Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I push him away. “Not exactly. They want me to write another one.” I try and push away the pride that rises in my stomach. It still doesn’t feel exactly okay that I’m making a career change. It’s like I’ve bought a new mattress and I know it’s going to be comfortable, but it’s just going to take a bit of getting used to.
“Hope they’re paying you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a two-book deal.” Before Ellie arrived in my office, her skirt up around her ears, I’d only scribbled a few chapters here and there. She’d been with me through the entire process of crafting my book and kick-starting my new career, even if she didn’t know it at the beginning. It feels weird to be working on something else without her by my side. There’s nothing I want more than a couple of weeks with Ellie, snowed in on Rum.
“Then what are you asking me for a job for? Sounds like you’ve made it.”
“There are no guarantees. You never know when things are going to go pear-shaped.” There were no warning signs that Ellie was going to call things off. Everything between us was better than anything I’ve ever had before. And still she walked away.
“Way to look on the bright side,” Beau says.
“The more you risk, the bigger the reward,” Vincent says. “It’s true in investing, it’s true in life. This writing thing is a risk, I’ll give you that. But the reward is getting to spend your days doing something you love. Plus, you’re going to be rich and famous.”
“I’ll skip the fame part, if that’s okay.”
“Are authors really famous?” Beau asks.
“Nah,” I reply. “Never heard of Stephen King or J.K. Rowling.”
“Yeah, but not many get famous, do they? I think you’ll be consigned to obscurity. You don’t need to worry.”
“Thanks, Beau.”
“It’s not scalable,” Vincent says, as if I understand what he’s talking about. “That’s the problem with writing. Even J.K. Rowling—she’s got a ceiling on what she can earn.”
I tear my gaze from my sandwich to Vincent, who’s still focused on his screen. I want to check that he’s really saying what I think he’s saying. “She’s done okay,” I offer.
“Absolutely. And the merchandising has been smart—of course kids’ books lend themselves better to that. Then you’ve got the film and the theme park rides and all the other spin-offs.” He stops typing and looks up. “You’re right. I think she’s done well. But not the same genre as you.”
I chuckle. “I have no desire to be the next J.K. Rowling.” Mrs. Fletcher has told me I’ve signed a really good deal for a debut author. But my family don’t know that. Neither does Vincent.
“Where’s Ellie spending Christmas?” Beau asks. “Or have you dumped her already like all the others.”
“What?” I ask. “What others have I dumped?” Beau is talking shit, as usual.
“There was that girl, Susie, I saw you with once. And the one with the really long blonde hair.”
Susie? I’ve never dated a Susie, have I? All the women before Ellie seem to blend together. “I haven’t dumped Ellie. She’s dumped me, if you must know.”
“Is that why you’re even more miserable than usual?” Beau asks, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Vincent crack a smile.
“Probably,” I reply. It’s more than misery that has cloaked my mood. It’s an emptiness that I’ve never experienced before. It’s an unshakeable feeling that something’s missing. Someone’s missing. I have a thousand thoughts a day I want to share with her, plans I want to talk about with her, experiences I want to have with her. Instead I’m here, surrounded by people, but lonely without her. “Just wait until you fall in love with a girl who doesn’t want to be with you.”
“Fallen in love?” Beau shrieks, half laughing and half choking. “Hey, Vincent, did you hear that?”
“Fuck you,” I reply and take another bite of sandwich. “And you.” I lift my chin at Vincent.
“I didn’t say anything. I’m far too busy making money. And if you did the same, you wouldn’t be nursing a broken heart right now. Get your priorities straight.”
I stand and dump what’s left of my sandwich in the bin before heading to the living room to get some peace. The fire is on in the inglenook fireplace and Madison is lying on one of the two sofas with her feet on Nathan’s lap.
“What’s that ruckus about?” Madison asks.
“Nothing,” I say, collapsing on the sofa opposite them. I lie lengthways, tucking a cushion under my head and putting my socked feet up on the arm of the sofa, where they’ll be warmed by the fire. “Beau’s being a twat. Vincent doesn’t help.”
“There certainly is a lot of testosterone here at the moment,” Madison says. “Would be nice to have another woman about.”