waver in my voice) – and how it was when I returned home, renting a flat in the heart of Bristol, that the idea of writing was seeded.
‘There is this night course,’ Flynn began one evening as we were eating takeaway pizza straight from the box. ‘It’s in creative writing. It started last week – but you’ve only missed one session. I saw a flyer about it. Here,’ he said, pressing it into my hand.
It was an abstract image of a wing cutting across a blue sky. Let your imagination soar, was the heading in a stylish grey font.
‘I thought,’ Flynn said tentatively, ‘that I could treat you to it. For your birthday. If you were interested.’ Flynn had just taken his first salaried position as a tree surgeon, returning home each evening with wood chip clinging to the weave of his jumper, bark staining his jeans.
‘It’s taught by a woman,’ Flynn said. ‘She’s written a couple of books. You should look her up.’
I’d lain in the bath that evening, candles lit, essential oils making a film on the surface. When we’d been travelling, I kept a journal, filling page after page with descriptions of new experiences and interesting places. Those moments I found myself sitting cross-legged on a beach, or in the back of our van, a pencil scratching across the smooth page of my journal, had filled me with a deep sense of calm. Yet I’d never considered nurturing that passion into something more.
Fiction was my mother’s world. She’d always worked as a teaching assistant because the hours suited our schooling, but she’d often set her alarm early ‘to get the best of this old brain’ before her day began. Over the years she’d had several short stories printed in magazines, but when Fiona had asked if she dreamt of becoming an author, she replied, ‘I don’t write to get published. I write because I can’t not.’
‘Yes,’ I told Flynn, as I stood in a towel, my feet wet on the lino flooring. ‘I’d like to do the course.’
Wednesday evenings became the highlight of the week. I loved my tutor, a woman in her fifties with short red hair and a limitless collection of animal-print neck scarves. She had a wickedly sardonic sense of humour, and she filled the room with her passion for words. Her students were a mix of ages: two men, recently divorced, who wrote wild adventure stories in the realm of Wilbur Smith; an English graduate who’d lost a twin sister; three retired friends who met for dinner before each class, the smell of Thai spices or wine clinging to them. Wednesdays were a beacon for us all.
During the course I had the idea for my first novel. It wasn’t a lightning-bolt moment of inspiration; it was simply an image. I could picture two women standing together on a shoreline, their hands gripped, squinting into the distance. I wondered what or who they were looking at. As I encouraged my mind’s eye to zoom in more closely, other details emerged: two boys in the water; the flash of an orange life boat; one boy brought back to shore alive – not two.
Once the idea took hold, I worked on it feverishly. I was a receptionist at the time and the jotter by the office phone filled with plot ideas and character notes. I spent my lunch breaks writing in the back seat of my car, not willing to use the staff room for fear of someone disturbing me. Following my mother’s example, I set my alarm an hour early each morning to write, and in that quiet dawn hour, I left behind the walls of the studio flat and I soared.
Gradually, gradually, the shape of a novel began to form. It was loose and unpinned, but there was something in it, I’d felt sure.
Authors often talk about that magical moment of securing their first book deal – and I remember every detail of it. Invited to meet an interested publisher, I sat with my agent in the spacious atrium of the publishing house reception, staring up at a metallic sculpture of a globe suspended from the ceiling, a disco ball without the party. My outfit, which I’d spent an entire afternoon deciding upon – corduroy yellow skirt with embroidered detail, and a green silk top – now seemed oddly provincial.
I watched other visitors streaming into the atrium, being ushered through security: handbags and briefcases conveyored through an X-ray machine, lanyards swinging from visitors’ necks. Everything was so removed from the process of writing the book that I suddenly felt like I was in the wrong place. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my mother’s fountain pen. I turned it through my fingers, exploring the faded patch near the nib, where the gloss had worn away with use. I remembered the way my mother wrote with it, the slant of her hand, her elbow sliding along the table edge. As a girl, I used to be fascinated by the empty black ink cartridges, containing a tiny glass bead, like the eye of a vole.
Holding it between my fingertips, I knew my mother would have been proud that I had got this far, that I, Elle Fielding, former barista, waitress and travel bum, had written something good enough to draw the attention of a publisher.
My literary agent and I were collected by an assistant and taken by lift, up twelve storeys, and deposited in a glass-doored meeting room that overlooked a sprawling open-plan office. I had never seen so many people working in one place.
A few minutes later, a woman in a simple blue dress and ankle boots walked in, clutching papers.
‘Elle, I’m Jane – one of the publishing directors here. It’s so lovely to meet you.’ She kissed me warmly. I liked Jane immediately. She was sincere, intelligent, and passionate about books.
‘Let me just tell you, I loved your story. I got lost in the characters. Those women – I felt like I wanted to pick up the phone, call them. You have a wonderful eye for observation.’
A surge of delight rushed through me and I began to relax, talking with ease about how the idea came to me, why I ended the book as I did. My agent smiled at me enthusiastically. Yes, it was going well.
Jane briefed me on the next steps: she’d be pitching the book at their acquisitions meeting that week.
‘One of the questions that will be asked,’ Jane said, ‘will be what other ideas you have.’
I’d poured every ounce of energy into that story, those characters. I hadn’t dared step outside of them, in case they shut the door behind me while my back was turned.
‘If you’ve got anything you could share with me ahead of the meeting,’ Jane said, ‘even if it’s just a very loose idea or two – that would really help my pitch. We like to be able to look ahead to see how we can establish your brand in the marketplace.’
Marketplace. Acquisition. Brand. My stomach fluttered with excitement. I allowed myself the smallest butterfly of hope: this could be the start.
Now, standing in the library toilets, I wipe my damp palms against my jeans. I take a deep breath, feel my shoulders pulling back.
‘Hello, I’m Elle Fielding,’ I say to the mirror, fixing on a smile.
Looking at myself, I think about the author the audience are expecting to see. A thirty-something woman with a successful, glittering career. A woman who is confident, composed, happy.
Who do I see? I wonder, leaning closer to the mirror, looking right into the dark centre of my irises, seeing the skein of red lines mapping the edges of them.
I blink. Push her away.
‘Hello, I’m Elle Fielding,’ I say again, brighter this time, with more volume. ‘It’s lovely to be invited here to—’
I stop short at the sound of a toilet flushing. A bolt is unlatched, and Maeve appears from one of the cubicles.
Her gaze meets mine in the mirror.
I have the feeling of being caught out.
‘Pre-talk warm up,’ I say.
Maeve moves to the sink, letting cold water stream across the backs of her pale hands. She flicks off the tap with her wrist, then pats her hands carefully with paper towels.
‘Practice makes perfect.’