But that’s what she did.
Robin deleted most of what Henry had written – she didn’t think it was very good – and then replaced it with her own words. She wrote three drafts in three months, and when the book was finished, and she had edited it to the best of her ability, she felt as though the transition from her father’s story to hers felt seamless. Then she typed the whole book out again – on Henry’s typewriter, just the way he would have done. The real test would be sending it to his agent: if anyone could spot the difference, it would be him.
Robin already knew that Henry always wrapped his manuscripts in brown paper and tied them with string – she’d seen him do it often enough as a child – so she did the same, then drove the parcel to the post office.
Robin had barely left Blackwater since she arrived three months earlier. It seemed strange to her that the world outside the chapel’s big wooden doors was the same as the one she had lived in before, when Robin’s life had changed beyond recognition. There had been no reason to leave until then, and it was her first trip to Hollowgrove – the town closest to Blackwater Loch – for over twenty years. But as Robin drove her old Land Rover, with the manuscript beside her on the passenger seat, she was still scared that someone might recognise her. They didn’t. But Patty in the corner shop recognised the brown paper parcel instead.
‘Is that a new book by Mr Winter?’ she asked, chewing bubble gum between words, like she was a teenager, not a woman in her late fifties. Robin felt her cheeks turn red and couldn’t answer. ‘It’s OK if it’s meant to be a secret, I can keep it,’ Patty lied. ‘It’s just that’s how he always posts them – tied up in string and whatnot.’
Robin froze, still unable to speak. Patty’s eyes narrowed.
‘Are you the new housekeeper? Heard he fired the last one…’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, without thinking it through.
Patty tapped the side of her nose with her index finger. ‘I see, pet. Probably told you not to tell anyone anything, didn’t he? As if anyone around here cares whether he’s written a new book. The only author I’ll ever love is Marian Keyes, now there’s a woman who knows how to write. Do I look like I have time to read the words of a madman? That’s what Henry is if you ask me – all the disturbing books he’s written. You’ve my deepest sympathies working for an old miser like that. Don’t you worry about a thing, Patty will post and keep all your secrets.’
If only Patty had known how big Robin’s secrets really were.
After that, the waiting was the hardest part.
Robin finally understood how nerve-racking it is for writers to send their work out into the world. In the days after she posted the manuscript, she kept the curtains drawn, ate frozen meals when she was hungry, slept when she was too tired – or drunk – to stay awake, and completely lost track of what day it was. When the phone rang, she knew that she couldn’t answer it. Anyone calling would be expecting to hear Henry’s voice, including his agent, so she waited a while longer.
When a letter arrived from Henry’s agent the following day, it took Robin a few hours and another bottle of wine to feel brave enough to open it.
When she finally did, she cried.
Finished the novel in the early hours. It’s your best yet! Will send to publishers today.
They were tears of joy, relief, and sorrow.
She wanted to tell someone, but Oscar the rabbit wasn’t the best at conversation. She’d renamed him the first day they met, because Oscar was a boy rabbit not a girl, unknown to Henry. And Robin was her name. It was the only good thing her father ever gave her. She was so proud of that novel, but the truth, whether spoken or not, was still impossible to ignore. Henry’s best book yet was really hers, but it would still be his name on the cover.
Robin tried to put the letter from Henry’s agent into one of the desk drawers – she didn’t want to look at it anymore – but the drawers were all too full. She pulled out the first few pages of what looked like an old manuscript, and was surprised to find her ex-husband’s name printed on the front:
ROCK PAPER SCISSORS
By Adam Wright
Attached to it was a letter from Adam, dated several years ago:
I know how very busy you are, but I always wondered whether this screenplay might work as a novel? I think that might be my best chance of getting it made. I’d be very grateful for your opinion. I do hope you enjoyed the latest adaptation, your agent said that you did, and said he would pass on this letter for me. It was an honour to help bring your characters to life on screen. Any advice you can give me about my own would be gratefully received. It’s always been my dream and I like to think some dreams do come true.