Page 58 of Love At First Fright
“I need a few sapphic romance books. I’ve made a list, do you think you could order them?”
“You just want me to get you a few books? That’s it. Hire me forever.”
“I take it that’s not an outlandish request then?” Rosemary smiled.
“Not in the slightest, I’ll have them for you tomorrow. Can I ask what they’re for?”
“To help me convince a friend of something.”
Lyn tapped their nose. “Gotcha.”
21
Rosemary felt the arrival ofdawn before actually seeing it through a window, a pale pink light slowly rising from the horizon beneath the trees.
In the early hours of the morning, Rosemary placed Lyn’s sapphic book selections in the ruins, where she’d found the letters, hoping that they would convince Juliet that nothing about how she felt for Cecilia was wrong. Not seeing Juliet nearby, Rosemary had come back to the Gatehouse, unable to sleep.
She’d tried, but then she’d checked her email. Big mistake. There was an email from her editor—this time she’d highlighted in bold the date they would need the full manuscript. Rosemary compared the date to her plan, bile rising in her throat. There was no way she could make that deadline. Not even if she wrote solidly for the next two weeks.
She cracked her knuckles, and clicked Reply. She wrote that she needed more time, that this book was a struggle and she was sorry to be letting them down. Rosemary didn’t think; the second it was written, she pressed Send. Now it was out of her hands, and she’d told them the truth.
Hours later, when she woke up with the dawn, head slumped on her desk, Rosemary noticed the little “new message” icon had popped up on her screen. She rushed to click it.
No problem at all, we can move the pub date. I’ll talk to the team and get an updated transmittal date for you, but for now don’t stress. We’ll make it work.
Sent from my iPhone
Rosemary leant back in her chair and watched the sun climb over the trees, listening to the dawn chorus of robins, jackdaws, and blue tits. She had tortured herself for months about what they would say, and after all of that, they’d just been supportive. In hindsight, she couldn’t imagine them being any other way, though she did have some concerns about her editor’s work-life balance—no one should be replying to emails at 4a.m.
Rosemary’s work wasn’t over; she still had to write the damn book. But the idea of loading up her Word document felt a fraction less daunting now. Perhaps even exciting.
She still had hours before the workday—more like a work evening and night—started, but she couldn’t sleep anymore. She had the peculiar urge to knock on Ellis’s door and tell him about getting an extension to her deadline, but she hesitated. Were they at that stage yet?
Feeling energised, Rosemary showered and got into her cosy writing clothes, which consisted of cotton pyjama shorts, fluffy socks, and one of her dad’s old university sweaters. She didn’t want to write in her room, she needed a change of space, so she hauled up her heavy old laptop and took it downstairs to the living room.
The house had settled into silence; everyone was still in bed.
Winter sunlight spilled in through the living room’s tall windows, dust motes floating in the air around her. It was surprisingly warm, a little stuffy even, smelling of musty books and parchment and a recent fire.
She settled herself on one of the biggest armchairs, tucking her legs underneath her.
“Rosemary?”
She looked up to find Ellis there, Fig’s lead thrown over his shoulder. At his feet, Hank was sitting patiently. She wanted to tell him about Hank, but she didn’t even know the context. Had he passed away at an old age? Or had he been sick? And even if she knew the context, how could she broach the conversation if she didn’t have a hagstone? If she was going to tell Ellis she could see ghosts, she needed to be able to prove it to him at the same time.
Rosemary felt her stomach swoop, with both longing and something else. Something that made her feel as warm inside as if she’d been sitting in sunlight.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he asked.
It wasn’t fair that he could say the wordbedand it was enough to have her insides squirming. “My editor gave me an extension on my writing. Now that I have more time, I—”
“You wanted to write again at a more leisurely pace,” he said, coming over to her, draping the lead on the chair beside hers.
“Exactly.” She knew he’d understand her. “What about you? I thought A-list actors needed their beauty sleep?”
“Unfortunately for my sleep cycle, Fig doesn’t know what a night shoot is. I’ve just been around the fields with her, and she’s already run upstairs and is probably napping on my bed now.”
“Alright for some.” She smiled.
