Page 12 of Hate You to Love You

‘Don’t you already have a copy, if you reviewed it?’ he says, already walking towards the cash register.

‘It’s for a gift for someone. Now give it back!’ I call out to him.

‘Sorry,’ he shouts over his shoulder. ‘Career-saving moment kind of beats Christmas present emergency. Why don’t you grab Atomic Habits or something?’

I could feel the heat radiating from my eyes as I watch budget Hugh Grant purchase Fortunate Discovery and walk out of the store without a backwards glance, leaving me standing in the middle of the aisle in the bookstore as Michael Bublé’s rendition of ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’ begins to play over the speakers.

chapter five

now

Claudia Leighton’s tour is set to begin with a private book launch for booksellers and media at Dymocks on George Street. As one of Australia’s largest bookstore chains, Dymocks has stores all over the country, but the George Street location is its flagship, featuring three levels of books. Its size and grand location makes it the ideal venue for big events.

It’s evening and the store is closed to the general public. As I approach the glass windows at the entrance, my heart starts pounding and my breathing becomes shallow. Accepting the job had been easy. But the thought of coming face to face with Elliot again was still lingering in the back of my mind. What was I meant to say to him after all this time? How are you? Thank you for ruining my life. Or should we pick up the pieces of the last conversation we ever had with each other? The one where I had to say goodbye in order to protect myself from the way he always put himself first. Despite everything that happened, part of me is lit up with the thought of looking into those hypnotic blue eyes again. Sometimes, I wish I could live in those memories of the past. Other times, all I want to do is forget.

My spiralling thoughts about Elliot are interrupted by my phone ringing. It’s Mum. This is the third call I’ve had from her today. She gets worried when I don’t pick up, which is often. I make a mental note to call her later and return to staring up at the entrance of Dymocks.

I can do this, I think to myself.

After making it through the Secret Service–level security check in, I head to the event space on the mezzanine. The store is filled with guests, plenty of whom I recognise as booksellers and writers from other media outlets. And suddenly all my positive self-talk goes out the window. Everyone has formed their own tight little groups, and I feel overwhelmingly out of place.

Luckily, a waiter passes me with a tray of drinks, and I grab two glasses of wine (for time management purposes), before wandering to the centre of the event space. The room is dimly lit, and there’s a warm and cosy glow radiating through the store. A man plays soft acoustic guitar on a small stage. Next to him is a large table with a selection of Claudia’s books for sale. There are several editions of the Golden Ruins series stacked there, including special hardcovers and beautiful illustrated editions. And in the centre of the display is a large pile of copies of These Days.

A review copy was sent to me at work this morning and I’m already halfway through. An extraordinary love story that follows a woman around the world on her quest to repair broken friendships and find her long-lost love, the book is exactly what I love about reading: seeing your own feelings about love and loss on the page. Reminding me that I didn’t have to feel so alone.

‘Carlos?’ a hoarse voice calls from behind me.

I turn and catch a glimpse of a guy in a grey suit and a dark conductor’s hat waving in my direction.

‘Hey, Dallas,’ I say as he approaches. Dallas Ainsworth was one of the first people I had reached out to when I was searching for writing jobs. After years of working in sales at a publishing company, he’d started a community writers’ centre that ran courses and events with the intention of fostering local talent. My university studies had focused a little too much on the theory of writing and not enough on the practical side of it, so signing up to one of Dallas’s courses after graduating had helped me push myself.

Dallas smiles at me.

‘I thought it was you,’ he says, extending his arm out for a handshake.

‘How’ve you been?’ I ask.

‘Busy, very busy. We have been putting together a very exciting events line-up for next year, so I’ve been living at the office. I can’t wait to get back to reading again. There’s a copy of Prophet Song on my bedside table with my name on it,’ he tells me, rubbing the dark circles beneath his eyes. ‘Anyway, enough about me. How’s your writing going?’

I pause, trying to muster some enthusiasm for the lie I’m about to tell. ‘It’s been good. Writing every day. Work keeps me busy.’ My stomach sinks, because even I can hear the lack of passion in my voice when I talk about writing now.

‘That’s fantastic,’ he replies. ‘Are you still with Sparked?’

‘Yup. I love it there, I really do,’ I tell him, unsure if I’m trying to convince Dallas or myself.

‘Last time we spoke, you mentioned that you were keen to try pivoting to publishing. Is that something you’re still interested in?’ he asks.

I try my best not to wince, looking for some sort of escape from this conversation. While I was grateful that Dallas was interested in helping me out, I’d only told him I had wanted to work in publishing to stop his interrogation about my career. Admitting that I was still in the same poorly paid job after all these years was like holding up a sign saying that I was going nowhere.

‘Ahh…’

‘You know what,’ Dallas says, not waiting for me to finish, ‘this is perfect timing, actually, because I’ve heard through the grapevine that there’s an opening for a marketing coordinator at Redhouse Publishing, and there’s someone here I want you to meet.’

Dallas places a hand on my back and guides me towards a crowd of people gathered by the stage. As we pass by, I overhear some of the chatter of excitement and intrigue about Claudia going on tour.

‘Do you really think she’s going to go ahead with the tour?’ someone asks.

‘I wonder if she’ll ever explain what happened with that literary fiction author she used to date. Alastair O’Callahan, wasn’t it?’ another person ponders.