You’re only twenty-eight now, Elodie, but you have to be careful; you don’t want to get to thirty-something and realise you’ve made a mistake you can’t fix. You don’t want to get to that age and realise you’ve got nothing to show for it. No house, no husband, no career, no children. What’s the point in all that debt from university if you’re just going to work in a coffee shop?’ The Merlot has made her bold and more honest than she’s ever been with me before. I am exposed. She reaches out, gripping my hand tightly. ‘You were always the academic one; we really thought it would be you to have all these wonderful things. We worry about you, love. We want you to be as happy as your sister. We don’t want you to go without.’
The comparison to Ada adds two more layers of bricks to the wall. Her use of ‘we’ makes it clear she and Dad have talked; they agree I’m going to fail. These are worries I’ve had myself, they scurry, bug-like, around my brain at night, keeping me awake. Now that she’s saying them aloud, panic swells in my chest, expanding inside me until it’s difficult to breathe.
‘I know you want a book deal, but it’s a bit like wanting to win the lottery – there’s no guarantee, is there?’ She’s looking at me hopefully, like she wants me to tell her she’s wrong, that getting published is a piece of cake. But I can’t. ‘If there was a guarantee … well, we wouldn’t be so worried. We don’t want to upset you, Elodie. You do understand, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ My voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance. Mum doesn’t look convinced. I try again. ‘I get it.’ Swallowing my hurt, I add, ‘Thanks, Mum.’
And I hate that at twenty-eight, I am still craving my parents’ approval.
It’s impossible to enjoy myself with Mum’s words swilling around my head. I consider leaving, but Mum will be upset and I don’t want to spoil her evening too, so I mill around, making polite small talk with second cousins I only ever see at family gatherings, and girls I recognise from school but were in Ada’s year. They’re all engaged or pregnant or married with kids. Ada and Ethan are trying for a baby. Ethan let it slip on Christmas Day. Mum was over the moon; rushing out to buy a copy of Mother & Baby the next morning. Maybe having a little niece or nephew would bring me and Ada closer together. I look over at my sister, she’s with her husband, they’re laughing and drinking champagne. They look like one of those couples off an advert for luxury yachts.
I stand on the patio with Uncle Gregory and he’s telling me how Ruby and Tom have just bought a convertible as a pre-baby treat. I nod and smile, and I’m surprised when he asks about my book.
‘Yeah,’ I say, pleased he’s taken an interest. ‘It’s out with editors at the moment. Harriers are reading it now; I actually have a meeting with my agent about it on Monday.’
‘In swanky London?’
I nod, inwardly cringing that he always refers to London as ‘swanky’.
‘Fingers crossed.’ He raises his glass. ‘Never know, you might be the next J.K. Rowling.’
I smile politely like I haven’t heard that a million times.
Ada and Ruby appear at my side.
‘Elodie,’ my sister says coolly. Then she leans forward and air-kisses both cheeks, like we’re acquaintances, like we didn’t share bathwater as kids, like I didn’t catch her sticking her fingers down her throat on her fifteenth birthday because Katrina Harrison called her fat, like she didn’t ugly cry the night Adam Litchfield dumped her.
Ruby follows Ada’s lead, and another round of air-kissing ensues. Ruby is a year older than Ada and an only child, though she’s always considered Ada a sister and me an irritant.
‘The party’s great,’ I say to Ada.
‘Thank you, it was a lot of stress and hard work,’ she says. ‘We had a nightmare with the company setting up the tepees, but we got it sorted in the end. It’s worth it; it’s lovely to have the family all together.’
‘Elodie’s just been telling me about her book,’ says Uncle Gregory.