Page 79 of Is This for Real?
Rory puts his arm around me. “This is perfect. Got me out of work mode.”
Our score sheets are tied as we finish the course.
“We’ll have to have a rematch,” Rory says.
The hostess seats us at a table. Rory raises his glass to me. “Congrats again on the contest. I’m proud of you. I knew it was just a matter of persistence.”
“It definitely allays some of my doubt. Especially after so many agent rejections.” There’s still a big leap from a publisher liking the first three chapters to agreeing to publish the whole book. Twice withMidnight Masquerade, agents requested the full manuscript but then rejected it.
“I don’t understand the rejections,” Rory says, shaking his head.
“Maybe it’s just not what they’re looking for. I don’t fit the formula.”
“You’re better,” he says.
I’m not sure if we are still talking about my manuscripts.
The waitress lights the candle in the center of the table. I catch Rory gazing at me, and he's smiling crookedly, as if besotted. I suddenly feel very warm.
“That reminds me.” He digs through his coat pocket and fishes out a matchbox. “Saw this and saved one for you.”
Matchboxes are useful for miniaturists. You can create a 1/144th-scale scene or use them as drawers in a 1/12thpiece of furniture. And they’re hard to come by now that nobody smokes.
“Thanks.” I put it in my purse. “I’m impressed you remembered.”
“How could I forget? I still have the matchbox scene you made for me.”
I made Rory a littleMad Men1/144thscene when he first got his job. I figured he could hide it but still appreciate it.
“It sits on my desk at work and gets a lot of compliments.”
Rory suggests we order a dessert to celebrate. We order chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream to share. Our spoons clash while competing for bites.
“Last bite is yours, but only because we’re celebrating your contest win,” he says.
The contest win is forMidnight Masquerade, notFake Dating Folly, but it’s still a validation of my writing. I’m on the right path.
Chapter twenty-eight
It’sbeenacrazythree days. Rory has come home exhausted every night and climbed into bed, mumbling good night. We don’t need the roller pillow. Meanwhile, I’m dragging because I’m having a hard time falling asleep next to him. I’m all on fire, and he’s a log. So, it’s pretty clear that we’re just friends. And I do give myself a stern talking-to that being just friends is fine, but then I get sad and wallow in that for a while.
On the plus side, I’ve been rewriting non-stop, and my novel is getting better. Esther has been sending her revisions in fifty-page chunks, and I just sent a completely revised draft to her.
Today, Rory is showing the raw first edit of the commercial to the client. Then if Bernie and his team approve, they’ll go into post-production, which Rory mumbled last night is the studio editing period. London is known for excellent editing and graphic design facilities. But if the client doesn’t like it, then they’ll have to shoot it again. If Bernie and the team do like it and they go out for drinks or dinner, I am on call. But that’s not until later.
My friend Julia agreed to meet for lunch near her office, and she has comments onFake Dating Folly. I sent it to her at the same time I sent it to Esther.
Julia arrives, and we hug hello. As we eat, she gives me her comments. They’re similar to Esther’s, so I feel like I’m on the right track. She flags two areas where I could deepen the conflict.
“That’s so brilliant,” I say.
We discuss her latest work-in-progress, throwing around ideas, and lunch is over way too soon. I return to the hotel room reenergized to implement Julia’s suggestions. I do that, cackling.
And then I’m at the scene in my novel where my protagonist hides under the bed. I should see what that feels like so I can describe it realistically. I crawl under the bed, inching forward. I’m amazed that I fit. The carpet is rough against my clothes. And the dust bunnies are coming for me.
The door opens. Rory’s shoes. Should I stay under here, hoping maybe he will go to the bathroom? Then I can crawl out before he sees me. Or should I just brazen it out?
“Hi.” My voice sounds muffled under the bed. I’m not sure he heard me. “I’m under the bed.”
