Page 97 of Duke It Out
My phone buzzes. It’s Janey, up far later than is usual for her.
Just finished the chapters you sent. This is so beautiful… I couldn’t stop crying. Are you okay? xxx
I stare at her message, and then at the scene I’ve just written. Lady Georgiana is watching her love ride away, choosing duty over love, and her pain is excruciating.
I’m fine!
I type back the same answer I’ve given everyone. But my thumbs hover over my phone screen, and then, almost without meaning to I add:
Actually, not really. But I will be.
I turn back to my manuscript, my fingers flying over thekeys. If I can’t have my own happy ever after, at least I can write one for my characters. And maybe, just maybe finding my voice as a writer is its own kind of victory.
I decide to self-publish.Kate’s ex-lawyer friend in Glasgow sends me a long WhatsApp message about cover design and keyword categories and newsletter swaps and things I’ve never even thought of. I fall asleep reading marketing tips for authors. It’s overwhelming, but in a good way. And it’s exhilarating.
There’s something fiercely liberating about not waiting to be chosen. I don’t tell Charlotte when I hit the publish now button, because this isn’t about her anymore, it’s about me. And when the first few sales show up on the dashboard Janey comes over and the three of us celebrate with fish and chips from the little van that visits the harbour once a week. Two reviews come in, and they’re not from people I know. One five star, one four. I didn’t even pay these people to like it. I want to print them out and put them in a frame.
And then,five weeks on fromthe incident, as I think of it in my head, I look up to see a tall, broad shape silhouetted in the sunlight in the doorway of the coffee shop. My stomach drops.
“The woman who runs the farm shop tells me this can revive the dead,” says Jamie, pushing up his sunglasses and plonking a tub of tablet on the counter. “I figured it might work on a stubborn writer.”
Morag glances up from the coffee machine and gets a measure of the situation instantly. “Edie, why don’t you have a break just now? Go and sit over there by the window while we’re quiet and I’ll bring you a coffee. Jamie, do you want your usual?”
“You’re an angel,” he says, blowing her a kiss. He swipes the tub of tablet and makes a sweeping gesture in the direction of the window table. “After you, ma’am.”
I tuck myself into the corner and watch as he folds his long legs into the little wooden chair opposite and then sitting back in his usual laid-back sprawl, looking at me with a thoughtful expression.
“So, how’s it going?”
“Good.” I pick up the tub and read the label. The ingredients are basically sugar, sugar, and more sugar. It’s the ultimate Scottish treat and it reminds me of my Grandma Rose.
“Try it.” He grins. “I’m dying to know if it’s as good as the stuff our old cook used to make.”
“Don’t let Gregor hear you say that,” I say, laughing as I open the lid. The sweet vanilla-butter scent hits my nostrils, and my mouth starts to water. I offer him the tub.
“Oh, he wouldn’t mind at the moment. He’s too loved up to notice.”
I sit back and nibble on a piece. “Oh really?”
Jamie waggles his eyebrows and nods. “Not that he’d admit it of course, but…”
“He and Janey were only a matter of time.” I knew I hadn’t been imagining the unspoken tension between them…
Jamie’s eyes widen. “Janey? I was talking about his new spaniel puppy.”
I put a hand to my mouth.
“But now I want to know all the gossip. What have I been missing?”
I shake my head, mouth full of tablet. “Nothing,” I say a moment later. “Oh god, please don’t say anything about the two of them.” I’ve screwed up enough already without creating gossip about Janey and Gregor, two people who’ve been nothing but kind and generous to me.
“Say anything about what?” Morag puts our coffees down on the table and looks at me with her head cocked. She’s a fiend for any kind of village gossip and nothing gets past her. Sometimes I think she only runs the coffee shop so she can keep tabs on everyone. I kick Jamie under the table.
“Nothing,” we say in unison.
Jamie takes a sip of coffee and looks at me beadily. “I want details, Jones, but they can wait. I’m here on a mission.”
I swallow. I’ve worked hard this last month to find my feet and try to stop thinking about Loch Morven, which has been pretty hard going in in a village named after the castle, in a community that’s driven by the estate, with two friends who rely on Rory’s foundation for their wages.
