Page 71 of The Wedding Forecast

‘I should.’ I have thought that a hundred times this year, but I always hear my mother’s voice in my ear: don’t quit a job until you have a new one lined up, especially in this economy.

‘What’s your dream day job?’

‘That’s the problem. I have no idea. I guess a marketing or communications role, I don’t know how to do anything else. I worked in local government before, I could go back to that.’

‘That doesn’t sound like your dream role.’

‘Maybe not. My dream is writing books. My day job just needs to pay for that.’

‘I think you can do better than Marco.’ He nudges me, smiles.

We’re standing outside my hotel now, and I lean forward and hug him. He hugs me back, tight, and we stay like that and I let the side of my face press against his neck, even though I shouldn’t, even though it’s not good for my heart.

‘Thank you for today,’ I say. ‘See you tomorrow?’

‘I’ll be here.’

In bed that night, while Hayley is asleep, I am buzzing. I open my laptop, thinking I could work on my book, fiddle with the ending, but I find myself thinking of my I am a dreamer card. And suddenly I’m typing a resignation email. I’m not going to send it, obviously not, it just feels good to actually write it. I draft and redraft it, smiling to myself, because I’m in New York, I’m free on the other side of the world. Screw you, Marco. It’s sitting there, in my drafts, and I’m about to close the laptop lid when I think, just do it.

And I hit send.

22

THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up and briefly convince myself that sending the resignation email was a dream. I check my sent folder. It was not a dream. Marco has not replied yet. Oh god. I have quit my job. It feels surreal, almost funny. A problem for Australian Anna but I’m still in the safe zone, I’m still American Anna. I can bask in the relief of having finally quit, of being free, without yet worrying about rent and bills. There’s nothing to be done but to focus on the here and now. I have more sightseeing to do. More food to eat. More money to spend. (No, don’t think about money.)

Mac arrives, and we walk along the High Line together, chatting and admiring the surrounding buildings, and then we buy lunch from the markets in Chelsea. We go to another gallery, and then he takes me to the Strand Bookstore. I don’t mention quitting my job to him, mostly because I am choosing to engage in magical thinking, whereby if I ignore it, maybe it will resolve itself. My email might have gone to Marco’s junk. Or someone from LinkedIn will have fortuitously messaged me with an amazing job offer. Something like that.

‘You should introduce yourself,’ Mac says earnestly in the Strand, and I laugh.

‘No!’

‘Just say, “Hello, I’m an author.”’

‘My book isn’t available in the US, for a start.’

‘Say, “Hello, I’m a writer from the other side of the world.” Australians are very popular here, trust me.’

‘No way.’ I don’t want to be an author today. I just want to be a tourist.

I do take lots of photos to show Bobbi their various in-store displays. I tell myself I am only allowed to buy one book, because I have to carry it around all day, and I’m going to visit more bookstores in Brooklyn tomorrow. I buy a fancy special hardback edition of Heartburn by Nora Ephron because I’ve always wanted to buy a copy of Nora in New York. And a tote bag to carry it in, even though I already own more than twenty book-themed tote bags.

The next day, Mac takes me to Brooklyn. We go to his favourite cafe, then browse several cute vintage stores and indie bookshops, and then we find a chocolate shop where we share a Christmas-themed peppermint brownie sundae that is so rich we have to goad each other into taking bites. Afterwards, we walk back into Manhattan over the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s cold but sunny, perfect walking weather, and we get back to my hotel mid-afternoon. Mac has his play tonight. He performs it Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights, and he needs to start getting ready at the theatre several hours beforehand. I offer him a glass of water and use of our bathroom before he leaves, and he comes up to the room, even though both are available in the lobby.

‘Are you nervous?’ I ask. ‘For tonight?’

‘Not especially. I’ve done it so many times, and we only have a few weeks left.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘Well, actually, I am a tiny bit nervous,’ he says. ‘For tonight’s show in particular.’

‘Why?’ I say.

‘You’ll be there. And I want to impress you.’

I smile at him, not sure what to make of this. ‘I’m already impressed,’ I say.

He hesitates and, I swear, he’s about to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He says, ‘Goodbye,’ and leaves.