Page 49 of What It's Like in Words
He lives in Leyton in a ground floor with a garden.
Why do you make every man sound like a real estate ad?
I’m just saying, Noah would make an excellent date to a wedding…
I thought you filled the space?
We did. But you get my point.
I took a sticky sausage from a tray and was about to put it in my mouth when Amy caught someone’s eye like a ball had been thrown from across the room. She turned back to me, excited, and told me that Diana was coming over.
Enola, put the sausage down.
There was no table near, and so I wrapped it in a napkin and held it.
Diana, this is Enola, Amy said, with an instructive widening of her eyes to me. Enola is the writer of the enchanting chapters I emailed.
I shook her hand firmly with my non-sausage hand. Diana said that she had read my chapters, and I apologized. She laughed melodiously and said that Amy warned her I might do that.
Honestly, they were in much better shape than you might think. And I loved the premise. Often, a strong concept makes a bestseller. It doesn’t always matter about the writing. But luckily your writing is strong.
Are you sur—
Amy nudged me.
I mean,thank you.
She said that she loved the way I had used the animals, explaining that many teenagers retreated into fantasy to cope with adult situations.
It was strange talking about my story with an agent; Diana was speaking about a world that I’d created in my bedroom like it was real. She was the sort of woman who grew up in a two-parent household, had regular meals, went to Durham. She had clear skin, natural highlights, and a diamond on her finger. She made enough eye contact that I knew that she was listening but not too much that I felt uncomfortable. I liked her very much.
She said that she had to run. I have so much work to do, but I just wanted to stop by the party to say congratulations. She scrunched her lips at Amy, who scrunched hers in return. Before she left, she asked me to please send her the full manuscript.
Oh my god.
Amy waited until Diana was a distance away and then said: See, I told you it was good. I said that I didn’t know how to thank her. Don’t be silly, she replied, already stretching her arms out to the next person. This is all you, Enola. Own it for once!
I watched Amy move through the room with conviction and felt overwhelming gratitude that she was my friend. Then I ate the sticky sausage still crumpled in my hand.
He hadn’t returned, so I scanned the room for him and as I did, my eyes landed on Scott, an American comedy agent I had met once before. He bowed his head and strolled over, grabbing a glass of prosecco from a floating tray. He asked who I was looking for, and when I answered, he replied: So not me, then? From anyone else, it might have been sleazy, but Scott had a way about him. His accent was a coffee or an aftershave commercial. He navigated the conversation like he did the party: as if he had learned the choreography. We talked lightly. His client had a book out. A memoir for the socially inept. I smiled and said that was the title of my book too. When we parted, he gave me his card and said: In case you don’t find your boyfriend.
What is happening tonight?My head was light, and my chest was fluttering with excitement rather than anxiety. I wanted to stay at the party and be the person these people thought I was. But my heart pulled me outside to where he was still smoking. It was drizzling and cold. His hair was slicked back, and his Converse had holes where the rubber had ripped from the fabric. The bags beneath his eyes were globular, and his mouth was catfish-like. There were two cigarette stubs on the pavement by his feet.
Are you okay?
I can’t be at a book thing right now.
Is everything all right?
No, it’s notall right, Enola.
I looked down at my freshly polished boots. I’d made an effort tonight, but he couldn’t even put on a blazer? But then I felt guilty and apologized for the thought that he didn’t know I’d had. He told me that it was okay. Then he inhaled deeply and said: It’s just that I fucking hate this industry! It’s all marketing. And who you know.Andeveryone is either a columnist or a podcaster or went to Oxbridge! What am I meant to say to people in there? “Hi, I’m nearly forty and I work in a fucking bar”?
You are notnearly forty, and there is nothing wrong with working in a bar.
Enola, please. I’m not looking for you to fix this, okay?
I wasn’t trying to fix anything. I wastryingto say that your book is amazing and—
