Page 57 of One Last Thing
I smile sadly, the phone hot pressed against my ear. ‘That sounds a bit boring. The fun is in the working out, isn’t it?’
‘How exhausting.’
As the conversation tails off, I wonder if now could weirdly be the right time to tell her about my diagnosis. I know she’ll be furious with me when she finds out how long I’ve known. How long I’ve kept it from everyone in the hope it doesn’t really have to be true.
‘Jemma,’ I begin croakily, ‘there’s something . . . I have to tell you something.’
‘Yes?’ she says, alert and listening.
No matter what she’s going through, she wants to be there for me. That’s the way we work, the way we’ve always worked. The way most women work, I’ve found.
‘I . . .’
The words are in my mouth, formed, ready to go. But I bottle it.
‘My publisher dropped me,’ I say instead.
‘What?’
‘I had lunch with my editor before I flew out here and . . . Anyway, I know this is nothing compared to what you’re dealing with at the moment and I don’t want to add more to your plate—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, my plate has plenty of room!’ she insists, sounding outraged on my behalf. ‘Dawn, those stupidbastards.’
‘Not so stupid, if I’m honest,’ I admit in a strained voice, my chest aching at the truth. ‘I haven’t had a success in years. Many years. Almost three decades. Sales have never come close to theHeartlodgeseries. They let me go on for longer than they should have. It makes business-sense to let me go. I’m very expensive,’ I add to lighten the tone.
‘Literature shouldn’t be about business!’ she cries. ‘It’s about the quality of the story.’
‘I’ve been lacking there, too.’ I cover my face with my free hand. ‘God, Jemma, my latest book was so bad, I felt mortified sending it to them, but I convinced myself that I was being self-deprecating. They have now confirmed that I was not being self-deprecating, the book really is a load of shit.’
‘Dawn, I’m so sorry about this,’ she says with such feeling my eyes fill with tears. ‘I don’t care what you say, those people really are stupid bastards. And you’ll prove it.’
‘Oh?’
‘This is a good thing,’ she declares. ‘You needed a flare up the butt.’
‘Good lord, I don’t thinkthat’sthe right phrase.’
‘You need purpose! A reason to write, a chance to think outside the box! This is going to be the best thing that ever happened for your career. You are going to write a bestseller so brilliant it will make your old publisher cry with despair. You have something to prove now.’
‘I have started writing something out here . . .’
‘Of course you have! You’re like Eliza Doolittle inMy Fair Lady! You know that song, “Just you wait, Henry Higgins, just you wait!” You know? Let me google the lyrics.’ I hear her tapping away at her computer and I chuckle at her uncontrollable tangent, happy to let her go off on it. ‘Here we go, yes. “You’ll be sorry but your tears will be too late”. There!’
‘Very rousing.’
I swing my legs off the bed and find myself wandering out to the balcony.
‘Trust me, this is a good thing. I’m excited for you.’
I hesitate. ‘I really am sorry about you and Iris, Jemma.’
‘Yes, me too,’ she says, her enthusiasm fading, replaced with sorrow. ‘I’m glad you told me about the book news, Dawn. I know it’s difficult to talk about these things. No one wants to admit when they feel like they’ve failed at something, yet that feeling of failure is something we all have in common. And often they’re not failures at all.’
‘Thank you for talking to me about Iris. That’s much harder.’
‘Mm. Did I tell you that Sarah came round for tea last week?’ she says as though she’s suddenly remembered something important.
‘Your neighbour? That’s nice.’
