Page 119 of The Next Chapter

There’s a beat of silence that feels monumental. That is, until Phil says, ‘Good idea, Lily,’ and Clementine says, ‘I could pop to the bakery down the road for today.’ Seb squeezes my shoulder and says, ‘That was painful.’

But I feel lighter, like I’ve grown an inch or two.

‘I’d better get on,’ I tell Seb. ‘I have that meeting with Mr Vandergilden in ten minutes.’ I pull my headphones out of my desk drawer and begin the process of disentangling the wire, looking down at the notes I’d made ahead of our meeting.

* * *

Mr Vandergilden – final check list

Statute of limitations?

Does second affair add to narrative – Already established that you were a hit with the ladies.

Trigger warning for hunting chapters?

I open the Zoom meeting, even though I really am too tired to deal with this today. My headache is so expansive that it’s spreading down my nose, which I didn’t think was a thing.

‘Eat this.’ Seb shoves half a croissant at me, and I wolf it down. I don’t have the energy to worry about that reel I saw of a croissant being made and the shocking butter to pastry ratio.

The screen fills with Mr Vandergilden as I swallow the last bite.

‘Laura, is that you?’ His face is so close to the screen that I can see the broken capillaries across his nose, which make the end of it look super red. Like Rudolph.

I stifle a laugh at my own joke. ‘It’s Lily.’

‘What?’

‘My name, it’s Lily.’

‘Huh, I was sure that you were a Laura.’

‘Nope, that’s not my name.’

He mumbles something that’s hard to make out under all the hair on his face. Probably a good thing.

‘Anyway.’ I draw it out, feeling vaguely reckless. ‘Shall we get started?’ I ask. He answers with more mumbled nodding.

We run through my checklist (don’t worry about that, yes, no) and a couple of things that he’s noted that aren’t quite right.

He’d like me to expand on the chapter we’ve entitled, ‘from the woods to the plate,’ for instance. The result is a book that’s hedonistic, completely immoral and totally offensive.

I’m slightly in awe of the fact that this is the legacy that he wants to leave.

‘If you’re happy with it, we can get it to the printers early next week and ship you your copies?’ I ask him.

He coughs. ‘That’ll do nicely, missy. So long as I get it for my birthday, I’m gonna give everyone a copy.’

I nod. This has been the plan all along, to work towards his October birthday deadline.

‘Normally, people give them out at Christmas,’ I tell him, just making conversation while I type.

He coughs again.

‘Nah, won’t be here by then, not according to the docs at any rate.’

I stop typing and look up. Now that he’s said it, maybe under all of his facial hair I can see that he looks a bit thinner around the jowls.

It’s not a particularly unusual situation. Writing the memoirs of a dying man. Women tend to get theirs done earlier in my experience, but men often wait until they’ve had the final, ‘get your affairs in order,’ talk with their doctors.