Hugh puts the books back on the shelf. ‘Okay, I owe you brunch.’
‘I love these books, but why are they always about unhappy marriages?’ I ask. ‘Where are all the books about happy marriages that end prematurely, leaving the protagonist desperately sad and floundering helplessly with the freedom all these other heroines dream about, until she digs herself out of the dark and creates a new path with her Chapter Two life?’
He looks at me like I came down in the last shower. ‘Isn’t it obvious where that book is, Kate?’
No.
‘Write what you know. Isn’t that what they say?’
They do say that, but I’m not doing it. ‘I don’t write commercial fiction,’ I explain. ‘I’m trying to write a literary novel. Even if I have to fight for every word. Cam told me he didn’t think I’d found my place as a writer . . .’
Hugh watches me, as if he’s waiting for the penny to drop. ‘What would Cam have known?’ he says. ‘He was just a professor of literature.’
Fair point.
‘Kate, you’ve got something important to say about how it’s not all it’s cracked up to be – this unexpected fresh start, parallel universe life you’re living.’
‘Nobody wants to read about a forty-something widow, Hugh. Look at the shelves.’
‘I’d read it,’ he says. ‘Even if I’m not the target audience. Who knows? Her Chapter Two life mightn’t be all bad in the end.’
I catch his eyes for just a second, then look at the shelves. There’s a gap. Definitely. I imagine it being filled with Careful What You Wish For by Kate Whittaker.
‘People want to know you can survive the unimaginable and pull yourself onto a new path, against the odds,’ Hugh suggests.
I kind of like where he’s going with this, but it’s scary as hell to even consider it. ‘I’m hardly a poster girl for Plan B,’ I argue. ‘In the last thirty-six hours alone I’ve had a domestic bomb threat, nearly missed a flight, been hysterical on a plane, and . . .’ Flashbacks to my romantic admission on the beach give me palpitations. ‘Random calamitous ocean-side announcements,’ I add.
Smile lines crease at his eyes.
‘What could you possibly be smiling at?’
‘Just your language, Kate, I love the way you put things.’
I flush with pride. Stupidly.
‘And all that stuff happens to you because you’re all-in.’
All in? Haven’t I heard him say that before?
‘Write the book,’ he rushes on. ‘Give Felicity and Vanessa a run for their money.’
He isn’t just playing here. He seems to have actual confidence that I can do it. I look again at the shelf beside us, and imagine my name on the cover of a book. For the first time in years, I have to admit I feel excited about the idea of following one of Hugh Lancaster’s professional instructions.
Actually, it’s bigger than that. And more important. For the first time in four years, I feel excited. Full stop.
We weave our way through the outdoor tables at the cafe Hugh’s mate has chosen. It’s beachy and bohemian, with sun gods on the walls and rainbow flags depicting astrology symbols draped across the bar. Exactly the type of place Hugh would never pick, but which my inner hippy loves. I’m wearing my vintage finds – flowing skirt covered in mandalas, a white cami top and a denim jacket, even though it’s already steamy ahead of another forecast storm.
Jonesy isn’t here yet, but we find a table in the part shade and pour glasses of water. I close my eyes and take a slow breath, drinking in the warmth of the morning. The place smells like coconut and sunscreen and coffee and holidays, and I’m so glad we were forced to spend the weekend here. It reminds me there’s a whole life outside my everyday reality.
When I open my eyes, Hugh is observing me over the menu.
‘Byron Bay suits you,’ he says. That’s all. He returns to the menu, and I feel about a foot taller.
‘Every time I’m near the beach, I wonder why I don’t just pack up, sell the house and all our stuff and move somewhere new with Charlie,’ I confide.
He looks surprised. ‘Like the women in those novels?’
‘Sort of. A fresh start, you know. Somewhere warmer, without any memories. Somewhere I could write.’
He considers this for a second. ‘You serious about this?’
I think I am. Maybe. Even if the logistics of moving away from Grace and Mum break my heart. ‘Why Hugh, would you miss me?’
I am a walking example of what happens when you marry your childhood sweetheart and never learn how to flirt properly as an adult. The words are out of my mouth before I can shut it, and Hugh looks taken aback. Of course he does. Inside my head lives a lawless train of thought that charges right out of my mouth.
He’s about to answer me when he sees his friend across the cafe, coming towards us, saving us from ourselves. Jonesy hasn’t even reached our table before he makes me smile. He’s taken the relaxed spirit of this town and made himself the epitome of it. Surf shorts, faded neon T-shirt, thongs, shaggy brown hair, creases around his eyes. He and Hugh, who is always immaculately dressed, look so different that I struggle to imagine them as friends.
‘Mate!’ he says, hugging Hugh and pounding him on the back. ‘Good to see you!’
They turn to me.
‘This is Kate,’ Hugh says. ‘My colleague and friend—’
Just in case I wasn’t clear on the labels.
‘Kate!’ Jonesy says, warmly. ‘It’s so good to meet you at last!’
At last?
He pulls me into an enormous, enveloping hug that lifts me off the floor. When I surface from it, slightly breathless, Hugh is giving him an incredulous stare.
We sit down, Hugh opposite me in his white open-necked shirt and jeans, looking a little bit spectacular, and more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. Jonesy sits to my left and I feel like I’ve known him for years. He’s infectious.
‘Well, this is nice,’ Jonesy says, winking at Hugh, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat, looking like he’s rethinking this entire social event.
‘Hugh tells me you’re a screenwriter,’ I say politely. Writing. Safe, common ground.
‘He tells me you’re a writer, too.’
He does? ‘He exaggerates. I do love writing, though. Nothing published.’
‘Nothing yet,’ Jonesy answers, and I like him even more.
‘Do you go by a name other than Jonesy?’
‘It’s Andrew.’
‘And you two met at uni?’
‘First year,’ Andrew confirms. ‘We were eighteen-year-olds, living on campus.’
‘But not doing the same course, presumably?’ Hugh did economics as an undergrad. Explains all the spreadsheets.
They look at each other like they’re about to run a prepared script.
‘We met through a mutual friend,’ Hugh explains. ‘Shall we order coffees?’
Interesting.
‘Are you writing at the moment, Kate?’ Andrew asks.
I feel exposed. ‘Actually, Hugh is trying to convince me to write something based on my . . . recent personal experiences. I don’t know how much he’s told you . . .’