Page 80 of You Were Always the One

28

RIGGS

As December begins, I decide to stay on in France. Right now, there seems no reason not to. Undisturbed – mostly, I carry on with my book, which has more than slightly changed direction again, and where my protagonist is going through quite a time. It’s like he’s an onion and he’s peeling away the outer layers of himself, not sure what he’s going to find underneath.

In the book, each layer represents some significant happening in his life. A layer of protection, so to speak, against a world he feels ill-equipped to deal with, until it’s thick enough that nothing can touch him. A bit like what I’ve done, I’m slowly realising.

It leaves me with a quandary, about what’s going to break my protagonist down. Because if it’s going to be worth reading, something has to.

I summon my courage and send some chapters to my editor. For a week, I hear nothing from her. Then instead of emailing, Christie calls me, making small talk about how lovely France is and how much I must be enjoying the wine.

I cut her short. ‘So what do you think?’

There’s silence the other end. ‘It’s interesting,’ she says in that way that leaves no doubt there’s a but coming. ‘I’m just not sure what you want your reader to get from this.’

‘Understanding,’ I say. ‘Of how difficult life is. Sometimes. Obviously not for everyone…’

‘I see.’ Christie sounds thoughtful. ‘How do you resolve it?’

But slowly, I’m working that out. ‘My protagonist realises why they are the way they are. It makes them see their life in a whole different light and actually do something about it.’

‘I think I’d like to see some kind of resolution. Is this autobiographical?’ she asks suspiciously.

‘Hell, no,’ I say emphatically. Untruthfully. ‘Absolutely not. I mean, no more than any book is.’

‘I’m interested to see where you take it,’ she says. ‘How long before you finish it?’

‘How long do I have?’ I ask, too late realising I’m sounding indecisive again. But old habits die hard. And this habit is as old as I am.

‘I’d like it as soon as possible,’ she says briskly. ‘How does six weeks sound?’

‘Um…’ It sounds terrifying, in actual fact. ‘Fine,’ I say, trying to hide my horror. ‘I might even finish it sooner.’ Now, why on earth did I say that?

‘Great,’ she says. ‘Nice talking to you. Speak soon, Rigby.’

After the call ends, a sense of overwhelm takes me over. I can’t finish this book in less than six weeks. But then it occurs to me that somehow, I’m going to have to.

‘It cannot be that hard,’ Sophie says when she pops in that evening. It’s become a bit of a routine, a couple of evenings a week where we drink wine and put the world to rights. ‘It’s just words, Riggs. It is not like you have anything else to do.’

‘Writing isn’t like growing vegetables,’ I say. ‘Your brain needs rest-time.’

‘Riggs,’ she says knowingly. ‘Do you think that part of your problem is too much rest-time?’

I open a bottle of wine. ‘There is more to life than work, Sophie.’

‘True.’ She takes the glass I hold out. ‘But there’s another way of looking at it. Sometimes in life, there is more work than other times. You rest later.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s just how it is.’

‘Not with writing,’ I say firmly.

But she stands her ground. ‘Have you ever tried it?’ She scrutinises my face, then shakes her head. ‘I didn’t think so. Maybe it’s about time you did.’

We go outside and sit on the terrace. The view is spectacular at this time of day, the mountains thrown into relief as the sun sets.

‘I can finish this book without working around the clock,’ I say with a confidence I don’t feel.

‘Then there is no problem, is there?’ she says lightly.

When she gets up to leave, I walk around the side of the house with her. Coming closer, she reaches up and kisses me on the cheek.