He raises an eyebrow. ‘Thinking about me having sex, Fray?’
I blush like a schoolgirl. ‘No. Don’t be an idiot. I mean, if you let a girl stay long enough to have a coffee in the morning, you might have something meaningful.’
‘If that’s what I wanted, yeah, probably.’ He shrugs, then takes a second croissant from the paper bag. ‘You’re taking these rejections so personally – it’s a rejection of the idea, not of your writing. Not of you.’
‘But it feels like a rejection of me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because a manuscript is a piece of you. It’s every experience you’ve ever had that makes your voice yours.’
‘You need to think about why you’re doing it. About why you started writing in the first place. If it still means something to you then you shouldn’t give up yet. If it doesn’t then you have your answer.’
And even though it isn’t a question, he waits patiently for me to offer an answer. ‘But it’s stupid.’
‘It won’t be. Come on, Elodie.’ He nudges my leg with his elbow. ‘Why do you write?’
I think of Noah and glance at the vase again. Since he died, the only thing that’s made me feel even a flicker of happiness is writing, and maybe if an editor takes my manuscript and turns it into a book with binding and pages and that paperback smell, my happiness will no longer be a flicker from one of those cheap flimsy lighters, but a roaring bonfire instead. Chasing this dream makes me feel close to Noah. But it isn’t wise to admit this to Jack.
‘My dad,’ I say. ‘I mean, he’s not the easiest guy to talk to. He doesn’t say much. But he used to laugh a lot with Ada. They were both into trains. He used to take her to steam fairs and showcases.’
‘Trains? Ada was into trains?’
I nod. ‘Oh yeah. I tried to be interested too but I think he knew it wasn’t genuine. Then, in primary school, I won my first writing competition. It was a story about a cherry tree that devoured small children. I told my parents, but they didn’t seem that interested so I just left it on the dining table. But when I came down in the morning, the margin of my story was littered with handwritten notes.’
‘Your dad?’
‘Yeah. There was something really special about him reading what I’d written. He’d taken out his dusty work pen and jotted down praise and musings, and that was it, I’d found something for us to bond over, to connect – something that was just ours. Every week after that, I’d write a story, leave it on the dining table and, as if by magic, the next morning Dad had written all over it.’
I see a flash of something in his eyes, but he looks away quickly and I worry I’ve upset him. Fathers are a touchy subject. Despite Kathryn trying to nurture a good relationship between Jack and Jeffrey, organising for the two of them to spend quality time together at Wisteria every Easter, their relationship remained hostile right up until the day he killed himself. Jeffrey often hit Jack, and Jack acted out in return. All for his father’s attention. Hoping it wouldn’t lead to the violent end it always did, but to a conversation, a connection. Jack was eighteen when we found Jeffrey’s body, and although it was an awful time, Jack pulled himself together, turned over a new leaf. It’s not easy to admit, but with his dad gone, Jack was a better person.
Every summer since I was six, our families spent two weeks in Cornwall at Wisteria Cottage, a five-bedroom sandstone home with a wraparound porch and a view of the sea on two sides, plumes of lilac wisteria weaving up its walls. We usually piled into two cars and drove across in convoy. That year though, Kathryn and Jack’s older brother, Charlie, went across early, stopping in Taunton for a couple of nights to visit Kathryn’s sister. Jeffrey and Jack were going to travel up with us but, the day before we were due to leave, my parents received an email from Jeffrey explaining he couldn’t make it to Wisteria due to work commitments, and could we please take Jack with us. We didn’t know then it was a part of Jeffrey’s plan, that he kept a gun in his study, that he was preparing to take his own life as soon as we drove away.
Two weeks later, it was Jack and I who found him. Sometimes I swear I can still smell Jeffrey Westwood; like that thick, hot stench of rotting flesh that clung to the back of my throat for months after we buried him has never really left. It was the height of summer and thanks to the heat, he decomposed quickly. So quickly, it was almost impossible for forensics to determine how long he’d been dead. The cause of death wasn’t a mystery though; there was a letter on his computer and a gun in his hand. It didn’t take a genius. I’m shocked by the way he chose to do it. It seems so loud, so violent. All blood and brains and blistering heat. I don’t know what exactly was in his suicide note, but Jack hinted that his father had a history of mental illness. That the sudden heart attack which killed Jeffrey’s older brother just months before Jeffrey’s suicide may have played a part in it.
‘You can’t stop writing, Elodie. I won’t let you,’ says Jack. ‘Look, I need to send some emails. I’m going to go downstairs and work. You stay up here and write some new pitches.’
‘I’m supposed to be at Mugs in an hour …’ I trail off, picturing an afternoon spent in a hot, sweaty café, and I cannot breathe for the claustrophobia of it.
‘Call in sick.’
I hesitate because I’ve never pulled a sick day.
‘You need to write,’ he tells me, then gestures to the pastry. ‘Eat that.’ He hands me the water. ‘Drink this.’ He scoops the pills from the bedside table and folds them into my palm. ‘And swallow these.’
I pop the pills into my mouth and salute him. ‘Yes, sir.’
He turns to go, but pauses at the door and says, ‘We’ll get you published. I promise.’
‘Even if it kills you?’
He smiles. ‘Even if it kills us both.’
My trainers slap against the pavement as I jog across the road towards the park. I’m running to distract myself because one hour and twenty-eight minutes ago, I sent three grittier pitches to Lara for approval from Harriers. Instead of repeatedly refreshing and deliriously hoping, I decided to run.
I’ve come to the park opposite my house. My preferred route. It’s flatter than other areas of town, prettier too. There are benches nestled among wildflowers, a blur of red and purple and buttercup yellow as I pass. On the inside is an expanse of grass where people throw balls for bounding dogs, and couples share picnics on sunny afternoons.
Then I see us, Noah and I sitting on a duck egg blue blanket after dark, dozens of flickering tealights all around. We were visiting my parents for the weekend. In the middle of the night, he woke and led me from my childhood bedroom and out into the night. I felt giddy, like a teenager high on rebellion as we snuck into the park.
‘A midnight picnic,’ he said. ‘Just the two of us.’
‘This is like a scene from a film,’ I whispered.
‘Not a film. A book. Your book.’