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We walked through the reception area, nodding a hello to the hotel manager as we went. The poor man had had his work cut out for himself the other night, what with the mix-up over retreats and then rooms. I must remember to leave the hotel a glowing review on Tripadvisor.

‘As I was saying . . . I thought that maybe we could share whatever we did last night. You were working, right? Only I thought I heard you on your laptop,’ said Theo.

I was not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that I’d heard him typing away, too. And actually, I’d had to press my ear up against the door to be sure, so had he done the same thing? What else had he heard?

I followed him upstairs to the first floor and our weird intertwined rooms.

‘Mine’s not really shareable yet,’ I said, hoping to put him off. ‘It’s just notes. I doubt it would even make sense.’

Things had been different when we were fresh out of the writing course, full of hope and optimism, excited at the prospect of writing anything at all, let alone a whole novel, which had seemed impossible: all those words! I was an actual, proper author, now, even if hardly anyone was buying my books anymore, and for some reason Theo asking to see my ‘work’ was putting the sort of pressure on me that I didn’t feel when Carla asked to read something, or my editor at Saturn House. I had this sense that Theo would be expecting something I couldn’t deliver. A fully formed idea. A clue as to what was actually going to happen once our male protagonist went into the sea after the row with his wife.

Theo hesitated outside his door.

‘Look, whatever we’ve been doing on our own sinceLittle Boy Lostclearly isn’t working for us. Is it? There’s somethingmissing and, tough as that is to admit, it’s reflected in our sales.’

‘You don’t know anything about my sales figures,’ I protested. He was making a lot of assumptions here.

‘You literally told me that your publisher wasn’t happy with them.’

Damn. Why had I done that, again?

Theo pulled his key out of his pocket.

‘Unless of course you’re reluctant to share because you’re worried that your ideas won’t be quite as good as mine . . .’ he suggested with a glint in his eye.

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I said, rising to the challenge.

‘Oh dear, have I hit a nerve?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow at me.

‘Hardly,’ I said, struggling to get my key in the lock and having to bend down to peer more closely at it because the bloody thing just wouldn’t turn. ‘I’ll have them over to you in the next half an hour.’

As much as my notes were in a complete mess, there was no way on earth I was going to let him think he had the upper hand.

‘Can’t wait,’ he said, grinning at me and then effortlessly turning his key and gliding into his room leaving me steaming with indignation in the hallway.

Once I was finally back in the safety of my room, smarting about our exchange, I threw myself down at my desk, combing through the notes I’d made the night before. I’d worked through until two in the morning and they’d become progressively less coherent as they went along, even if Iwasused to working late. But it was a starting point, wasn’t it, and I wasn’t going to let Theo make me feel bad about my process. There was value in hashing things out on the page, in not being sure, in questioning yourself and your work.

Just as I was giving the document a final read-through, an email from Carla to both Theo and me slid into my inbox, sitting there ominously in bold at the top of the page. I braced myself and clicked on it.

Guys, I wanted to share some exciting news with you. I’ve taken the liberty of getting the word out with editors and publishers both here and in New York, and I cannot tell you how excited they are about your collaboration. Several of them have already requested a first look. I’ve got a very good feeling about this, so get writing and when you have some chapters to share, ping them over asap. I’m feeling an auction coming on, which will hugely bump up your advances not to mention the marketing budget.

Happy writing, both of you!

Carla

PS hope the couples therapy is proving useful . . .

I read it again and then one more time for good measure, trying to ignore her comment about the couples therapy because no, it wasn’t proving useful, and focusing on the point of the email which was altogether more positive. For the last couple of years I’d sent my book proposals and my first drafts and my final drafts off to my publishers with trepidation, not entirely sure that they were going to love them as much as I did. And now there was supposedly this buzz about a novel that we hadn’t even started writing yet. I was a little bit put out, because it basically played into the narrative that I needed Theo to be a success, but I was excited, too, obviously, because the more editors who were interested, the more likely we’d be to get an offer, potentially a very good one. I replied to Carla, keeping it short and copying Theo in.

That’s brilliant news, Carla. We’ll let you know as soon as we have something to share.

S x

Then I opened up my notes from the night before again, shifting them around and putting them under headings so that it would be easier for Theo to understand where I was going with it: Hook Ideas; Character; Plot (this category was the sparsest); Themes. And then I pressed send. I imagined Theo at his laptop, opening my message, skimming through it, probably being judgemental about the lack of actual content. I could picture him frowning, taking it all in. Perhaps he was out on his balcony. Had he changed out of his yoga shorts? Was he in his towelling robe? In his pants? In the shower? The thought of that gave me butterflies in my stomach again which I instantly dismissed, annoyed with myself for entertaining the idea that I was in any way interested in Theo’s attire or lack thereof. I made myself a cup of too-weak English Breakfast tea and as I was trying to decide whether it would taste better or worse with UHT cream in it, my laptop pinged and I nonchalantly wafted over, checking my inbox casually.

I opened the message.

Thanks for this. Looking forward to reading. Here’s mine.