Page 60 of The Wedding Forecast

And I am no longer chasing love, so it doesn’t matter anyway. If the universe is going to give me anything again (and let’s face it, it probably won’t), I would like book sales please.

To my great shame, I never replied to Patrick’s text message. I left it sitting there, telling myself I would deal with it once I wrote my word quota for the day, after dinner, tomorrow morning, after a walk. It was always the task I would do next, and I left it for so long, it became too embarrassing to do anything about. And so I accidentally ghosted him. I tell myself if I really wanted to see him, I would have replied. If we were meant to be, I would have done something about it. And I wouldn’t have written my book if I’d had any distractions. All I’ve done all year is work, basically—when I’m not at my day job, I’ve been writing the book.

But, really, I think the truth is I was too scared. A soulmate is a lot of pressure. I would probably screw it up. Better to leave Patrick as a lovely maybe, a could-have-been, a funny story, a plot for a future novel maybe. He can be a character in my mind, and a character in my next book, he can just belong to me, and I never have to be disappointed or let down or broken-hearted.

I turn back to my laptop. I am going back and forth on whether or not to give my two main characters a happy ending.

Do happy endings sell better?, I asked my editor once. My editor’s name is Samantha. She’s a year younger than me, which I find disconcerting, as I had always pictured an editor as an older parental figure, with a bun and glasses and an office filled with classics, never cracking a smile, her demeanour stern and unflinching. (This kind of editor would hate my books, so I don’t know why I ever wanted it.) Samantha signs off her emails with ‘Sam xxx’ and she writes funny notes and encouragement in her editorial comments on my Word doc and she sent me flowers when my first book went to print. She’s so nice that I find myself doubting any compliments she gives my work.

‘We aren’t writing the book to fit what we think sells better,’ she said in response to my question about happy endings, which answered my question. They do. And yet, I’ve written a sad, cynical ending. I’ve written it so the con man is in love with Stevie, and she’s in love with him, but they never tell each other, and she chooses to double-cross him and ruin his life.

20

THE HOTEL IS cute. And so expensive it makes my teeth hurt. And the room is incredibly small, which surprises me, because I know how much Hayley—or her work—is paying for it. But neither of us really cares.

‘We’re in New York!’ Hayley yells, looking out the hotel room window.

‘I know!’

We jump up and down like we’re thirteen. We first talked about going to New York together when we were teenagers, and watching Gossip Girl, both imagining ourselves as Blair Waldorf. It felt impossibly far away, not just geographically, but in every sense. Back then, we were two dorky Australian teenagers who had never been overseas. And now, we’re here.

It’s cold, freezing actually, but we have hats, gloves, scarves. We’re ready. We want, more than anything, for it to snow. We are still carrying the conditioning of every child of the Southern Hemisphere, the belief that a true Christmas experience is a cold one, a white one. We have dutifully hung snowmen decorations on our tree in the middle of summer. It’s time for some pay-off.

We need to do all the touristy things. We have arrived in the morning and we push through the space-y feeling of jet lag by walking to Times Square, and then we climb the Empire State Building, taking an absurd number of photos, and then Hayley has to go check in to her conference.

‘Mac said he would meet us for drinks and dinner,’ Hayley says, checking her phone.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Um. Great!’ I’m not ready. I feel sick. The flight, the jet lag, the change in temperature, the fact I was just standing in Times Square—it is all making me feel strange and out-of-body.

‘We don’t have to hang out with him the whole trip or anything, don’t worry, but I told Luke we’d have dinner with him.’

‘Oh no, it’s fine, he can hang out with us. If he wants to,’ I say. ‘Did he seem like he wanted to?’ It’s hard to sound casual when your heart is going a million miles an hour.

‘He asked about you.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Oh, just if you would be there, what you’ve been up to, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh. Cool.’

Hayley is rummaging in her bag.

‘What did you say back?’ I say, trying to make the question sound casual. Oh I’m just idly curious, no big deal.

‘I don’t know. That you’re here, you’re good, you’re finishing your next novel.’ Hayley shrugs.

‘And what did he say?’

‘I don’t think he said anything,’ she says. She looks up at me. ‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’

‘I always ask a lot of questions. I’m a question asker.’

‘Yes, but I’m getting a vibe.’

‘A jet-lag vibe.’

‘Let’s drink more coffee.’ Hayley has a theory that because we are only here for a week, it’s better if we never let ourselves adjust to New York time, and just live like we’re on Melbourne time but hardly sleeping and drinking lots of coffee. We will be sleeping, she assures me, but our bodies just won’t register it as sleep, and I nod along, even though none of what she is saying makes any sense to me. I’m just hoping the thrill of being in New York will get me through.