Page 78 of The Island Villa

“No. I was...” Cassie paused. “I was doing something else.”

What else?

It was unlike Cassie to be vague. Normally, she told Catherine everything, which did make for a simple life.

“Something relaxing, I hope.” She nudged gently. “Not job hunting.”

“Not job hunting. At least, not exactly.” Cassie hesitated and put her fork down. Achilles jumped into her lap, ever hopeful that he might be fed. “Actually, I have some news of my own. Something I’m very excited about.”

Catherine’s heart lifted. Suddenly, the evening felt almost close to normal. Exchanging news. Sharing. “Wonderful! We can celebrate together. It’s the perfect night for it. Tell us.”

Cassie’s cheeks were tinged pink. “I haven’t mentioned it before, for all sorts of reasons, but I’ve been writing. Fiction.”

Catherine felt surprise, closely followed by delight and pride.

“Cassie! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re brilliant at what you do, the best, and I was scared you would hate what I’d written and kill my confidence.”

Catherine was affronted. She wasn’t that bad of a mother, surely? “I’m sure I’ll love anything you’ve written. The last thing I would do is kill your confidence.”

But others would.

She felt a stab of concern. A good mother would probably encourage Cassie to be anything else but a writer. Cassie was gentle, soft-hearted and an optimist. Publishing was a brutal industry. Catherine couldn’t bear the idea of all that enthusiasm and spark gradually oozing out of her daughter.

People thought it was glamorous. Everyone wanted to be a writer—if she had a dollar for every time someone had said to her I’m going to write a book one day, she could have bought the whole of Greece, not just this idyllic corner of Corfu—but most people said that because they had no idea what being a writer truly involved. They imagined a romantic scenario where they spent endless days caught in a blissful froth of creativity, embracing the joy of being their own master while being paid a small fortune. The reality was that most writers could barely scrape a living. If indeed she was ever published, Cassie would be stabbed by reviews, crushed by rejection, demoralized by sales and the ever-increasing competition (Miranda! Everything came back to Miranda!), and she would discover that once the book left her hands, she had almost no control over its fate.

People assumed it became easier the more successful you were, but it was never easy.

A writing career was like the Twelve Labors of Hercules.

Cassie leaned forward, her excitement undimmed because fortunately she wasn’t able to read her mother’s mind. “Exactly! You’re my mother. You would have said you loved it, even if you’d hated it. I needed an honest opinion.”

Should she point out that opinions were just that? Opinions. They were subjective? One publisher’s rejection was another’s lead title. One reviewer’s best book ever was another’s worst thing I’ve ever read. There were big-name authors who had been rejected multiple times before finally snagging a deal for a book that went on to be a global bestseller. Publishing was often a gamble. A throw of the dice. A flip of the coin. Who could predict what the public would want next?

She often thought that a writing career was a little like boxing. It wasn’t just about the punch; it was about how many times you could haul yourself back on your feet when you were knocked to the ground.

But she would not kill her daughter’s dream. If you couldn’t be excited at the beginning, then when could you be excited?

Catherine envisaged a future where she was there for her daughter at all the low points (Andrew had been there for her, but he wasn’t a writer so he didn’t completely understand that indefinable seam of terror that was ever-present when you were trying to pluck creativity from thin air). She’d be able to give her the benefit of her wisdom and perhaps try to give her career a boost. Why not? Maybe it was unfair, but life was unfair. If you were thrown a rope, you should grab it.

“You can send it to Daphne. She’d be delighted to read it, I’m sure.” She sent a silent apology to Daphne who would of course read it to please her most successful and bankable client, and would then have to find a tactful way to tell her that she didn’t think Cassie’s work was up to publishable standards. Maybe she should at least inject a note of reality. “Even if it’s a rejection—and those are so common, even amongst the most successful of writers, so you really have to brace yourself for that—she will give you excellent and useful feedback. Daphne always has tremendous insight.”

“I don’t need to send it to Daphne.” Cassie was fiddling with her glass. There was a sparkle in her eyes. She was positively alive with excitement. “I already have an agent.”

“You have an agent? Since when? Who?”

“Madeleine Ellwood.” She didn’t explain who Madeleine Ellwood was. She didn’t need to. Every writer knew her, or knew of her. In literary circles, she was as famous as the writers she represented. Her nickname was the Mighty Madeleine.

Catherine felt a stab of emotion she didn’t immediately recognize.

Madeleine Ellwood was Miranda Patterson’s agent. Madeleine was known industry-wide as a sharp, savvy agent and was as hot right now as Miranda herself. Everyone wanted to be represented by Madeleine. If Catherine hadn’t been with Daphne, she would have wanted to be with Madeleine.

And Cassie, her own daughter, was with Madeleine.

And now she recognized the emotion. It was envy. Envy that her daughter was at the start of something that seemed so exciting and full of possibilities. She saw the future full of blue skies and sunshine, with no dark clouds in sight. It was all dreams, and hope, and anticipation.

Oh, how Catherine would have loved to have been back there again, at the start of the upward journey, with no insecurities.

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