Page 61 of Winter With You

‘In every way. And, first of all, at the beginning, people listened to what I had to say. But, gradually, bit by bit, they stopped listening as much. And now, here in New York, with the new cover and the amendments, it’s like the book could have been written by AI.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Because the book… it’s all about feelings. Artificial intelligence has no knowledge of that. And the drawings and the poetry… a computer can’t replicate those things.’

She looked at him, the mask dropping. ‘You’ve really read it?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve read it.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘You want me to tell you the truth?’

‘Yes, of course.’

He looked directly at her. ‘I thought it was sad.’ He took a breath. ‘I know that many people, millions of people, think it’s the most uplifting self-help book they’ve ever read but, to me, at the heart of it, I just felt there was kind of… despair.’

He watched her reaction to his words. On the outside she appeared unmoved but there was something beneath the surface, tempered, yet somehow he could sense it. Perhaps now he had said too much…

‘Well,’ she said, controlled. ‘Don’t tell Cheyenne. “Despair” is the very last thing she wants anyone to talk about in the same breath as Zero Fucks Given. It’s all rainbows and matcha as far as she’s concerned.’

‘And you’re OK with that?’

‘Sometimes you have to be OK with things you have no control over.’ She looked up at him. ‘It’s called survival. And, in reality, that’s all any of us are trying to do.’

‘Is that what you really think?’ he asked, leaning a little forward on his chair.

‘It’s not what I think,’ Gabriella said. ‘It’s what I know.’

‘But it shouldn’t be like that. Survival suggests living every day just trying to stay alive.’

And, as her eyes met his, suddenly he had never seen her more clearly and everything dropped into place.

‘That’s it,’ he whispered. ‘That’s what you do.’

‘I don’t have any other choice,’ she said in such a matter-of-fact way it tore at him. It was a statement but, he also felt it was a plea. Not a cry for help exactly but a peek inside her mind that was privileged. He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, palm her face like he had on Manhattan Bridge, ask a million other questions…

A knock on the door broke the moment. ‘Twenty minutes, Gabriella.’

Before he could do or say anything else she was up on her feet, decorum restored. ‘I should get dressed.’

He stood too. ‘Yeah, I will do that.’

37

For some reason, the cut on Gabriella’s side was hurting more today than when it had happened. It ached and itched as she looked out and over the people congregated to listen to her in this charming, old factory building, its interior not just filled with books, but also decorated with hanging festive garlands and an evergreen tree bedecked with coloured baubles.

As she read a passage from Zero Fucks Given – the section chosen by Cheyenne (of course) – her mind was not on the words she was saying, it was on whatever stylist wizardry Luca had performed on her yet again. And she didn’t mean the outfit. The classic dress in an indigo blue really did frame and fit her like a second skin and with heels a centimetre shorter than the ones she had tried originally, it was perfect. There was no doubt that Luca excelled in his chosen career. But, like a badly-stitched garment, she was coming undone in his presence and she really needed to get a grip of that. She came to the end of the paragraph she was reading and, as expected, everyone in the audience applauded.

She smiled – warmly, obviously – and went to retake her seat next to the host from the library – Libby – who was coordinating the event.

‘Wasn’t that such a moving piece?’ Libby asked the audience who all clapped again in appreciation.

‘Thank you, all, so, so much,’ Gabriella said, putting a hand to her heart. She truly did appreciate how everyone had taken the book into their hearts and used it to alter their mindset but, personally, there was still a gaping wound that deep breathing, a walk in the sunshine and daily affirmations of positivity didn’t seem to be able to mend. But could your own words ever really fix yourself?

‘So, now we’re gonna take some questions from the audience,’ Libby continued. ‘If you’d like to ask Gabriella a question, please raise your hand.’

What? She had been given the list of pre-approved questions from Cheyenne. This was one of the things she’d insisted on. Yes, perhaps the hosts preferred spontaneity and the opportunity to research some skeletons to drag out of the closet but, with the nature of this book, it was in everyone’s best interests to focus on the doing good. She sat completely still, but internally she was squirming. Hands were being raised, many of them. Surely there wouldn’t be many questions that were contentious and having done this for well over a year now, she knew she could deflect like a seasoned politician.

‘Yes, ma’am, in the red sweater.’