What happens after that depends on the weather. If it’s raining, or I don’t feel like going for a run, then I shower, check my emails, and start the day’s work.
Today was a beautiful day though, and I was itching to get out, get wet leaves beneath my trainers and feel the wind in my face. I’d shower after my run.
I pulled on a t-shirt, some leggings, and socks, and shoved my feet into my trainers where I’d left them near the door. Then I jogged down the three flights of stairs to the street, and out, into the world.
When I got back I was hot and sweating and loose-limbed with tiredness and I stood for a long time under the shower, thinking about my to do list for the day. I needed to do another online shop – I was nearly out of food. I had to go through the copy edits on my book – I’d promised them back to the editor this week and I hadn’t even started them yet. And I should go through the emails that had come through from my website contact form, which I hadn’t done for ages because I kept putting it off. Most of it would be spam of course – whatever kind of verification you put on it, it doesn’t seem to deter the bots. But sometimes it’s useful stuff, requests for blurbs or review copies. And sometimes … sometimes it’s emails from readers. Generally if people write to you, it’s because they liked the book, although I have had a few messages telling me what a terrible person I am. But even when they’re nice, it’s still odd and uncomfortable, someone telling you their reaction to your private thoughts, like reading someone’s opinion on your diary. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that feeling, however long I write. Maybe that’s partly why I have to gear myself up for it.
When I was dressed, I fired up my laptop and clicked slowly through the emails, deleting as I went. Viagra. A promise to make me ‘satisfy my woman’. Russian cuties.
And then …
To: Melanie Cho; [email protected];
T Deauxma; Kimayo, Liz; [email protected]; Maria
Tatibouet; Iris P Westaway; Kate Owens;
[email protected]; Nina da Souza;
French, Chris
From: Florence Clay
Subject: CLARE’S HEN!!!
Clare? I didn’t know any Clares except …
My heart began beating faster. But it couldn’t be her. I hadn’t seen her for ten years.
For a minute my finger hovered irrationally over the delete button. Then I clicked, and opened up the message.
HI ALL!!!
For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Flo, and I’m Clare’s best friend from university. I’m also – drum roll – her maid of honour!! So in time honoured fashion I will be organising her HEN DO!!!
I’ve had a word with Clare and – as you can probably guess – she doesn’t want any rubber penises or pink feather boas. So we’re going to have something rather more sophisticated – a weekend away near her old college stamping ground in Northumberland – although I think there may be a few naughty games snuck in under the radar!!
The weekend Clare has chosen is 14th – 16th November. I know this is VERY short notice, but we didn’t have a lot of choice between work commitments and Christmas and so on. Please RSVP promptly.
Love and kisses – and hoping to meet old friends and new very soon!!!!
Flo xxx
I sat, frowning uneasily at the screen, chewing the side of my nail, trying to figure it out.
Then I looked again at the ‘to’ list. There was one name on there that I recognised: Nina da Souza.
Well, that settled it. It must be Clare Cavendish. There was no-one else it could be. And I knew – or thought I remembered – that she’d gone to university at Durham, or maybe Newcastle? Which fitted with the Northumberland setting.
But why? Why had Clare Cavendish asked me to her hen night?
Could it be a mistake? Had this Flo just plundered Clare’s address book and fired off an email to anyone she could find?
But just twelve people … that meant my inclusion could hardly be a mistake. Right?
I sat, staring at the screen as if the pixels could provide answers to the questions shifting queasily in my gut. I half wished I’d just deleted it without even reading.
Suddenly I couldn’t sit still any longer. I got up and paced to the door, and then back to my desk, where I stood, staring uneasily at the laptop screen.
Clare Cavendish. Why me? Why now?
I could hardly ask this Flo person.
There was only one person who might know.
I sat. Then quickly, before I could change my mind, I tapped out an email.
To: Nina da Souza
From: Nora Shaw
Subject: Hen???
Dearest N, Hope you’re well. Must admit I was a bit surprised to see us both on the list to Clare’s hen night. Are you going? xx