‘Thanks!’ I fish in my bag for my purse to pay the parking fee. There’s so much stuff in there, I can never find anything quickly. In any case, he’s got his phone out and is paying via the app, without any fuss as usual. We start walking towards the cafe for brunch with his friend. ‘So, this “Jonesy” we’re meeting. Anything I need to know?’
We wait to cross a road.
‘Uni mate. Writer, actually. Used to be a print journalist in Sydney. Quit the rat race and moved here to give screenwriting a go. I think his first screenplay has just been optioned . . . Let’s go!’
We take advantage of a small break in traffic and rush across an intersection, landing straight in front of a bookshop. Fortuitous! We’re a few minutes early for brunch, and I have a personal rule never to walk past an open bookshop, so I linger. Hugh looks back and sighs.
‘Five minutes?’ I ask him. ‘Come on, we’ve got time.’
I know he loves books. But he also loves to be early. We wander along the new fiction section, and I pick up the first two titles that jump out at me – a ‘perfect beach read’ and ‘book club favourite’, according to shiny stickers on the covers.
‘I will buy you brunch,’ I offer, ‘if both these titles aren’t about an exhausted, late-thirties woman with kids, who feels like the spark has left her marriage and longs for something more, but she can’t quite decide what.’
He takes the books from me, flips them over and reads aloud.
‘Felicity Page has spent the last twenty years as CEO of the well-oiled machine that is the Page-McCaffrey family of Balmain East. Married to Jock, high-flying banker and husband who’s barely home, and grappling with two moody teenagers and a French Provincial homewares boutique, Felicity spends her days dreaming of the gap year she never had. When an unexpected opportunity arises to “swap boutiques” – and families – with a woman in a picturesque French village, Felicity can’t stop wondering, “What if . . .” Can you drop everything and travel the world on your own at forty? What if you never come back?’
‘See?’ I say. ‘And the other?’
‘Vanessa O’Shea would give anything to be eighteen again,’ Hugh reads. ‘Weighed down by endless deadlines at work and swamped by a crumbling house that’s less “flip” and more “flop”, she discovers her teenage diary and realises she’s achieved all her dreams. She has the man, the family, the career and even the white picket fence, so why isn’t she happy, the way her teenage self predicted? When an accident in the renovation leaves her with a dose of temporary amnesia, Vanessa thinks she’s eighteen again. Will adulthood play out differently, second time around?’
Hugh puts the books back on the shelf. ‘Okay, I owe you brunch.’
‘I love these books, but why are they always about unhappy marriages?’ I ask. ‘Where are all the books about happy marriages that end prematurely, leaving the protagonist desperately sad and floundering helplessly with the freedom all these other heroines dream about, until she digs herself out of the dark and creates a new path with her Chapter Two life?’
He looks at me like I came down in the last shower. ‘Isn’t it obvious where that book is, Kate?’
No.
‘Write what you know. Isn’t that what they say?’
They do say that, but I’m not doing it. ‘I don’t write commercial fiction,’ I explain. ‘I’m trying to write a literary novel. Even if I have to fight for every word. Cam told me he didn’t think I’d found my place as a writer . . .’
Hugh watches me, as if he’s waiting for the penny to drop. ‘What would Cam have known?’ he says. ‘He was just a professor of literature.’
Fair point.
‘Kate, you’ve got something important to say about how it’s not all it’s cracked up to be – this unexpected fresh start, parallel universe life you’re living.’
‘Nobody wants to read about a forty-something widow, Hugh. Look at the shelves.’
‘I’d read it,’ he says. ‘Even if I’m not the target audience. Who knows? Her Chapter Two life mightn’t be all bad in the end.’
I catch his eyes for just a second, then look at the shelves. There’s a gap. Definitely. I imagine it being filled with Careful What You Wish For by Kate Whittaker.
‘People want to know you can survive the unimaginable and pull yourself onto a new path, against the odds,’ Hugh suggests.
I kind of like where he’s going with this, but it’s scary as hell to even consider it. ‘I’m hardly a poster girl for Plan B,’ I argue. ‘In the last thirty-six hours alone I’ve had a domestic bomb threat, nearly missed a flight, been hysterical on a plane, and . . .’ Flashbacks to my romantic admission on the beach give me palpitations. ‘Random calamitous ocean-side announcements,’ I add.
Smile lines crease at his eyes.
‘What could you possibly be smiling at?’
‘Just your language, Kate, I love the way you put things.’
I flush with pride. Stupidly.
‘And all that stuff happens to you because you’re all-in.’
All in? Haven’t I heard him say that before?
‘Write the book,’ he rushes on. ‘Give Felicity and Vanessa a run for their money.’
He isn’t just playing here. He seems to have actual confidence that I can do it. I look again at the shelf beside us, and imagine my name on the cover of a book. For the first time in years, I have to admit I feel excited about the idea of following one of Hugh Lancaster’s professional instructions.
Actually, it’s bigger than that. And more important. For the first time in four years, I feel excited. Full stop.
We weave our way through the outdoor tables at the cafe Hugh’s mate has chosen. It’s beachy and bohemian, with sun gods on the walls and rainbow flags depicting astrology symbols draped across the bar. Exactly the type of place Hugh would never pick, but which my inner hippy loves. I’m wearing my vintage finds – flowing skirt covered in mandalas, a white cami top and a denim jacket, even though it’s already steamy ahead of another forecast storm.
Jonesy isn’t here yet, but we find a table in the part shade and pour glasses of water. I close my eyes and take a slow breath, drinking in the warmth of the morning. The place smells like coconut and sunscreen and coffee and holidays, and I’m so glad we were forced to spend the weekend here. It reminds me there’s a whole life outside my everyday reality.
When I open my eyes, Hugh is observing me over the menu.
‘Byron Bay suits you,’ he says. That’s all. He returns to the menu, and I feel about a foot taller.
‘Every time I’m near the beach, I wonder why I don’t just pack up, sell the house and all our stuff and move somewhere new with Charlie,’ I confide.
He looks surprised. ‘Like the women in those novels?’
‘Sort of. A fresh start, you know. Somewhere warmer, without any memories. Somewhere I could write.’
He considers this for a second. ‘You serious about this?’
I think I am. Maybe. Even if the logistics of moving away from Grace and Mum break my heart. ‘Why Hugh, would you miss me?’