Chapter 34

I look at the unfamiliar email in my inbox. It’s not unusual to receive emails from strangers; most of them are spam, or offering marketing services, explaining how much they can help me market my book with emails full of grammatical errors and questionable spelling. But this one catches my attention. It starts off polite enough, overly polite even. Well, more of an archaic style of writing, which I find intriguing. Then it veers into effusive and apologetic but inherently charming. On top of all that, the subject matter is interesting. He’s offering his services as a literary agent.

I look at the name again: Noah Ellington. It’s vaguely familiar. The email also mentions a connection to my father, so that’s the first call I make.

“Dad, do you know a Noah Ellington?” I ask once we’ve exchanged greetings.

“I’ve not met Noah, but I do know his father, Henry Ellington; he’s a client of mine. ”

“Did you recommend he contact me?”

“Ah, yes, I might have suggested it. I should have warned you, but I didn’t think he would go through with it, or at least not so soon. I only met with Henry a couple of days ago.”

“Well, he’s keen, I’ll give him that. But I wasn’t aware I was in need of a new agent.” I can’t help bristling slightly at the interference by my dad.

“From what you’ve told me about Helen, I was under the impression it was imminent.”

I have been putting off thinking about my agent for the last few days. With her not being able to sell my series, her refusal to try to sell Estrella’s biography, along with taking on Sloan Thorpe, I’m not sure I can trust her anymore. But to find a new agent seems a drastic step to take. Still, there can’t be any harm in finding out a bit more information about him, just in case. I compose a quick reply and go to find Constantin. I’m walking down into the city with him today.

Although it’s early, there are already plenty of people also enjoying the fine weather as I amble down La Rambla. I don’t have any particular destination in mind, I just want to soak in the atmosphere. I hardly did any sightseeing when I first arrived in the city, but I walked along the La Rambla almost every day. I look at the shops and cafés I used to pass on my daily walk from my hotel to Constantin’s bar. Everything feels different even though it’s familiar. Even the gentleman I used to see reading a paper with his espresso is in exactly the same seat. As I walk, I try to fathom the incongruity of it all. The sights, the sounds, the smell, and even the very air is changed somehow. I stop in the middle of the wide pedestrian street and allow humanity to flow round me. The bewildered feeling dissipates as I hear snippets of conversation—parents calling their children, lovers having heated arguments. I don’t catch all of them, as they speak fast, and my vocabulary is still fairly limited, but the last time I walked down here, it was just background noise. I tip my head back and stare up at the sky, a grin forming on my face and jubilation bubbling up so I can barely contain it. Barcelona hasn’t changed, I have. I already knew change was happening, but I considered that more centred around my sexuality and the expansiveness of feelings I have for Florencio and Constantin. This feels different; it’s weightier somehow, more fundamental. I pick a seat at an outdoor table at a café and a waitress approaches. Without hesitation, she addresses me in Spanish. Previously, either the servers would instantly discern I was British and choose English, or they would speak Spanish and wait patiently for me to hesitantly try to tell them I didn’t speak it, or try not to wince as I murdered their language. I answer in Spanish and am still rather dazed that she doesn’t grimace, but appears back with my coffee very promptly. As I sit and watch the world go by, only one thought comes to mind: I could do this forever.