AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Half an hour or so later, I’m in the Hall of Lilies admiring the blue-and-gold wallpaper when I feel a distinct vibration against my leg. A long, sustained vibration like an incoming call. I fish for my phone and see that I have three missed calls, all from Richenda. Shit. I hurry out and down the stairs. By the time I reach the big frescoed courtyard on the ground floor, my heart is racing and I’ve sweated through my nice summery top. I press redial and close my eyes as the phone rings at the other end.
‘Tori! Thanks for calling.’ She sounds quite upbeat and, for a moment, I’m reassured. ‘I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything fun?’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘I was just… I was in a museum. Sorry.’
‘Gosh, you do know how to have a good time. Look,’ she says, suddenly businesslike, ‘we need to talk about these pages you sent me. I can’t show them to Tim Swithin, darling. I just can’t.’
‘Right.’ I need to sit down. I cast around for a bench, but can’t see one, so I lean faux-casually against one of the big pillars.
‘I’m not saying this isterrible,’ Richenda says. ‘I see the kind of thing you’re trying to do. But Tori, darling… All this wandering around searching for your grandmother – who I’m sure was completely delightful, if you happened to know her – it’s just… it’s so muted. Low-key. Quiet. Anita Brookner could have written it.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, feeling slightly bolstered.
‘No, I mean thatAnita Brooknercould have written it. And you know I adore your work, of course I do, but you’re no Anita Brookner and if I’m brutally honest, I don’t understand why you’re trying to be.’ She sighs. ‘Come on. You know what Swithins want from you here, and that’s a light touch. Something nice and fluffy and sharp and a tiny bit sexy. Why isn’t there any sex in this, by the way? Not that I wantFifty Shadesor anything, but it wouldn’t hurt to spice it up a little.’
‘Because there isn’t… I’m not having any.’
‘What, no sex at all? But what about this Marco?’
‘Just a friend.’ My head’s starting to thump and there’s a tight, hot feeling in my chest.
‘Seriously?’ Richenda snorts. ‘If you’re not shagging him, darling, then why do I know what he smells like?’
Argh. ‘So what happens now?’
‘About the pages? Well, obviously they won’t do. Even if Swithins wanted something like this – and I very much doubt it – it’s just so far off being done. I know you only had a few days and, believe me, nobody expects you to produce anything polished. But it should have purpose. I should be able to look at it and say: oh, I see where this is going. And I’ve read it over and over, and I just can’t. I don’t know where you’re taking me at all. I don’t even think you know.’
‘I see.’ I know I sound sullen, but my throat hurts and my eyes are hot. I don’t want to start howling here, in public, among the frescoes. I won’t.
Richenda’s silent for a moment. ‘I really am sorry,’ she says, and her voice is much softer. ‘I know this is awful, truly I do, and you’ve been such a star doing all this work at such a dreadful time. You’re writing about grief and loss and that’s so hard, darling, especially when it’s fresh. You’re unbelievably brave even to try. I just can’t hand them a reason to ditch you when it would be so bad for both of us. You do understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to take the weekend and have a really good think about the story you want to tell: about you, about your granny, whatever you really want to write about. And then try and boil it down as far as you can. Not a page, not a paragraph, just a sentence. On Monday, you phone me up and tell me what you’ve thought of, and then we’ll try and lick those pages into shape.’
‘But there’s no time,’ I say.
‘Not much, no, but there’s some. I built in a bit of a margin anyway, and I happen to know Tim’s away in the French Alps or the Swiss Alps or whichever Alps until at least next Friday, which really means the following Monday. So I’m not guaranteeing anything, but we might just pull it off. All right?’
‘All right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Richenda.’
She laughs. ‘Oh, darling, you sound wrecked. I’m not surprised. Try and get some sleep tonight, drink a negroni or two, do whatever you need to get back to form. Ideas flow better when you’re rested. Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
‘And do give that nice Marco a call, because you clearly want to shag him.Ciao ciao.’ She hangs up before I can protest.
*
I do go to bed, after that. I go straight home, strip off my clothes and sleep like I’m drugged. I don’t dream, I don’t move, I don’t wake until it’s almost noon and too hot to stay in bed. I’m making coffee, still half-asleep, when the doorbell rings: loud, obnoxious, repeated. ‘No,’ I mutter, willing whoever it is to give up and go away. But the doorbell keeps ringing, and then my phone starts going, too.
‘Fucksake,’ I yell, and I stumble to the intercom. ‘Yes?’
‘Corriere,’ barks a male voice at the other end.
Courier? Have I been online shopping in my sleep? I stand there for a moment, baffled and groggy, and then the doorbell rings again: a sharp, irritated series of bursts. I press the button and hear the big door swing open downstairs. Gingerly I open the door of the flat and peer down into the staircase.
There are two couriers at the foot of the stairs. Two couriers and an absolute shitload of archive boxes. As I stare down at them, one of the men – a red-faced and stocky type – looks up and catches my eye. ‘Arrivo,’ he calls, and he picks up a stack of three boxes and starts stomping and puffing up the stairs towards me.
