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‘What have you got to be sorry for?’
‘The book—’
‘Fuck the book,’ Richenda says. ‘Fuck it. We’ll sort something out. Now, what happened with you and Duncan? You must tell me all about it. Did he have an affair?’
‘No.’
‘Did you? Oh, I wouldn’t blame you, darling, nobody would. A young thing like you, rattling around in that big house in the middle of nowhere. It was bound to happen.’
‘I didn’t have an affair either. Nobody did. It wasn’t like that, it just… it all just went so wrong,’ I say, feeling despair well up. ‘And I tried, I did, but—’
‘Say no more.’ Richenda waves a hand and I realise she’s holding a cigarette. ‘Not. Another. Word. I understand completely.’
‘You do?’ I’m crying. But this time it’s from relief, because someone’s being nice to me.
‘Of course I do, darling, I’ve been there. You’ll never have to justify yourself to me. Oh, you poor thing,’ Richenda says as I root around in my bag for a handkerchief. ‘It must have been absolute hell.’
‘It was,’ I say, mopping my eyes. The words rush out of me, snotty and undignified. ‘I just felt so alone and over time it justgotto me and not even my sister believes me and then… oh God, sorry.’ My mouth is trembling and so is my voice.
‘Listen.’ Richenda takes a drag, blows out a leisurely cloud of smoke. ‘You can go round and round about what happened. But I’ve been married three… no, four times, and the awful truth is that sometimes it’s just bad and you have to leave. It really is that simple. And people are inevitably put out, of course, when you do that – as if it’s their bloody business – and they’ll say: Oh, but are you sure you can’t work it out? Haven’t you tried therapy, or swinging, or whatever ghastly remedy’s in at the time? Because they don’tknow. They don’t know about the efforts you’ve already made, and the horrible arguments, and all the things that have been eating away at you over time. And quite right, because you don’t wash your dirty linen in public. You’d be a colossal pain in the arse if you actually told your friends and family every little detail of your marriage. So it’s a shock to them when it actually comes apart. But above all they’re scared because, if your relationship can end, then theirs might, too. If anyone’s being a pill to you about this, darling, it’s really about them.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I blow my nose and make an unholy noise.
‘What I’m trying to say here is trust your judgement. You were unhappy, you couldn’t fix it, so you left. That’s fine. The only question is what to do next.’
‘The book,’ I say.
‘The book, yes, that’s part of it. Look, I have to go to this awful industry bash this week, but hopefully Tim Swithin will be there and he’s a nice enough chap. I’ll have a discreet word with him, just informally, and see how we stand. I’ll be frank though, Tori, publishers hate this kind of thing. And so do I. It looks very bad for everyone involved when a writer can’t deliver a book. But it does happen, and sometimes there’s a way around it.’
‘Like what?’
Richenda sighs. ‘Well, that depends on what we can offer them. How much have you actually written? Tell me honestly.’
‘About sixty thousand words,’ I say. ‘It’s in draft, but it’s there.’
‘Right, so that’s one option: the same book, but shorter. They may not go for it – sixty K is very short – but if they do, I’m pretty sure I can buy you some more time to work it up into something viable. I imagine it’s all too raw at the moment. Otherwise… let’s see. I hate to ask this while itisstill raw, but is there any chance you could write something about what you’re doing right now?’
‘You mean in Florence?’
‘Absolutely.’ She grinds out her cigarette and lights another. ‘Rebellious aristo leaves college sweetheart, begins exciting new life in the city of Michelangelo and the Medici. It could be anotherEat, Pray, Love.’
The idea makes me uneasy. ‘I’m not sure. It feels a bit…’
‘A bit what, darling?’
‘A bit wrong,’ I say. ‘Like I’d be exploiting something really painful.’
‘Of course you would. That’s what writers do. Anyway, you’ll find a way to make it as personal or impersonal as you like. It’s your story.’
‘But—’
‘We don’t know whether Swithins will even want it,’ Richenda says. ‘Not least because writing a whole new book will take even longer than tarting up a partial one. Let me talk to Tim, and then we can see. All right?’
‘All right,’ I say.
‘But promise me one thing in the meantime. Whatever happens to you, whatever conversations you have or people you meet, write it down. Don’t stress yourself out trying to do something with it – not yet. Keep a note of it all as you go, and observe, darling, just observe. Engage that wonderful, inquisitive drive of yours – and I know you’ve still got it, even if that arsehole did rather leach it out of you. Will you do that?’
It could be helpful, I suppose. It could be a way to find myself again. ‘I’ll do that.’
