“But why would someone askyouto write a novel for them, Holly?” says Dad, puzzled. “I thought it was just non-fiction you’d been writing for this ‘agency’?”
He says the word ‘agency’ as if he fully suspects thereisno ‘agency’, and it’s all just an elaborate cover for something far more nefarious.
“I think the person they’d originally hired for it must have dropped out at the last minute or something,” I tell him. “That’s the only reason I can think of that they’d ask me to do it instead. It’s not like I have any novel-writing experience that might have won them over.Everything I’ve done for them so far has been non-fiction. So, you know, it might not go anywhere.”
“Probably not,” agrees Levi, cheering up. “Are you sure it’s not just another one of those phishing emails? You do get a lot of those, Holly.”
“Shut up, Levi,” says Paris firmly. “OfcourseHolly can write fiction. She won that creative writing contest, didn’t she?”
I smile at her gratefully, even though I know she’s just saying this because she wants my job. And also because she’d say anything to contradict Levi.
“That was in high school,” I admit. “It was before…”
It was before Mum died, is what I’m about to say, but don’t, stopping myself at the last second because I don’t want to upset Dad any more than I have already. Before Mum died, I still planned to go to university; to study creative writing, and to maybe one day be a writer myself. Before Mum died, I planned to travel the world, live somewhere hot and sunny, and fall in love. Before Mum died, I planned to do a lot of things.
But then everything fell apart; me and Dad most of all.
There was no way I could leave him after that; no possible way I could leave home — not for college, not for love, not for anything. So, instead, I stayed; to help with the bookstore and everything else. I didn’t go to university. I didn’t see the world. And okay, I technicallydidend up with a writing career of sorts; but titles likeUnfollow Anxiety: Breaking Up With Your Fears, andHashtag Hustle: Turning Your Passion into Your Paycheckaren’t exactly the kind of thing I was thinking of when I said I wanted to be an author.
But this latest project could be. And, okay, I won’t get to have my name on the cover of whatever novel I end up writing, but, even so, it’sa start. And wasn’t I just thinking about how much I needed a change? A ‘glow-up’ as the Poole sisters called it?
I was. And now here’s the very opportunity I was looking for, arriving with absolutely impeccable timing. All I have to do is say yes to it; which is exactly what I’m going to do. Before I can change my mind, I hurry into my office, where I pull out my phone, and call Harper Grant, the woman whose name is on the bottom of the email from the agency, with a signature explaining that she’s a commissioning editor, responsible for connecting ghostwriters with clients.
“No, it’s right enough; the job’s yours if you want it,” Harper confirms, once I’ve sheepishly explained that I think she might have messaged the wrong person by mistake. She has a soft, maternal-sounding voice, which is immediately reassuring, and makes me picture her sitting at a desk covered with family photos, with a purring cat on her lap.
“Really?” I know from my research for my last writing project — ‘Glow Up: the Guide to Faking It Til You’re Making It’— that I should be trying to project my ‘best self’ here, in order to convince this woman I know my own worth, and am a fully competent adult who she can trust to do the job. It’s just… well, I don’t reallyfeellike a fully competent adult who she can trust to do the job. Or even an averagely competent one, if we’re being brutally honest.
“Yup, really.” Harper sounds amused by my surprise. “The client’s seen some of your previous work, and they really liked it. They’re offering more than your usual rate, too, seeing as it’s such short notice.”
She names a figure that’s almost twice what I’ve been making for my self-help stuff, and makes me wonder again if I’m imagining all of this.
“That’s… that’s amazing,” I say croakily. “Really… amazing.”
“Look, I’ll get all the details over to you along with the contract and the non-disclosure,” Harper goes on, kindly pretending not to notice I’ve apparently lost the power of speech. “I don’t have everything to hand right now, but I can tell you it’s a fiction project; a Christmas romance.”
“Oh.”
My excitement at being picked for this project goes down a notch. The whole time I’ve been thinking about this job, it never once occurred to me that the book they’d ask me to write might be a romance — and a Christmas one, at that. And as much as I lovereadingromance, I haven’t exactly beenlivingit; not even when Martin and I were still together. No, with the exception of the books I squirrel away to read in secret, my life is a romance-free zone. And a Christmas-free zone, too. All of which makes me the least-qualified person on the agency’s books — and maybe even in the entire world — to attempt to write a Christmas-themed romance novel. It’s like asking a snowman to write a book about saunas. Or a vampire to write a cookbook.
What if you make a complete mess of it, and it all goes tits up?says Levi’s voice from the back of my mind.
He’s right, though, isn’t he? Harsh … but right. Me writing a Christmas romance would be a recipe for total disaster. It would almost definitely all go “tits up”. I should say no. I’m going to say no.
“Holly? Are you still there?” Harper sounds worried. “Is there a problem?”
“Um, no, no problem,” I reply, not wanting to let this nice-sounding woman down. “It’s just… can I think about it? Just for a bit?”
There’s a short pause, during which I cross my fingers tightly, willing her not to hate me for my indecisiveness.
“Sure,” she says, her voice reassuringly warm. “I can give you until tomorrow morning. Will that be long enough?”
“Of course,” I say quickly, not at all sure it will be. “That’ll be just fine.”
“I can’t do it. I absolutelycannotwrite a Christmas romance. I’m going to have to say no.”
It’s a few hours later, and I’m standing in the main room of the village hall, watching my Aunt Lorraine issue directions to a group of volunteers who’re all busily hanging up Christmas decorations. The hall is festooned with fairy lights, like most of the other buildings in town at this time of year, but the interior hasn’t changed in decades, and the magnolia walls and faint ‘gym hall’ scent are the only clues I’m not living in a simulation here in Bramblebury, which was looking almost sickeningly festive on the way here.
“Don’t be silly, Holly, of course you can write a whatever-it-is,” says Lorraine, looking at me sternly over the top of her glasses. “You can write anything you like. You candoanything you like. Never forget that, okay?”
