Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Today, spring smelled like summer. I was crouched in the break room next to a box of disinfectant and the trainers of someone who cycled to work, with my laptop on my thighs.

I paused typing and leaned against the wall.

What should I wear tonight? It was Amy’s book launch, and he had agreed to come with me. Because he was at the bar in the evening and I was at the café in the day, we didn’t see each other as much. But he was making more of an effort to text, and I was making more of an effort not to care when he didn’t. We had talked about Steph, and he explained that he hadn’t said anything because his ex, Jessica, had been irrationally jealous. But he told me that he knew I wasn’t like her, and so I told him that I understood, partly because I did and partly to prove that he was right.

Perhaps my black dress and brown boots?

I noticed the time, put my laptop away, and headed back out. Ruth’s replacement, Stefan, left a half-made coffee on the machine and timed an exhale as we crossed paths to indicate that my break had overrun.

At the counter, a man was waiting. Gap between his front teeth, brown eyes, dark hair with flecks of caramel, muscles visible through a sleek white shirt. He was neat and clean, and his clothes were not only ironed, but they looked pressed.

I think that’s my latte? he said, gesturing to the coffee with a long, slim finger.

Sorry, I’ll make you a new one if you can wait.

Sure, it’s just work, he replied with a fake huff.

I refilled the grounds, and he asked my name. Enola, I said, placing a clean cup beneath the nozzle. He told me that his name was Virinder. The machine whirred as espresso dripped. I was used to men talking to me at work. There were two types. The first liked to demonstrate that they were the sort of person who spoke to the barista. The second flirted. I wasn’t sure which this man was.

I poured the milk into a flower shape, and Virinder asked if I had worked here long. I asked what he was insinuating by that. It was a joke, but he answered genuinely: I haven’t seen you here before. I told him that I was referring to my coffee art, and he laughed. The two suits in the queue shuffled their brogues.

If you have to explain it, then it’s a great joke, I said, and he laughed again, louder. He asked if this was my full-time job. Normally, that question made me bristle, but Virinder asked questions like he simply wanted to know the answers, and so I replied with confidence that I was writing a book.

Virinder stepped back: Wow, that’s exciting!

I dismissed Virinder with a noise, but, as I did, I realized how frequently I minimized my writing so as not to antagonize him . He didn’t want to write together anymore. He didn’t even want to talk about writing. I had stopped asking how his book was going, hoping he would volunteer the information when he was ready. But so far, he hadn’t, and the list of things that we didn’t talk about was growing longer.

Virinder said that he had thought about a writing a book. An exposé of the life of a city lawyer. I smiled to be polite, and he lifted his coffee as if to demonstrate that he had it. Better jet, Enola. But I’m here on secondment, so you’ll see me again. I watched him walk away with a skip in his step, like he was enjoying walking.

Sorry, I said to the impatient brogues. What can I get you?

I ARRIVED FIVE MINUTES early so that I didn’t keep him waiting. I had told him that the dress code was smart, but he was wearing his denim jacket and Converse. He greeted me in a tone that signaled his discomfort. I reassured him that we didn’t have to stay long. Thank fuck. He popped gum into his mouth.

Don’t I get a kiss? I tried to sound flippant but it came out the opposite because although he kissed me, his mouth remained closed.

Inside, books provided color against otherwise white walls. Servers circulated trays to women with colorful scarves and men with visible socks. He stepped through the door and said that he was getting a drink. I asked if he could get me a sparkling water, and he flicked his hand over his shoulder. Amy appeared in a flurry of cashmere and lime-and-basil hair mist.

Congratulations, I said. I’m so happy for—

But she hushed me and said that her agent’s assistant, Diana, was here.

My stomach dropped. But I’ve not got anything ready, I—

I sent her your first three chapters and she loved them.

You sent them? But they aren’t ready!

Enola, if things were left to you they would never happen.

He returned with drinks, and, on seeing Amy, his face dropped. He mustered a congratulations and apologized that he wasn’t going to make it to her wedding. Then he handed me my drink and said he was going for a cigarette. I whispered that we had only just arrived, and he whispered that he hated these things. Amy pretended not to hear, but when he left, she told me about David’s friend Noah, who worked in television.

Enola, he has just broken up with his girlfriend of five years and he’s utterly miserable. I told him about you, and he was super interested.

He sounds like a catch, Ames.

He lives in Leyton in a ground floor with a garden.

Why do you make every man sound like a real estate ad?

I’m just saying, Noah would make an excellent date to a wedding…

I thought you filled the space?

We did. But you get my point.

I took a sticky sausage from a tray and was about to put it in my mouth when Amy caught someone’s eye like a ball had been thrown from across the room. She turned back to me, excited, and told me that Diana was coming over.

Enola, put the sausage down.

There was no table near, and so I wrapped it in a napkin and held it.

Diana, this is Enola, Amy said, with an instructive widening of her eyes to me. Enola is the writer of the enchanting chapters I emailed.

I shook her hand firmly with my non-sausage hand. Diana said that she had read my chapters, and I apologized. She laughed melodiously and said that Amy warned her I might do that.

Honestly, they were in much better shape than you might think. And I loved the premise. Often, a strong concept makes a bestseller. It doesn’t always matter about the writing. But luckily your writing is strong.

Are you sur—

Amy nudged me.

I mean, thank you .

She said that she loved the way I had used the animals, explaining that many teenagers retreated into fantasy to cope with adult situations.

It was strange talking about my story with an agent; Diana was speaking about a world that I’d created in my bedroom like it was real. She was the sort of woman who grew up in a two-parent household, had regular meals, went to Durham. She had clear skin, natural highlights, and a diamond on her finger. She made enough eye contact that I knew that she was listening but not too much that I felt uncomfortable. I liked her very much.

She said that she had to run. I have so much work to do, but I just wanted to stop by the party to say congratulations. She scrunched her lips at Amy, who scrunched hers in return. Before she left, she asked me to please send her the full manuscript.

Oh my god.

Amy waited until Diana was a distance away and then said: See, I told you it was good. I said that I didn’t know how to thank her. Don’t be silly, she replied, already stretching her arms out to the next person. This is all you, Enola. Own it for once!

I watched Amy move through the room with conviction and felt overwhelming gratitude that she was my friend. Then I ate the sticky sausage still crumpled in my hand.

He hadn’t returned, so I scanned the room for him and as I did, my eyes landed on Scott, an American comedy agent I had met once before. He bowed his head and strolled over, grabbing a glass of prosecco from a floating tray. He asked who I was looking for, and when I answered, he replied: So not me, then? From anyone else, it might have been sleazy, but Scott had a way about him. His accent was a coffee or an aftershave commercial. He navigated the conversation like he did the party: as if he had learned the choreography. We talked lightly. His client had a book out. A memoir for the socially inept. I smiled and said that was the title of my book too. When we parted, he gave me his card and said: In case you don’t find your boyfriend.

What is happening tonight? My head was light, and my chest was fluttering with excitement rather than anxiety. I wanted to stay at the party and be the person these people thought I was. But my heart pulled me outside to where he was still smoking. It was drizzling and cold. His hair was slicked back, and his Converse had holes where the rubber had ripped from the fabric. The bags beneath his eyes were globular, and his mouth was catfish-like. There were two cigarette stubs on the pavement by his feet.

Are you okay?

I can’t be at a book thing right now.

Is everything all right?

No, it’s not all right , Enola.

I looked down at my freshly polished boots. I’d made an effort tonight, but he couldn’t even put on a blazer? But then I felt guilty and apologized for the thought that he didn’t know I’d had. He told me that it was okay. Then he inhaled deeply and said: It’s just that I fucking hate this industry! It’s all marketing. And who you know. And everyone is either a columnist or a podcaster or went to Oxbridge! What am I meant to say to people in there? “Hi, I’m nearly forty and I work in a fucking bar”?

You are not nearly forty , and there is nothing wrong with working in a bar.

Enola, please. I’m not looking for you to fix this, okay?

I wasn’t trying to fix anything. I was trying to say that your book is amazing and—

I don’t need a cheerleader either.

I hadn’t been able to say the right words to comfort him in a long time. I didn’t know whether Steph managed, but from me, every word I said about his book or his career or his life was an attack. I apologized for asking him to come, and he shook his head like he was disappointed that he had agreed to it. I thought about what he’d said in the airport about prioritizing himself in a relationship. Come on, I said. I’ll make us some food.

He whistled and made a face.

Fine, I’ll get us a pizza.

His eyes shone, and instantly I was better than the person I was at the party because he wanted me again.

He held my hand, and when I smiled, he told me to calm down. It’s a hand hold, not a proposal. I told him that I couldn’t wait to get him out of his wet clothes. Honey, he said. Do you mind if we don’t? I really don’t feel sexy. Can we just eat pizza?

We hadn’t had sex for weeks, but I just wanted to be close to him, and his hand in mine felt as intimate. We passed the bus stop, and I threw Scott’s card in the bin. And Diana?

Please send me your manuscript when it is finished .

I would tell him soon; I would. But not yet.

I WAS CLEANING THE front of the coffee machine, and Ruth was slicing tomatoes. There were seeds covering the counter from where she had missed the chopping board. I told her that I was sorry it didn’t work out at her new job, and she replied that she wasn’t passionate about it. I asked her what she was passionate about, and she held up a limp, wet slice of tomato.

I’m serious, Roo! We only talk about me lately.

That’s because you’re the main character.

Ruth, look at you. You are clearly the main character.

We were wearing the same uniform but Ruth made it look like an outfit she had designed. Her hair was in a scarf and she was wearing a mood ring on each hand. Half of me is enthusiastic and half is pensive , she had said when I pointed out that the stones were different colors.

Ruth told me that she wasn’t like me; I had known what I wanted to do since I was seven. I said that wasn’t a good thing. She paused her chopping and said that I was on the cusp of something. I can feel it, Enola. I asked if she thought that Diana was only interested in my book because of Amy. She said that an agent wouldn’t have time to humor me. Besides, who cares? The important thing is that she reads it.

After the eleven o’clock rush, I went on my break and wrote a few hundred words, some I was proud of, others not, but the choosing was mine. When I returned, Virinder was at the counter talking with Ruth. I watched him. His eyebrows were fixed in surprise, and when he left, he inexplicably ran up the escalator. I put my apron back on, and Ruth told me that he was asking about me. I said that there was something in the air, because this man had hit on me at Amy’s book launch too. Ruth said that it wasn’t the air; it was because of my book.

How do you figure that?

When a person takes care of one problem area, the other problem areas take care of themselves.

I asked where she heard that. She said that she was told it by a dermatologist about skin care but insisted that it applied to life. Then she asked if I had told him about Diana yet. I replied that I hadn’t found the right moment. She said that there shouldn’t be a right moment to tell my boyfriend good news. I told her that it was complicated. He’s having a hard time at the moment. Ruth hung up her apron and tore off the end of a baguette.

Tell him to buck up, she said. It shouldn’t make him feel less to see you thrive. Just tell him, Enola.

I will!

When?

Thrown, I agreed to tell him tomorrow and Ruth went on her break.

Why was I nervous about telling him? Things had settled; it had been six weeks without a proper fight. He might be angry if he found out that I had kept it from him. He would say something like: Do you think I’m that pathetic or jealous or insecure? Yes, there was every danger that not telling him might lead to a bigger argument. I wiped up the tomato seeds and imagined a world where he was proud of me.