‘Iguess? Lady, you got some high standards if you think this bar is only “OK”.’ She shook her head and unhooked her purse, sliding it next to the tea light in the tiny lantern in the centre of the table.
‘Sorry. You’re right. It’s gorgeous. But it’s disappointing when you can’t get a seat outside because it’s full of…’ I circled my finger like a magic wand, searching for the word.
‘Yuppies?’
‘Yuppies?’ I laughed. ‘Have you been watching those old British sitcoms again?’
‘They areresearch.’
‘There are a multitude of things we both call research, which weknoware not research.’
‘You make a fair point. I’m going to grab us two of their most outrageous cocktails and then you are gonna spill it.’
‘Sounds like a waste of good alcohol.’
‘You know I don’t mean the cocktail – I’m talking about your edit letter.’ She pointed her finger with its impressively long gel nail at me. ‘You’re gonna get it all off your chest. I’m here to be your negative talk trash receptacle, OK?’
‘Doesn’t seem like a good night out for you.’
‘I’ll be getting very drunk in a swanky bar while Boyd is in charge of the kids; don’t you worry about me.’ She crossed over to the bar and I turned my attention to the window. I didn’treally mind all the “yuppies” – I had nothing against them in particular – it just set me on edge feeling under-dressed and having to count the nickels and dimes on my night out when everyone else in the bar was splashing their cash to impress each other.
The sunset was a last bright flare of orange and pink, rising up to a purple sky behind the buildings. I let my shoulders drop, listening to the murmur of conversation in the background, the low music, barely audible beneath the voices. I was willing to bet Keisha was right. This was just what I needed. To shake off the terrible, brain-clawing panic and get some distance. This place was a million miles from my poky, overheated apartment and Keisha was great for this kind of crisis. She reminded me of my friend Beth, who ran a hotel with her mom in England. Optimistic without being annoying. Inclined to look for a solution but not in a way that made you feel like an idiot. The perfect antidote to my occasional bursts of cynicism.
‘Two of their Grasshoppers with a twist to start.’ Keisha set a tall rounded glass in front of me. The liquid was spearmint green and there was a candy cane sticking out the top of it.
‘Do I want to know what’s in this?’
‘Probably not. Drink up then and tell me what’s going on. I’ve got this horrible feeling there’s a nightmare jock at the bar who’s gonna come over soon.’
‘Oh Lord, no. What makes you think that?’
‘He wanted to pay for our drinks.’
‘You didn’t let him?’ I paused before taking a sip of the creamy cocktail.
‘Of course not! It was tempting though, ’cause if we have more than two, one of us is going to have to sell a kidney.’ She pulled out the little candy cane to suck on the end of it. ‘Right. Tell me, tell me.’
‘Well,’ I took a deep breath, ‘it’s all rubbish. Everything needs work. I basically need to start again from scratch, I’ve got less than a month to do it and I don’t know where to start.’
‘You’re catastrophising.’
‘Oh, without a doubt. It’s one of my natural talents.’
‘What’s the main issue? There has to be something that’s skewing the whole plot or sending the characters in the wrong direction. What doesn’t feel right to you?’
I nodded, spinning my glass slowly. ‘It’s the love story. It stinks, Keesh. I don’t know how to do it. And…’
‘And what?’
‘Patti thinks I made the guy in the last book too appealing. Poor, dependable Kit just seems boring now.’
‘Oooh, you mean that sexy womaniser you had as a suspect? I remember him.’ She tapped her lips with the candy cane, a far-off look in her eyes. ‘He wasgooood.’
Handsome-as-sin menweregood in fiction, especially when you could engineer embarrassing fates for them. I’d spent far too much of my youth pining after the best-looking boys in school, waiting for them to notice chubby, freckly, bookish me and when one finally did, nothing good came of it. I’d learnt my lesson about men who’d been disproportionately gifted in the looks department – they were generally lacking in the morals department as a result. I limited my contact with handsome men to admiring from afar these days. I hadn’t been out with a Type A, as my family would refer to them, for many a moon.
I shrugged. ‘He was fun to write.’
‘I’ll bet.’ She bit her tongue gently and then gave me a grin full of mischief. ‘Why don’t you bring him back?’
