‘And you’re sure it’s what you want, Janine? You’re sure this is it?’
Turning, I’d looked into Kamal’s eyes and seen it all – the worry, the stress, the strain. Everything we needed to escape.
Like a fool, I’d replied, ‘It’s everything I want and more. It’s perfect.’
We put an offer in that day. Higher than the asking price, but I needed the fresh start the picture-perfect house promised. I would have sold everything I owned to have it.
Only now it transpires that the country dream was someone else’s fantasy, not mine.
‘I hate it here,’ I hiss, then I say it louder because there’s no one around to judge my bitter words. Exhaling, I push down my sadness with a biscuit, then another, and make my tea.
Drink in hand and throat thick with remnants of chocolate, I head to the foot of the stairs. There, I pause.
Being so behind on my latest manuscript, there should be no debate about going back to work, but my brain likes to pretend it has a choice in the matter. So much so, it enacts a daily tug of war about the pros and cons of reacquainting myself with Microsoft Word.
Six months ago, at the start of my writer’s block, I truly believed that my writing alter ego, S. K. Atherton, would pull something miraculous out of the bag. But now? Now nothing can ease the gnawing in the pit of my stomach that tells me, quite cruelly, thata mere three books into my forever career as an author, I am out of words. And, with two weeks until my publisher, Tiff, expects a solid draft to land in her inbox, almost out of time.
‘Take yourself off on another adventure if you need to,’ Tiff said in her last email. ‘Three weeks at a survival camp worked wonders when you were crafting your last book.’
As true as that might be, I don’t have the heart to tell Tiff that my days of throwing myself into immersive experiences in the name of research are over. Especially if that research means leaving the house.
Sighing, I begin the ascent back to my office, but my pinging phone stops me. I check the message. It’s from Katherine, sent to our writing group chat.
Another rejection. Tell me again why I bother writing…?
I should sympathise. I’ve known Katherine for six months now. I know how much writing means to her and understand more than most people the all-consuming hunger of chasing a goal that seems out of reach.
Closing my eyes, I wait to feel something. Anything other than the constant hollowness that has narrated my days for months now. But nothing changes.
As my phone pings with Natalya’s reply, I slip it in my pocket without responding and climb upstairs. There, I retake my seat at my desk and continue to berate myself for not knowing how to kill off a fictional person I’ve yet to invent. My alarm interrupts my self-loathing at twelve-thirty, warning that our writing group session starts at one.
As is the case with most good things in my life, I have Kamal to thank for finding the group. Fresh from our move to the country,we were out for a walk when he saw a flyer tacked to a noticeboard in the village square.
‘A writers’ group!’ Kamal exclaimed, pointing to the bright yellow piece of paper. ‘What a great way to make friends.’
My nose wrinkled. ‘I already have friends.’
‘I know, but they live over an hour away. It would be good for you to know someone local, too.’
I was too busy studying my husband’s excitement to reply. It had been so long since I’d seen him look so happy. My brain warned me why that was.If you make friends here, it means someone else can share the burden of being around you,it said darkly.
Kamal took a photo of the flyer and didn’t stop talking about the writing group until I caved and messaged its founder, Katherine. Part of me hoped she would say the group was full, but half an hour later she added me to a group chat with the other members. There were nine people in total, a number which surprised me. How many aspiring authors could live in one rural village, after all?
The group’s first meeting was a casual ‘get to know you’ chat at the local café, Coffee and Cake. The twee establishment sits alongside the equally inventively named bed and breakfast, Bramblethorpe B&B, and is decorated unironically in stereotypical tearoom style.
As well as myself, four aspiring authors attended the first meeting instead of the promised nine.
Alongside Katherine and Natalya were retired teacher David and new mum Vicky, but they didn’t come back. I got the feeling that the intensity of Katherine’s passion for writing may have scared them off.
The rest of us stuck it out, though. We meet weekly, sharing snippets of our work and asking for feedback. Even though the only things I’ve shared are old, half-baked ideas, it’s been nice. Fun, I’llbegrudgingly admit. But even if it wasn’t, that group is the one reason I have to leave the house. I owe it a lot.
Still, I’m trembling so much at the thought of the outside world that it takes me three attempts to button myself into my yellow coat. The switch from hiding out at home to being out in the bright, busy world often hits me like this. All my mind can think of is how many things could go wrong in the day. How many scary unknowns I wouldn’t have to face if I just stayed inside.
But every week, I push myself to go. For Kamal’s sake. Maybe even for my own.
A steady hum of nerves fuels me as I drive to the high street. Or what the locals call the high street, anyway. To me, the term means bustling boutiques and an abundance of cafés, but Bramblethorpe’s high street can be walked in less than a minute. And once you’ve visited the post office, the pub and the village store, you’ve pretty much seen it all.
‘Quaint,’ my sister Beth said when I drove her through the village after we put an offer in on the house. It was Beth’s polite way of saying, ‘What the fuck have you done?’