Page 13 of The Plot Twist

‘You need to get that?’ she asked.

A slight flush rose in his cheeks. ‘No, no, it’s just my Uber.’

So, he wanted a quick getaway, too? Allie felt a little less bad for ushering him so speedily out of the door and she couldn’t help but admire his immaculate timing and his attention to detail that meant his Uber arrived just as she was asking him to leave.

‘Ok, well, bye then.’ Dominic walked past Allie, briefly placing his hand on her shoulder as he did so. She couldn’t help comparing the lack of electricity in his touch to that she had felt with Will earlier.

‘Oh, Dom?’ she said as he reached her front door. He turned and the look on his face told her he half expected her to beg him to stay. ‘Can I have my key?’ Dominic’s face fell as he reached in his pocket. He held the key up and then put it in the little dish on the table by her front door. And then he walked through that door and was gone.

Allie stood for a moment and then a thought occurred to her about the immaculate timing of Dominic’s departure and the expression that had crossed his face when he had received the arrival message from his Uber driver. She walked into her bedroom, which overlooked the road. Going to the window, she pushed apart the shutters and watched Dominic walk down the front path. On the street in front of her flat she saw a red sports car, which couldn’t be his Uber, because Uber didn’t send red sports cars. But it was the only car that she could see that had someone sat in the driver’s seat. Allie shifted her position to get a better look, her interest now piqued, and sure enough Dominic walked towards the car and opened the door, illuminating the inside of the car. Allie watched for a few more seconds before turning away and throwing herself on her bed. She stared up at the ceiling thinking that it was unusual for an Uber driver to be female, and that if Allie was an Uber driver she’d probably wear something super comfortable like a sweatshirt and jogging bottoms to drive around in, because it couldn’t be very practical to be wearing such a tight and low cut top for hours on end. And as Allie rolled herself up in her duvet and pulled one of her pillows over her head, she wondered how much extra you had to tip an Uber driver to be kissed on the lips like Dominic had just been.

* * *

The first thing Allie felt when she woke the next morning was relief, relief that Dominic had gone, relief that it was over. But as she stood and waited for her kettle to boil and watched the birds fight over some crumbs in her back garden, she began to feel anger that she hadn’t had the guts to end things sooner. Allie poured the boiling water into her tiny one-person teapot, angrily sloshing the water over the work surface and wondering if she would ever have someone in her life who would make it necessary for her to get her bigger teapot out again; her anger only increased as she castigated herself for getting maudlin and over dramatic about teapots.

Taking her tea to the large farmhouse-style table, she sat on one of the benches and pulled her laptop towards her. Maybe this could be useful? She was actually feeling something for once, even if it was mild rage rather than burning ardour. Allie’s hands hovered over her keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike. She waited for some time, refusing to allow herself even a sip of her tea until she had at least written a sentence. But then her hands started to cramp and her tea started to get cold and, in frustration, she pushed her laptop away and picked her mug up, cradling it in her hands as she looked out the window.

Aimlessly, Allie picked her phone up and started scrolling. It was a complete energy, time and emotion suck and sometimes Allie wished she had the strength to be like one of those worthy writers who disengaged from their phone and social media when they wrote. But she wasn’t and so here she was, scrolling through her feeds and making sure to like the latest picture of her literary agent’s four-month-old munchkin. When Mary Beth had announced she was pregnant, Allie’s first reaction had been to panic, but in hindsight it was probably a good thing that Mary Beth was on maternity leave and not constantly breathing down her neck and asking where her manuscript was. Allie wasn’t sure if this was a chicken and egg situation though; had Mary Beth been breathing hard enough, perhaps Allie might have managed to produce something – anything – by now. But Mary Beth was happily ensconced in nappy land and had better things to be dealing with than a neurotic, self-centered author and as she had signed off with a strong belief that Allie knew exactly what she was doing, and a brief introduction to the agency assistant who would help out should Allie need anything urgent, Allie now found herself freewheeling towards professional Armageddon.

Perhaps she ought to call Martha who would likely have some advice to give her on both Dominic and the writing situation, but then she decided that the kind of advice Martha would give would be good advice, and Allie didn’t want good advice, she wanted someone to commiserate with her. And while Martha had many strong points, commiserating was not one of them.

Obviously, as her sister, Martha was an essential part of Allie’s life. Who else could sympathise about their parents, recall ridiculous minutiae from their childhood, and still fight about an incident from twenty years earlier? And who else would Allie be able to speak to as her true, authentic self, and know that despite this, Martha would still always answer her calls? But despite all the positives, Martha didn’t do wallowing, she didn’t believe in sitting with uncomfortable feelings and analysing emotions. Martha believed in getting up and getting things done. Whereas Allie believed in long baths, mulling things over, and taking her time with decisions. Which was why Martha was a scientifically driven pharmacist working in clinical research and drug design and Allie was an English graduate who liked to play with words. Or not, as her current situation suggested. Allie looked accusingly at her laptop and leaned back as far as she dared on the kitchen table bench pondering once again her predicament as to what she was, if she wasn’t a writer.

Allie’s phone buzzed with a message from Jess, politely reminding her that they had arranged to meet in the pub that evening and could Allie please not be late this time because Jess really didn’t want to have to make small talk with Tom’s colleagues. Allie had met Jess their final year at university; Jess was a year older, studying languages and was returning from a gap year in Spain. She was tanned and healthy-looking, the way no one could ever manage naturally if they spent their summers solely in the UK. Jess only knew the other returning language students, and Allie had recently broken up with her university boyfriend and was determined to put him and his obnoxious group of friends behind her. Jess announced that this was the perfect moment to make lifelong friends, deeply suspicious as she was of people who met their BFFs during freshers week; because who made their best decisions when they were drunk and anxious and sleep deprived? It was the friends made in your final year that counted, she said. The ones made when you had a bit more of an idea of who you actually were, and were still hopeful for the future, the light not yet extinguished from your spirit by job interviews and corporate soul snatching.

Yes, Jess was what she needed tonight. Jess would give her some good advice and comfort. Fortified with that thought, Allie rallied and opened up her laptop again. She would talk to Jess. Tonight. But not before she had written 2,000 words.

ChapterThree

It turned out it wasn’t hitting her word count that got Allie out of the door that evening or even fear of Jess’s wrath if she was late. In fact, Allie was early, really early. Early enough to be sat in a virtually empty pub while she waited for the 9-5ers to finish for the day. She nursed a glass of wine and tried to put from her mind the reason she was so early – that after four hours of staring at an empty word document Allie had fled her flat, escaping from the judgement of the blank white page of her computer screen.

And so Allie was guiltily daytime drinking in one of her and Jess’s favourite haunts, an old-school pub in the heart of Soho, a tiny warren of dark-timbered rooms with the bar in the room at the front, overlooking the street. It was here that Allie had sat, thinking that inspiration might strike. Why not? It was atmospheric and cosy, it was quiet but there were enough customers to people-watch, perhaps this was what had been missing from her life? She didn’t need romance, she needed a more inspiring workspace. And it wasn’t as if she was asking for a fully fleshed-out plot, not even the bare bones of a synopsis, or even a title, all she needed was a tiny germ of an idea that she could sculpt and mould into something she could email to Verity without hanging her head in shame.

But the only thing that was filling Allie’s head right now was Will, the hot waiter from the night before, and wondering what he was doing right now. Wondering if he had a catering job that evening and if so where it was. Wondering if their paths might ever cross again and hoping that they would. She thought also of Martin Clark, the crime novelist, and his depressing revelation that he too could no longer write. Allie really didn’t want to be in his position in thirty years’ time, washed up and irrelevant with one unwritable book still under contract. She wondered how he spent his evenings; did he also watch passers-by, looking for inspiration? Although his kind of inspiration would be quite different, she supposed; instead of wondering what romantic plans they had for the evening he would be wondering which one to kill off first.

Allie’s eye was caught by a group of bankers who seemed to have veered off course and got lost on the seedy streets of Soho. Or perhaps this was where they intended to be all along, making their way to a strip club to expense their sordid activities on their corporate credit card. They were definitely bankers, Allie could tell from the way they dressed and the entitled manner in which they walked the street. It reminded her of Dominic’s colleagues, and she took an angry swig from her glass.

That one,she thought to herself.That one in the lead. With his pink shirt and expensive-looking loafers, he’s the one I’d kill off first.Allie was startled by this train of thought and looked around her, hoping that she hadn’t actually said any of this out loud. But the pub was as quiet and sleepy as it had been before murderous thoughts had infiltrated her brain. Satisfied that she hadn’t caught the attention of anyone in the pub, Allie turned back to her people-watching and wondered just how her murderer would do it. And who would be next on his list. By the time Jess walked in thirty-five minutes later Allie had worked out a central cast plus a few supporting characters along with the opening scene. She was beginning to wonder what Martin was making all that fuss about. Crime writing seemed to be easy.

‘Hey you,’ Jess greeted her, sliding into the bench alongside Allie and kissing both her cheeks. Jess’s silky brown bob had, as was traditional, defied the weather. Allie did a brief pat of it and sighed as she tried to park her inevitable jealousy over just how it was possible that hair could look this good when it was ninety-eight per cent humidity outside and her own waves just turned to frizz. ‘Don’t touch the hair, bitch,’ hissed Jess, making Allie laugh. ‘I spent a small fortune on this at lunchtime and it will be ruined by the morning.’

‘Seriously?’ Allie narrowed her gaze and studied Jess’s hair. ‘It looks … exactly the same as it always looks.’ Allie gulped. ‘Amazing, that is,’ she quickly added, noticing the savage look on Jess’s face.

‘Only you could get away with that.’ Jess picked up Allie’s wine glass and took a large sip, a tax for Allie’s perceived slight. ‘All the Gen Zs have been raving about this new blow dry bar.’ Jess ran her hand through her bob. ‘Thought I’d give it a go, try to keep up with the youth, y’know?’ Allie smirked, Jess was constantly bitching and moaning about her co-workers but was secretly more happy and fulfilled in her job than a thirty-something corporate Londoner had any right to be. She had put her language degree to precisely no good use and ended up working at an advertising and design agency where, as far as Allie could make out, she spent her days terrifying and inspiring the junior staff, cadging freebies and getting promoted about every six months.

‘So how was last night?’ Jess asked on her return from the bar. She dumped most of the bottle of sauvignon she had been carrying into her own glass, before offering what was left to Allie.

‘It was OK.’ Allie scrunched her nose up hoping her response would be enough for Jess and knowing that, of course, it wouldn’t be.

‘What’s OK mean?’ Jess asked sharply, tipping her glass back and swallowing a frighteningly large amount of the contents in one go. ‘Did you talk to Verity?’

‘Yes.’

Jess gave her a pointed look. ‘And didtalkingto her cover the topic of you not being able to write a new book?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘And not exactly means you covered the broad outline and Verity is on board and happy to help? Or you said nothing and dodged the topic entirely?’

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