And yes, I could tell Mum the reason I’m not going to work is because I have so much holiday saved up due to the fact that I’m such a relentless hard worker. However, then I’d have to be at home.
Every time Mum returns, I realize how much I’ve gotten used to being alone. Now I have to wait outside the bathroom door, fight for kitchen space, have my meals judged, my social life criticized, and privacy invaded. Being at the library for the majority of the day serves to avoid that.
After my first day here, when I managed to apply to all the jobs available within two hours, I developed a better routine. I’d read a book, apply for jobs, then write. Don’t roll your eyes, please. I know it seems almost everyone wants to write something, but I used to write a lot at school. I didn’t take it further because Mum said a creative writing degree wouldn’t give me as many options as an English literature one （and was I sure I didn’t want to be sensible and study law instead?）， so I left it alone. Now I have free time to fill. Besides, signing up to all the publishing newsletters for job opportunities means I also hear of any writing events they’re doing. Carrow Books is offering a fiction development program for underrepresented writers with a deadline weeks away.
Samples will be read by associated literary agents and five selected writers will be offered the opportunity to develop their manuscript through assignments and workshops led by industry professionals. Each writer will also be offered one-on-one mentorship with a literary agent for up to six months.
All I need is a one-thousand word sample of a work in progress. A thousand words is doable and it’s not like I haven’t got any book ideas.
The life and lies of Sherlock Holmes’s wife
An adult romance—England’s first Black queen
University murder mystery
1960s female gang taking over London
See? I just haven’t written anything substantial yet. I’ve got bullet points and notes and even a spider diagram for the murder mystery, but that’s about it. It’s like I get two hundred words in and don’t know where to go from there.
What’s an easy thing to write about?
I open a blank document and write about leaving Dad. How I feel guilty and sad but excited to start living my own life, to find out who I am and maybe even someone to be with. I write about my life finally starting at age twenty-five, when my peers already have partners they want to marry and stable jobs with a clear trajectory. It reads like a diary entry and I hit a block after nine hundred and seventy-one words. I won’t send this one in; it’s too stream-of-consciousness-heavy and probably doesn’t make sense to anyone but me. I’m saving it on my laptop with my other incomplete works when an email pops up in the corner of my screen.
From: [email protected]
Subject: PA & Editorial Assistant Nonfiction Books
Dear Maddie,
Thank you for your application for the role of PA to the Publishing Director and Editorial Assistant, Nonfiction Books. We were delighted to receive it and would like to invite you for an interview.
Yes! Finally. An interview, and for a job where I’ll get to read all day! But Orange Tree Publishing? I’ve not heard of them; my desperation led me to apply for any and all publishing jobs available.
A quick Google search tells me they’re a small press that doesn’t print as many books a year as their giant brothers and sisters. They’ve lost out on a lot of bidding wars, unable to compete with bigger purses, and a year ago an article was published stating OTP were likely to be bought by Carrow Books just to keep themselves in print. Yikes. They’re hiring though, so things must be looking up for them. Also, smaller presses might be tighter-knit? It would be nice to be part of a team instead of working for just one person.
I respond to Maisie choosing tomorrow’s interview offer. Okay, today is a successful day. I was starting to panic. My tenancy has officially started, and I’m moving out tomorrow. Not sooner because Mum wants us to have a family dinner before I leave and James isn’t back from Birmingham until this evening. I was a little surprised at this considering, as noted earlier, we’re not a dinner-around-the-table kind of family, but she says she’s cooking my favorites and James is bringing a cake.
* * *
Despite postponing my move for James’s benefit, he doesn’t manage to make it to dinner. Unavoidable work stuff, apparently; I stopped asking what was so “unavoidable” a long time ago. At least Mum is partially true to her word and makes jollof rice, roasted chicken, and carrot salad before spending most of the evening in her room threatening the hostel’s “crook contractors” with “British lawyers.”
So it’s just Dad and me in the living room on Wednesday evening.
“Fitting,” I say quietly as I feed Dad his dinner. I’m less worried about leaving him now that Mum’s got Dawoud to increase his working days and has managed to argue that due to her health and age, Dawoud will have to come every night to put Dad to bed.
“You should have asked for these things,” Mum said. “Then you wouldn’t have been complaining to me all the time.” She has a point, despite its blunt delivery, but the only reason I didn’t ask is because I didn’t know it was an option. He’s my dad and it’s only me here, so of course I’d have to play a part. I couldn’t comprehend someone looking after him more than a member of his own family did.
Still, I’m happier with the idea of Dawoud taking care of Dad because I’ve had doubts about Mum’s reliability. Sometimes I’d come home from “work” when it was her night to feed him, and she’d get home later than his 6:30 P.M. dinnertime. But Dawoud is always early and likes to sit and talk to （or, rather, at） Dad. I don’t know where Mum goes; she says she’s visiting various aunties but none of the names sound familiar. “You have a lot of aunties,” Mum said. “I don’t expect you to remember each one.”
When Dad’s eaten and taken his medication for the night, I reheat my food and join him in front of the TV.
“My last day at home,” I say quietly, but Dad’s already falling asleep.
Chapter Ten
I don’t have much to pack because I wear different variations of the same clothes every week.
It’s strange to see the sink without my toothbrush or the banister without my towel, or to see my life in only two suitcases.
Mum’s still asleep when I drag them to the door. I go into the living room and kiss Dad on the forehead. I told him again last night that I was moving out today, but maybe it won’t register until he doesn’t see me tomorrow morning.
“I’ll see you soon, okay?”
He smiles and tries to nod, but it’s early and his medication needs a little longer.
The Uber is here and my heart starts to pound. Are you doing the right thing? Should you really be leaving home?
It’s fine. Remember, Dawoud’s upped his hours.
Mum comes down in her dressing gown to kiss and hug me at the door. We close our eyes, and she prays that I’ll be safe in the new house; she’ll be coming round next week to sprinkle holy water into its corners. I’ll have to time her visit for when both Cam and Jo are out.