On the Same Page, page 24
Other parts of my body besides my lip and toe are tender. I put on a posh hotel robe, stretch my arms a couple of times and head to the bathroom. When I see my reflection in the mirror I grimace. My hair got wet in the rain and in the bath, and now it’s sticking up everywhere. There’s nothing to pin it back with in the bathroom, so I look around the sitting room. On the desk there’s a bulldog clip sticking out of a fat folder. I’ll secure my hair with that.
The folder is labelled Emma Browning.
Many years ago, after I told Mum I didn’t like her poem about abortion—more specifically her thoughts about aborting me—she said, ‘Reading my poetry is like snooping in a diary. If you don’t want the truth, don’t read my poems.’ I suspect opening the folder will be like reading someone else’s diary, but I have to do it.
Lars, Lucinda and Adam’s early email correspondence about my character is pretty much what I expect. Dishonest. Deceptive. Difficult. Their adjectives soften a little once they work out I’m Emma. Uncooperative. Unmanageable. Unreliable. At the back of the folder there’s a bulky sheaf of papers on the new romance division. I read the pages with increasingly shaky hands, tap them back into order, and return them to the folder.
I didn’t expect to see anything nice, but I didn’t think it would be quite so bad either. I look at Lars asleep on the bed. The feeling of dread climbs into the pit of my stomach again.
My dress and undies are on the floor, but I can’t find my bra until I’m already dressed, so I shove it into my evening bag. I search in vain for my shoes, finally settling on a pair of posh hotel slip-ons instead. No one will notice what I’m wearing at seven in the morning.
When I write my note to Lars, I remind myself that I’m a lawyer and an author, accustomed to stringing words together in the most strenuous of circumstances.
Lars, I have always known your first priority was Iconic, but hoped that, in time, you might modify your plans for Emma—and by extension me. I now see that my hopes were not only naïve but foolish, or to use one of your favourite words, delusional. I presume you were going to tell me eventually that my family background was to be used as part of the marketing campaign for the romance division. The name of the division itself, New Generation, is a charming nod to my heritage. Did you think it up yourself?
I will not be in a position to communicate directly with you until Wednesday or Thursday because of my lip. And I don’t think it would be fair to let our disagreement upset Maurice and April in the lead-up to their party, which rules out Friday and Saturday. If you do want to discuss this matter further, I am willing to meet at Iconic the week after next. In the meantime, I will correspond with Lucinda and Adam.
I enjoyed the ballet performance, as did Amy. Thank you for the tickets.
Miles
PS I didn’t even know Adam knew I was Emma. Who else have you told?
Chapter 47
Jules, wearing much-too-tight running clothes, is almost at Jack’s front gate when he sees me. He calls over his shoulder as he ushers me through.
‘Jack! Miles is here.’
I must look a wreck, wearing my crinkled dress, no bra and towelling slip-ons, but Jules doesn’t say anything, not even when Jack appears and I burst into tears. Jack takes off his T-shirt and dabs at my bleeding lip.
‘I was a bit worried, sweets,’ he says. ‘Been calling and texting half the night. You were with Lars, right?’
I nod.
Jules runs his hand down my arm. ‘I’m off home.’
‘No.’ I hold the T-shirt to my lip and say something about not intruding and catching a taxi.
Jules laughs. ‘I slept in the spare room.’
‘He did,’ Jack says, shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe it.
Jules smiles. ‘See you at twelve, mate. Bye, Miles. Owe you a drink for putting up with him single-handed.’ When I hold up two fingers he laughs again. ‘Two drinks? Sure.’
Jack takes my hand. ‘C’mon. Make you a cup of tea.’
Lou-Lou wipes her ginger stripes against Jack’s legs as, nursing mugs, we sit at his kitchen bench. I make Jack go first.
‘I stuck my neck out,’ he says, ‘like Jules did last year when he said he wanted a long-term commitment. Told him I loved him back then and still do, and I’d like to give our relationship another go. He’s considering my offer.’
‘Happily-ever-after?’ I ask.
Jack hands me another tissue for my lip. ‘Did you say happily-ever-after?’
I nod.
‘We’ll see, sweets. Forever’s a long time.’
This starts me crying again and, in monosyllables, I tell Jack about New Generation and how Lars has been planning to exploit not only Emma, but me as well, by making the most of my literary background in Iconic’s publicity campaign. And he didn’t even tell me about it.
Jack frowns. ‘Since when did you expect Lars to tell you anything? You never take his calls for a start.’
I blow my nose again. ‘It’s over.’
‘You sure?’
I reach for Jack’s shopping pad and a pen. How can I give all of myself to a man who’ll give half of me away?
Jack reads. And winces. ‘That’s a lot for him to take on, sweets.’
I write again. I thought I’d glimpsed my love story. I was wrong.
When Jack’s phone rings, he looks relieved to pick up. ‘Pippy,’ he says, putting the phone on speaker. ‘Miles is here.’
‘Lars went to your apartment,’ Pippy says, ‘but you weren’t there. Then he went to your office, but you weren’t there either. So he called me. I told him I hadn’t seen you, but you might be at Jack’s. He said I had to give him Jack’s address because he doesn’t do one-night stands.’
Jack grimaces. ‘He does now.’
When I send Jack out into his garden to wait for Lars and tell him to go away, I have a horrible feeling that, once again, I’m running away from the things I’m afraid of. Jack takes a broom and pretends the path needs sweeping. He’s still not wearing a shirt. Within ten minutes, he’s back.
‘Rupert told me to get fucked.’
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s okay. Told him you’d had a disappointing night, so I’d get right onto it.’
‘Jack …’
‘He deserved it. What an idiot.’ Jack spreads his arms wide. ‘How can he not at least suspect I’m gay?’
Jack’s chest is sculpted and hairless. His tight blue jeans hang low on his hips. He’s clean-shaven, he smells nice and his hair is immaculate—at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning.
‘Fucking idiot,’ he mutters, as he buttons a shirt.
After we had sex the first time, Lars pulled me on top of him and sandwiched my legs between his. He took my face in his hands and whispered, ‘I want you to myself.’ His brow furrowed when I didn’t respond. I think he would have asked about Jack then, and maybe even Tom, but they were on the list in Amy’s pad, so he couldn’t. I rolled off him and lay on my side, putting my hand on his shoulder and my knee on his hip. When I leaned forward, my nipple was only a millimetre from his mouth and that distracted him.
I give Jack a wobbly smile and he hugs me. His skin is warm and his arms feel good around me, but they’re not Lars’s arms and I sniff again.
‘Said he’d wait till Saturday to speak to you, but not a moment longer,’ Jack says.
‘Arrogant.’
‘Elephant?’ Jack rubs my back.
I’m about to cry again, so I step away and slide the plug into the kitchen sink.
‘Lars was pretty cut up, sweets. Unshaven, pissed off, rattled as hell. It was a shock to see him like that, to tell the truth. You sure you know what you’re doing?’
When I turn on the tap, the water hits a spoon, shoots in the air and drenches my face. Do I know what I’m doing?
***
Miles,
Lars tells me you have accessed the Emma Browning file, and he’s asked that I write to you to clarify Iconic’s position on the following matters.
1. The name of the romance division, New Generation, was developed by head office in London. Neither Lars, nor anyone in the Australian office, had anything to do with it.
2. Iconic does not intend to refer to your literary heritage in its marketing campaign for New Generation. The proposal you read was drafted immediately after the Historical Romance Readers’ Conference (you may recall Lars had only just discovered he was Rupert and was seriously unhappy) and was shelved weeks ago.
3. At the presentation, Lars will welcome your father to Iconic, give details about New Generation, launch Cupid’s Trap and Cupid’s Chariot, and announce that you are Emma. In Lars’s words, the latter announcement is, as it has always been on a legal and ethical basis, totally non-negotiable.
4. You are not required to attend the presentation.
Lucinda
***
Dear Miles,
When Lars told me about Emma a few weeks ago, he was merely confirming suspicions I’d held for some time.
Lars has made it (abundantly!) clear that you are not to be pressured into coming to the presentation. Having said that, if you could be there, I’d be extremely grateful. It’s no secret that Iconic Australia’s viability is largely dependent on the success of Emma’s novels and the new romance division. Having the author present will strengthen our message that Iconic is ready, willing and able to publish quality romantic fiction.
Kind regards,
Adam
I consider my response to Adam overnight.
Hi, Adam,
I want the romance division to flourish so romance readers can discover new writers and novels. I’ve also got to know a number of Iconic employees over the past few months, like Sandra from accounts, Angela from HR, Jim from the printing room and Chloe from reception. I even have a soft spot for Billy now. They’ve been very kind to Pippy and me, so if it makes their jobs more secure, I’ll attend. Kindly reserve me a seat in the back row, near the emergency exit.
Miles
Chapter 48
It’s Thursday evening and I’m sitting at my kitchen table with my laptop, notebook, two sharp pencils and a pot of chamomile tea. I’ve been doing this every evening since Sunday, but I haven’t written a word of Cupid’s Bow. Searching for inspiration, I read my early notes.
Georgiana: Curious, lively and adventurous. Enigmatic. Not conventionally beautiful or accomplished. Will only love a man who loves her for herself. Henry: Micro-manager at home on his estate. Stickler for order and discipline on his ship. He loves the wildness and unpredictability of the ocean. It’s these qualities that attract him to Georgiana. When will he see this?
I re-read the scene I drafted on Saturday afternoon, before I went to the ballet:
Georgiana, Henry by her side, grasped the wheel of the ship. She watched the dark and ominous clouds gathering in the east. Low and threatening thunder rumbled overhead.
‘It is unsafe for you to remain here any longer,’ Henry said. ‘I will escort you to my cabin.’
At the cabin door she baulked. ‘Please reconsider.’
‘The seas are dangerous and the weather uncertain.’ His eyes darkened, his lips firmed. ‘Wait here until I send for you.’
She took two steps backwards, slammed the door in his face and threw herself on his bunk.
The first night she’d slept in this bed she’d woken at midnight to find herself in his arms. Why had she feigned sleep? Because she’d liked the warmth and scent of his body, the brush of his fingertips on her cheek? He hadn’t held her since. He slept restlessly on the floor, tossing and turning throughout the night. She heard him mutter and curse about his honour and duty. Sometimes she wished he would throw those things overboard. His touch warmed her skin and quickened the beats of her heart. She wanted him to accept her as she was. Then she could lie within the circle of his arms, listen to his heartbeat, rest her hands against the bristles at his jaw …
I rub my eyes. Lars was fast asleep last time I saw him, and his bristles felt rough on my skin. ‘Forget him.’
To clear my mind, I walk down to the café at the end of the road for a coffee. Then, because I’m determined to finish drafting the scene where Georgiana climbs the mast for the second time, I go back to my keyboard.
Dressed in her cabin-boy clothes, stumbling in the dark as the ship pitched in the storm, Georgiana climbed to the deck. The waves were terrifying, dwarfing the ship. The rain was torrential, lashing her face and blinding her.
‘I need a volunteer,’ the lieutenant shouted to the assembled men, ‘to climb the mast and chart the course of the storm.’
Georgiana was not as strong as the men, but she was quick, nimble and brave. She raised her hand.
‘Go then, cabin boy,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Hurry!’
She clambered over the rigging and climbed the mast, clinging on desperately as wave after wave crashed over the bow. Hours passed by but, numb with cold and weak with fatigue, still she searched the horizon. Until, when the ship plunged down another wave twice the size of the others, she lost her footing. Hanging limply by her arms, she swung like a rag doll.
She fell into the sea.
Salt water stung her eyes and nose. It filled her mouth and throat, seeped into her lungs. It stole her breath and stilled her heart and—
I stop typing immediately. What have I done?
Chapter 49
Maurice and April lived in Spain when they were young, so I rented a theatre prop, an enormous cloth backdrop of a Spanish village scene, for their party. The Alhambra has cream walls and faded grey rooftops, and the hills in the background are splattered with orange and emerald. Lucinda, here early to set up a slide pack, gives me a thumbs-up sign. A vase of sunflowers sits on a bench adjacent to the podium; one of Adam’s interns puts milk-bottle vases with yellow and red gerberas on the trestle tables. Pippy catches my eye and waves; she’s standing on a chair, adjusting a mirror ball above the parquetry dance floor. Tom holds the chair but his eyes are on Lucinda. She must sense it because she turns his way and smiles. Tom has told me they’re dating, but Lucinda wants to take things slowly.
‘Let me see to everything,’ I’ve been telling Maurice, ‘while you and April entertain your guests.’ A number of people arrived during the week, including Lars’s mother and Cassandra.
A deliveryman taps me on the shoulder. ‘I’m looking for a bloke called Miles.’
‘That’s me.’
‘Sorry about that, love,’ he says, handing me a bunch of red balloons. He gestures over his shoulder. ‘Cake’s on its way.’
Spinning around, I bump straight into Lars. I have jeans and sneakers on, so the top of my head only reaches his chin. He’s wearing a grey suit, white shirt, and the silver-and-blue tie he wore when he did the reading from Cupid’s Chariot. The tie I ripped from his neck after he undid my mint green daisy-button pyjama jacket. Does he remember what I said when I was flat on my back? That the tie was gorgeous? Is he trying to be attractive? Or has he no idea? I take a step back. So does he.
‘Why are you here already?’
He moves a balloon out of the way so he can see my face. ‘I’m on my way to collect April and Maurice. Is there anything you would like me to do beforehand?’
‘I think we’re all done.’
‘I like the wall hanging.’
‘Good.’
‘Miles.’ He’s not angry, but he’s clenching his jaw and fists.
‘What?’
‘Lucinda said I should back off. Avoid you when I can and be polite when I cannot. She said I should give you space until after the launch of Cupid’s Chariot.’
‘Longer than that.’
His eyes are bruised blue. ‘You read Lucinda’s email, didn’t you? Informing you the name New Generation was merely a coincidence? You have my word that your name won’t be used directly in the launch or campaign.’
‘The name New Generation on its own is bound to create interest, and my parents will be drawn into the affair to an even greater degree than they would have been anyway. You’re the CEO. You can change it.’
‘Iconic is committed to it. Whatever people make of your family connections will be over soon enough.’
‘Over for you, certainly.’ My voice is short, sharp and crisp, like I’m in control of my emotions and my heart isn’t breaking. ‘You’re not going to change your mind about Emma, are you? Even though she and Anime Emma are making money for Iconic.’
He counts on his fingers. ‘One, Iconic has an obligation to the Stapleton Prize custodians to identify you as the author. Two, the readers want to know who writes the novels. Three, if I say nothing, conjecture about Emma’s true identity is only going to escalate.’
‘I didn’t need a list. You could’ve just said, “no”.’ I take a step back. ‘We have nothing further to discuss and I have things to do.’
He holds out his hand but doesn’t dare touch me. ‘Miles … I can’t believe we’re back to where we started.’
I adjust the balloons so they block him out again. I turn and walk away.
***
April and her friends dance and sing along to Frank Sinatra and Peggy Lee and Engelbert Humperdinck and ABBA, while Maurice converses with family, authors, editors and his bowling-club friends. The caterers insist they don’t need help with the food, but I’ve washed a lot of dishes.
I step into the shadows outside the kitchen door for the speeches. Lars’s address is witty and informative: delivery brilliant, diction exceptional. One of Maurice’s friends from the bowling club speaks next; he rambles on and on about the benefits of bowling. Then the reverend totters to the podium and asks April and Maurice to join him. They walk through the crowd and stand with their backs to the softly lit backdrop. The audience is in complete darkness, but I see April and Maurice clearly. As soon as they face each other and join their hands together, I start to sniff.
