Page 74

‘Total honesty, but nothing critical. Got it,’ he says, smiling. Is this a joke to him? He has to walk a line so fine that the slightest misstep could ruin my entire future career and deprive a whole generation of my brilliant novels, if I ever write one.

‘This is a bad idea,’ I say, gripping the top of the laptop and thinking about pulling it away from him.

‘It’s not,’ he says, putting his hand over mine, and looking up at me. ‘Go and make some cups of tea or something.’

I swallow, and slip my hand out from under his.

I fuss in the kitchen, looking for Nanna’s stash of biscuits. She always has the old-school Arnotts family assorted pack, and I open it and lay a selection of biscuits on a plate. This is kind of a psychological challenge. Whichever biscuit he chooses will reveal something about him.

I carry in cups of tea and the plate of biscuits.

‘Well?’ I say, looking at his face.

He’s frowning slightly. Maybe in concentration. Maybe in horror at the awfulness of my writing.

‘I haven’t finished yet,’ he says, reaching for the teddy-bear biscuit. An acceptable choice. Teddy-bear biscuit eaters are usually laid-back outdoorsy types. I pick up a Scotch finger, and dunk it in my tea, still watching him, waiting for the slightest micro change in expression.

‘Okay,’ he says, sitting back. ‘I’m done.’

‘Well?’ I say.

‘You’re a really good writer.’ He smiles at me. ‘Really, really good. Professional good. A natural. But you already knew I thought that.’

I feel a warm little glow in my chest when he says this, an instant, involuntary reaction to any kind of praise, but especially that kind, the words you’re a writer said in any context. But I don’t really believe it. I don’t believe he’s being sincere, I’m not sure he has the level of expertise required to make this pronouncement anyway, and the whole situation is giving me flashbacks to the last time he said this, and how I can’t truly trust him.

‘But?’ I press.

‘But nothing.’

‘Come on. There’s a reason why my teacher wants me to write something else.’

‘Well, it’s about a married couple in their thirties, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you’re eighteen.’

‘Almost nineteen.’

‘So, you could, like, take most of that plot, the essence of the story and characters and the relationship stuff, but make them younger? Maybe draw on your own experiences?’

‘Maybe,’ I say. My brain instantly scoffs. He’s wrong. What does he know? That would never work. How many books has he even read this year? But that’s just my instinctive defensive reaction to any feedback, I need to let that chatter run its course, and then dig down underneath it, where, maybe, yes, he’s a tiny bit right. I thought the story would matter more if the characters were older, with kids and houses and finances at stake, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it doesn’t need any of that.

‘And—’ he starts to say.

I hold up my hand.

‘Stop. I need to just sit and think about that. I need about ten minutes between every bit of feedback—to emotionally process.’

‘Okay, so we sit in silence?’

‘No, it’s your turn now. Tell me about your fight with your Dad.’

‘Nah.’

‘You’ve read my story. You tell me a story now. A real one.’

‘It’s not a good story.’