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‘See? Overreacting.’
‘Please stop.’ I haul myself into a sitting position. ‘Talk to him if you want. Be his shoulder to cry on. But please, Charlie, don’t talk to him and then phone me up and tell me off about it. Please.’
Charlie sighs. ‘Look, obviously I don’t know what happened and, in a sense, it isn’t my business…’
‘Then why do you keep asking?’
Charlie’s quiet for a moment and I start to think – foolish me – that maybe I really have got through to her this time. But then she heaves another sigh and says, in her best Mummy-Is-Disappointed voice: ‘Look, all I can say is that your version of events isverydifferent to what Duncan is telling me. I’m not making any judgements, Tori. I’m just letting you know.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. Because I really do want the best for you, you know. For both of you.’
‘Don’t call me again,’ I say. ‘Bye, Charlie.’
‘What? Tori, don’t you dare hang up on me. After everything I’ve done in the last few days, don’t you dare—’
‘Goodbye,’ I say, and I end the call.
*
She calls about half an hour later, while I’m hanging up my clothes. I don’t answer, obviously, so she leaves me a voice message.
‘Tori, listen.’ She actually sounds a bit contrite. ‘I got carried away. I… I don’t know what to do in these situations. It’s confusing, and I suppose I wade in and try to sort it out because that’s what I’m used to doing. I won’t bother you again, but will you phone me if you want to talk? Please? I promise I’ll try to do better.’
I listen to the message about ten times before I delete it. Then I pour myself a glass of wine, sit down with the laptop, open my document for Richenda and start to write. It’s almost midnight when my phone rings again.
‘Tori, can you hear me?’ Richenda says in a loud stage whisper. Somewhere in the background, a toilet flushes. ‘Sorry. I’m in the ladies’ at the Harper Random Penguin party.’
Suddenly I’m nervous. ‘I can hear you,’ I say, and take a swig of wine.
‘Okay,’ Richenda says. ‘I’ve talked to Tim and he’s very sympathetic. Totally gets it. Now, he’s got to talk to sales and marketing, but the feeling is that the shorter book is out. Doesn’t really fit the brief. Besides, you can’t exactly go round promoting a book about married life in the Highlands when you’ve left your husband and fucked off to the Continent.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘But he’s intrigued by the Florence thing. Listen, I know you’ve been writing, so do you think you can send me some pages? Doesn’t have to be much – just enough to give him a flavour. Ten K or so?’
Oh, God. ‘When do you need them?’
‘I don’t know, darling. Can you get them to me… oh, Monday after next?’
‘Um, I suppose—’
‘You’re a star,’ Richenda says. There’s a loud banging. ‘Yes, yes,’ she barks, ‘I’ll be out in a minute. Some of us havebladder issues, you know. Tori, darling, I have to go. Give my love to Florence.’ And she’s gone.
I look at the document in front of me. I have about three thousand words. Some of it’s fairly coherent – and by that I mean actual sentences – but then quite a lot of it is random notes, like ‘dogs in restaurants’ and ‘sparkly trainers – Florentine thing?’ And the last thousand is just me ranting about Charlie being a dick.
Well, all right, I have some work to do.
8
Chiara puts a stack of forms in front of me. It’s about an inch high and bristles with tiny Post-it notes. ‘I’ve filled these out,’ she says, ‘so I just need you to double-check all the information and then sign wherever I’ve put a yellow marker.’
‘Are these just for the utilities?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘Gas, electricity, water, internet, TARI – that’s waste disposal. Do you want a coffee?’
‘Please.’
