Page 43 of The Book Swap
“Middlemarch? Mate, even I know that’s a huge book. I remember it from school. She’ll think you don’t want her to write back!”
“I know. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
But I do. I wanted to prove to Margins Girl that it isn’t just the chatting with her that I’m enjoying, but the reading as well. I thought if I chose a big book it would prove that, but now I’m really regretting it. I should have chosen something with far fewer pages. Animal Farm or Lord of the Flies. Something by John Steinbeck. They’re all thin enough to fit in the back pocket of a pair of jeans, and therefore wouldn’t involve endless wasted journeys to the library and back.
“This whole passing books to her where you’ve asked her questions and written little notes in the pages? You’re basically telling her you love her.”
I laugh, and Joel holds out his arm to slow me down.
“Woah. You heard me, right? I said ‘love.’ You know, that four-letter word that left you running for the hills after that Jenny declared it at uni.”
I push his arm down and jog on. “It doesn’t make me want to run quite so far, with her,” I shout back, waiting for him to catch up with me.
I’ve done nothing but think about her. The girl in my own novel now has brown hair and carries a rainbow tote bag. I’ve created a face for her in my mind. Blue eyes, warm and kind. Always laughing. A small nose. Ears that are slightly too big—because everyone needs a flaw, and I don’t want the version of her in my imagination to trump the real thing. I think it might be impossible, anyway, to create someone who tops the living, breathing writer of these words. She’s captured something in me. I can’t think about her without my entire body fizzing with excitement.
“I read the chapter you sent me,” Joel says, back beside me, and I turn to look at him. He’s letting the other stuff go, for now, and I’m fine with that. I didn’t really think he’d ever read what I sent him, and now he has, I want to know his thoughts. “It’s brilliant, mate. It’s really powerful. I knew you could write, from everything I read at school, but this is a whole other level. It reads like a proper book. Like a Dan Brown book.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it.” He’s right. Even I can see I’m getting better. Maybe it’s because I’m in the flow, but mostly I think it’s all the learning I’m doing with Margins Girl. “I emailed that agent who judged the first-chapter competition. The one who voted for me.”
“Yeah?” Joel’s grinning across at me, the way he does whenever I mention my writing. “What made you do that?”
“Margins Girl,” I reply. “She asked me if I ever thought about what I was doing with my life, and I wrote this answer back to her, and I realized how much I meant it. How much I want to be an author.”
“Finally,” Joel says. “I mean, I’ve been trying to tell you that for years, but I’m glad this stranger can manage it in one question. You’re still coming tonight though, right?”
Joel’s trying to build in a bit of work-life balance since the death of his colleague, and he’s intent on including me. Running club, trying new restaurants—and now a double date. I feel like I’ve got more than enough balance already with the job and the writing and the book swap, but after all he’s done for me, at school and ever since, I can’t find a reason good enough to say no.
“I’m coming,” I say, already dreading it.
A senior executive at work has handed some of his workload over, and it includes more client management, so I’m hardly getting a break. Everything else is slipping. Where I used to call Dad on my way to work, now I’m using that time to write or read or plan a new training program. Where I used to go out, now I’m at home at my desk, writing and plotting. And annotating books for a stranger.
On my way to meet Joel and our dates, I finally call home. Mum answers.
“Oh, darling, we were just talking about you. Flying so high with your job, while we sit here planning to tear up all the carpets!”
“Oh, it’s going ahead, is it?” I frown, massaging the back of my neck.
“Well, we can’t turn down a thirty per cent discount.”
“Is that it? You work there. You should get at least—”
“Your dad’s a bit worried I’m going too whacky with the colors, but I think a deep maroon will be lovely in the lounge. I’ve been googling lots of celebrities and did you know that Melinda Messenger has light purple everywhere. And Sandra Bullock has bright blue, so—”
“Those are probably not their real homes though, Mum. They’ll have just been paid to pose there.”
I can hear footsteps as Dad approaches.
“Hiya, James,” he shouts in the background.
“I was just telling him all about our house plans.”
“I heard.” There’s an impatient edge to his voice, which means Mum has probably been talking about nothing but carpets for days. That isn’t a great sign. My heart sinks at the thought of losing Mum again, so soon.
“For the bedroom I thought maybe a turquoise, so we’ve got some samples to test how that looks.”
I want to see if I can reason with her. If she’s open to suggestions, maybe she’s not as bad as she sounds. An ambulance passes me, and I turn to watch it drive by before I start speaking again.
“Mum, it might be worth keeping some of the money they’re paying you? Otherwise you’re just putting it all back into the shop, which sort of makes the job pointless. Well, not pointless, I’m glad you’re working, but—”