Page 45 of Romantic Hero
The crowd titters.Especially romance?I feel my face go hot and it’s not from the flames of the bonfire. I know Henry is no great fan of romance novels – he’s often been peeved by how widely they sell over literary fiction, and he only read my first Bedlam Creek novel after I begged, but he’s never been so openly disparaging before. Well, except for the one time he laughed when I told him I had gotten nominated for a romance award on a popular Instagram account and he said, ‘Will it be black tie? WillThe Timesbe coveringit?’ Which needled me at the time, but seemed like nothing more than a silly joke.
‘Well, I think they’re wonderful,’ I say, my voice hardening a touch.
Henry rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. ‘I have no doubt about how hard you work, Gertie. You’re a talented writer and you deserve the very best. You know I believe that … But …morebookshop space dedicated to genre fiction could really take opportunities off real writers.’
Real writers?
I gasp, a sharp coil of anger making my eyes blur a little. How dare he?
I lift my chin. ‘Well, maybe if you “real writers” learned how to tell a story without meandering into navel-gazing, plotless, masturbatory prose long enough to keep a reader interested, you’d get those opportunities for yourself.’
The crowd start to hoot and holler and from beside me I hear River laugh out loud. I immediately move to apologise to Henry – my natural urge at times of conflict – but somehow, to my relief, I manage to hold it in and allow my words to settle over the crowd. I said what I said.
Henry holds his beer bottle up to me, but I can tell from the flex in his jaw that his teeth are clenched. One thing about Henry – as self-possessed as he is, he does not do well with looking less than, especially in a public setting. When he didn’t make it to the Booker Prize shortlist he took to our bed for a whole week, citing a virus that – as far as I could tell – had no symptoms beyond googling the names ofeveryone who had been shortlisted above him and reading their one-star reviews online.
He gathers himself and smiles abruptly. ‘Fair play, Gert.’
Marisol gives Henry an indecipherable look and then narrows her eyes teasingly at Sir Otto. ‘Any chance of a modern poetry section in there too?’ she asks with a laugh. ‘I’d loveStatements on Being – The Poetry of Marisol Keatsto be more widely accessible when it comes out next year.’
‘God save us all,’ Jim cracks, to which all of us laugh.
‘You’re all just a bunch of Neanderthals!’ Marisol cries in an over-the-top way, but she’s laughing too. Ugh, even in the face of ribbing she can hold herself with a confidence and elegance that I could never muster. I glance at River to see that he is also staring at Marisol in admiration. There’s a swift burn in my stomach at the sight of it, which is unexpected and annoying. I take a big swig of my beer, the thought soon lost in the distraction of Jim’s assistant Zo making her way towards the circle, carrying an obnoxiously large cake in the shape of a grandfather clock, after Jim’s bestselling book series The Grandfather Clock Mysteries.
‘Happy birthday to yooooou,’ she sings, nodding at us all, her pointed expression indicating that we should join in. ‘Happy birthday to yooooou.’
As we sing along, Jim claps his hands in delight and Zo places the cake on the banquet table.
‘Make a wish!’ she cries and we all watch as Jim’s smiling face becomes serious for a second before he closes his eyes and blows out the candles in one go.
‘Hip hip hooray!’ Henry shouts. ‘For this man we all admire and love deeply.’
‘Hear, hear.’ I clink my beer bottle to Jim’s. ‘Happy birthday, lovely man.’
Jim stands up and signals to the tuxedoed chamber orchestra waiting over in the wooded clearing. ‘Right! I only turn forty once, and my plan is to remember very little of it. So let’s get this party bloody well started!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Silver suits you,’ Henry declares, once the campfire crowd has dispersed and River has left my side to go grab us more drinks. He leans up against the trunk of a tree, eyes taking me in from top to toe. ‘You look … different. Shiny. It’s nice.’
Nonchalant. Elegant. Uninterested.Having the best time ever without him.‘Maybe I am different these days.’ I raise my arms, gather my hair and pull it over one shoulder. River said earlier that I should use any excuse to show off my armpits because they are – apparently – ‘very good armpits’. ‘Maybe I’m in the mood for a little … excitement.’
‘You’re acting differently too,’ Henry remarks, eyes narrowing a touch. ‘That comment before? About the navel-gazing?’
Do not apologise. Do not apologise.
He grimaces. ‘Please tell me that’s not in direct response to having read the manuscript pages I gave you?’
‘Oh, of course not …’ I say at once. ‘I mean, uh … I haven’t even thought about your pages, not one bit. I … I spit on your pages!’
‘Excuse me?’
Ugh, I’m getting this wrong. And I am also maybe a little drunk from the beers. And even if I weren’t drunk, I’venever been good at hiding my true feelings. Josie used to say I wore my heart on my face.
I take a deep breath.
‘What I mean is … I’m here to have fun this weekend. You can’t snap your fingers and have me come running, Henry.’
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise because, of course, that’s what I’ve always done. And happily. But what he said earlier has really gotten my goat. If there’s one thing I cannot stand it’s literary snobbery. The notion that books written for joy and entertainment and connection can’t also be beautifully done? Bullshit.
