Page 8 of The Island Villa

Cassie thought about the hours her mother spent at her desk, hair up in a messy bun, totally focused as she perfected her craft, writing and rewriting until she was exhausted. The implication that she threw out any old rubbish as fast as possible as some sort of commercial exploitation of the poor unsuspecting public made her want to break something.

Ted seemed to realize he was on dangerous ground because he lifted his hands by way of apology.

“No offense, Cassie.”

“Saying no offense, doesn’t cancel out the offense, Ted.” Felicia snapped out the words before Cassie could open her mouth. “And those trashy beach novels sell by the hundreds of millions for a reason. She tackles issues that are important to women. She’s the reason I dumped my last boyfriend. He was messing me around and I woke up one morning and thought, a Catherine Swift heroine wouldn’t allow herself to be treated this way, and that was it. He was history.”

Ted gulped and took a step backward. “Wow. Well that’s...kind of unsettling actually. I mean, I don’t read a crime book and then murder someone. But we all like different things.”

“True. But have you ever read a Catherine Swift book?”

“No.” The sweat on Ted’s brow wasn’t entirely due to the heat in the kitchen. “Not my kind of thing.”

“But if you haven’t read one,” Felicia said sweetly, “how would you know they’re not your kind of thing? You are an academic. You’re supposed to seek evidence to support your opinions, no?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and sent her a mortified look. “I’m sorry, Cassie. That was crass and insensitive.”

“Yes, it was,” Cassie said, but the truth was that she was used to it. She’d trained herself not to mind. And most of the time she didn’t. At least, not for herself. She minded a great deal for her mother who was clever and incredibly hardworking and had built a life for herself from nothing. In Cassie’s opinion, that deserved respect. She was inordinately proud of her mother.

She probably wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of making a living by writing novels had she not grown up with a mother who did precisely that. Catherine Swift’s job was to sit in front of a laptop, or sometimes a notebook, and make things up. How cool was that!

Cassie wanted to do the same, but she knew it was probably an unrealistic goal. The chances of earning a good living from writing fiction were miniscule. Success like her mother’s was a rare thing.

Cassie found that success inspiring, but also daunting and confidence-crushing, which was why she hadn’t told anyone except Oliver that what she really wanted was to be a writer exactly like her mother. Well not exactly like her. Cassie didn’t anticipate a fraction of her mother’s success. Right now, all she wanted was for someone to think her work was good enough to be published. That would be enough. That would be the dream.

She hadn’t mentioned her dream to her mother, even though they talked about everything else. Cassie just couldn’t talk about this. What if her mother wanted to read something Cassie had written? What if she hated it? That would be so awkward. And in the unlikely event that her mother liked what she’d written, she might have suggested showing it to Daphne, her agent, and Cassie couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing. People would think she was trying to capitalize on her mother’s name as a way into publishing, which was why Cassie had sent her manuscript to a different agent and made no mention of her mother.

She’d decided that she needed to do this on her own terms or she’d never believe in herself.

That had been two months ago and so far she’d heard nothing, which wasn’t a good sign.

At the beginning, she’d refreshed her email every ten minutes, heart pounding, fairy-tale scenarios flashing through her head. She was going to get an email, maybe even a call. Hers was going to be the manuscript they’d been waiting for.

When nothing had happened, she’d forced herself to restrict refreshing her email to once an hour. Now she’d given up. The agent’s website had said that they aimed to respond within eight weeks and they were past that which meant, in Cassie’s mind, they hated what she’d sent. It was so very bad they couldn’t even be bothered to reject her.

But she’d keep going, of course, even though her confidence was drooping like a plant in a heat wave.

Ted gave an awkward smile. “Yes, well, sorry again, and I really ought to talk to Rhonda about plans for the weekend.” He washed his hands and left the kitchen so fast he knocked into the counter.

Felicia stared after him and then shook her head. “I’m not sure about him.”

“He’s not saying anything that hasn’t been said before,” Cassie said. “You get used to it.”

“Ignore him. Your mother is a legend.” Felicia stole a piece of feta cheese. “She taught me everything I know about love and healthy relationships. Also, resilience. Her characters always find a way through, no matter how tough life is.”

Cassie’s insides warmed. “Thanks, Felicia.”

“Hey, it’s all true. If you want to get me a signed copy of her latest, I won’t say no. Italian or English—I’m not fussy.” Felicia popped the cheese into her mouth and smiled. “Must be cool, having a famous mother.”

“Mostly I don’t tell people. I only told you that time because I saw you reading one of her books the first summer we worked here together.”

Felicia leaned against the fridge. “So, another wedding. Will your half sister be there?”

Cassie’s stomach rolled. “I...don’t know.” She hadn’t allowed herself to think about that part. It was the one black cloud hovering over an otherwise sunny summer. “I’m hoping not to be honest. Does that make me an awful person?”

“Why would it?” Felicia shrugged. “It’s not as if the two of you are exactly close.”

Close? Cassie suppressed a hysterical laugh. The days when she’d secretly dreamed of being close to her “big sister” were long gone. That, she thought, was a bigger fantasy than being a published writer. She was more likely to hit The Sunday Times bestseller list than win a smile or a few warm words from Adeline. And she had no expectations of ever hitting The Sunday Times bestseller list.

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