I’ve had the chance to read the start of your book, sent to me by Libby Quinn at Once Upon A Book. As you will be aware, I will be visiting Derry on Thursday, and would appreciate having some of your time to discuss your work. Perhaps we could meet at the bookshop half an hour before the event?
Jo stared at the email as she processed all the feelings welling up inside of her.
She’d hoped to at least get a hint of how he felt about her work, but he had given her nothing to go on. But he did want to meet her, and she wouldn’t have long to wait. So while she did feel disappointed that he hadn’t given her any feedback in his message – and that she had spent hours trying to be chill about an email which neither confirmed or refuted her ability as a writer – she also knew she was lucky. This was happening. Ewan McLachlan wanted to meet her to talk about her book. In less than forty-eight hours.
She was just about to switch her phone off and try, probably in vain, to go back to sleep, when another message notification pinged.
It was a WhatsApp from Lorcan.
Had fun today. What other touristy treats can you show me? I promise not to steal from your bag again.
Jo was very surprised to find that when she lay back down, determined not to answer any message in the wee small hours, lest it give the wrong impression, that she had a smile on her face.
13
Tomorrow Never Dies
When Jo woke again, it was eight in the morning and she could hear Clara stomping down the stairs to get her breakfast. She looked, bleary-eyed, at her phone – the hazy memory returning of both her email from Ewan and her message from Lorcan. One made her feel nauseous and the other made her feel jittery. Excitement mixed with trepidation and just a little dash of growing bravery.
However, as realisation dawned on her that there really was just one day until Ewan McLachlan visited Once Upon A Book and talked to her about her book, it was clear the nausea was going to win this particular battle.
She sat up and sipped from the now warm glass of water on her bedside table and tried to figure out a way to pull herself together enough to act like a strong and confident author in just thirty-six hours.
She was distracted from her impending nervous breakdown by the sound of tiny hands hammering on her bedroom door. ‘Come in!’ she called, and watched as the handle turned and Clara, dressed in her school uniform of joggers and a logoed sweatshirt, walked in brandishing a hairbrush and a green scrunchie.
‘I’ve had my breakfast and brushed my teeth and can you please brush my hair today and put it in a ponytail?’
Clara climbed up on the bed in front of Jo and waited for her to start brushing.
‘Of course I’ll do that, Clara. Did you have nice dreams last night?’ Jo asked.
‘I don’t remember,’ Clara said, sitting as still as a statue while Jo brushed her hair. ‘Is today a work day or school day or home day for you?’ Clara asked.
‘It’s a home day. I’m taking some time off from the bar to work on writing some stories.’
Clara’s eyes widened. ‘Writing stories? Like I do in school? But you’re a grown-up.’
‘Grown-ups write stories,’ she said. ‘Lots of them. We make things up and tell stories and then we share our stories with people.’
‘Will you share your stories with me?’ Clara asked, her eyes wide with wonder. ‘You could come to my school and read them to the class. We had a lady come in who read us a story and did all the voices and everything.’
Jo thought of her rather dark crime novel, and just how traumatic it might for a class of six-year-olds to hear her do the voices of some very bad people. ‘Hmmm, the kind of stories I write aren’t really for children. They’re scary stories.’
Clara pulled a face, which made Jo laugh out loud. It was somewhere between horrified and disgusted. ‘No, don’t read scary stories. We don’t like those. I get scary dreams sometimes. Maybe you could come and read Guess How Much I Love You, or one of my Peppa Pig books? Or that book Granny got me, about the Little Mermaid?’
‘I’m sure I could do that someday if your school would like it,’ she said, and Clara nodded enthusiastically.
‘We have mammy helpers and daddy helpers come in all the time to help us read or play or draw. Maybe big sister helpers would be allowed too.’ She looked so excited that Jo felt as if her heart would burst. She pulled Clara into a giant hug and told her she was the best girl in the entire world before giving her a kiss and promising to read her two stories at bedtime.
She watched as Clara jumped down off the bed, her ponytail swinging as she left the room singing a song of her own creation about big sisters. Jo couldn’t help but marvel at just how quickly Clara had rallied from her upset of just two days ago. At six, her little sister could pull herself together and focus on the here and now better than Jo could manage. Clara could see the good and positive in almost everything, despite all the upheaval she had endured in her young life.
Ewan’s email played through her mind again. If she were Clara, she would grab on to that and enjoy it. Approach it with the no-nonsense problem-solving of a six-year-old. Seize the day and just get on with it. Find her readers. Face whatever Ewan would tell her and move on from it.
Jo vowed then she’d do more of what made her happy and, in that moment, she had a strong feeling that would involve spending more time with Lorcan.
With flutterings of excitement, she grabbed her phone and typed a quick message to him.
The world, or at least, the North West of Ireland is our oyster. Let me know when you’re free and if there’s anything you want to see.
Jo dropped her phone on the bed and headed to the bathroom to take a shower, feeling lighter than she had done in days. As she shampooed her hair, Jo started to plan some of the things they could get up to during Lorcan’s time in Ireland. Hadn’t Harry said he was staying for a few weeks? If so, there was a lot they could do. Admittedly, if she had a car, and could drive, it would be easier, but that was a never a skill she felt the need to learn. She was generally happy to walk wherever she needed to go, or to bus it, or occasionally get on her bike and cycle.
It struck her that if she could borrow Noah’s bike for Lorcan, they could cycle some of the new bike routes leading out of the city. The roads to Buncrana, just over the border into Donegal, were fairly flat and on a nice day the view was spectacular. They could stop and grab an ice cream in the sleepy seaside town before making their way back to Derry. Or, better still, they could grab a bag of chips in the Four Lanterns, douse them with salt and vinegar and eat them at the shoreline staring out at the water. No chips ever tasted as good as those eaten directly from the paper by the sea.
Her mind filled with plans as Jo rinsed her hair off and conditioned it. She used her favourite moisturising shower gel and even shaved her legs.
When she dried off, she took extra time to calm the natural frizz of her hair into something sleek and manageable and she dabbed Jo Malone Red Roses into the nape of her neck and the pulse points on her wrists. She dressed in black leggings, a white T-shirt and wore her red bandana-style hairband to keep her curls from her face.