‘Just think, this time next week you’ll be married,’ says wide-eyed Cara.
‘I know. It’s mad, isn’t it? I can’t believe it,’ says Vanessa.
Neither can I. It seems that nearly all my friends are getting married, and most of them met their significant others way after I met Will.
‘Maybe one of you two will catch the bouquet,’ she continues.
I smile politely. I don’t even bother trying to these days. What’s the point when I know I’m not going to be next. Will told me a few years ago that he’d ask me at the right time. I’ve since learnt that his definition of the right time is when Southampton win the Premiership. And I think they’ve got about as much chance of that happening as I have getting my novel published and it hitting the bestseller charts.
‘Not me,’ says Cara, ‘I stay away from those things. I’ve got too much exploring to do to be the next one down the aisle.’
‘Blimey, Cara, if you’re the next one down the aisle then my mum really will have kittens,’ I say laughing. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ she says, giving me a little arm rub. ‘But I hear that Southampton are doing well this season. Maybe this year’s the year.’
‘Now you sound like Will.’ Ever since Leicester City won the league, he’s been convinced that Southampton are going to do the same. ‘No, but really, I’m fine not getting married. We practically are anyway – we live together, we bicker, we barely have sex. That’s like marriage, right?’
Note to self, best not to make dismissive jokes about marriage to person tying the knot in five days’ time. Vanessa is not pulling a happy face. She better hope the wind doesn’t change or her super-expensive wedding photographer will be a complete waste of money.
‘Of course, I’m sure not every marriage is like that,’ I add hastily. ‘Why don’t I get us some more drinks in? I think we’ve got just about enough time before writing group.’
‘Hey, I caught you,’ says Will a little breathlessly. I look up and instantly feel bad that we were just joking about him. I hope he didn’t hear.
‘What are you doing here? Is everything OK?’
I’m suddenly fearful that he’s the bearer of awful news. Maybe someone’s died. Why else would he come all the way down here?
‘Yes, it’s fine. I just came to deliver this.’
He holds up my printed assignment for tonight’s class. I’m sure I put it in my bag after dinner.
‘Oh God, I can’t believe I forgot that.’
‘I know. I went to the kitchen to grab a beer and saw it on the table. I know how hard you worked on it, so I thought you’d be disappointed to have left it at home.’
‘Thanks, honey,’ I say, standing up to take it from him and giving him a kiss. It was really sweet of him to come all the way here to drop it off. ‘I’m surprised you came. Weren’t you watching the football?’
‘I was, but it’s half-time. I should only miss five minutes or so.’
I smile – that’s my boyfriend. Although missing five minutes is quite a serious sacrifice for Will.
‘Well, thank you,’ I say, still genuinely touched.
‘Right, I best be off,’ he says.
‘Don’t forget to wish Vanessa good luck. The next time you’ll see her is on Saturday at the wedding.’
‘Oh, um, yes. Of course. Good luck, Vanessa,’ he says.
‘Thanks, Will.’
He gives us a little wave and then dashes out of the pub back to his precious football.
‘That was really sweet of him,’ says Vanessa.
‘I know, it was. I would have been gutted when I realised I’d left that at home. For once I’m actually happy with my work.’
‘I can’t wait to hear you read it out,’ says Cara. ‘Now, are we getting that other drink?’
Vanessa glances at her watch.
‘I’m probably going to have to get going. I’ve still got orders of service to print off.’
‘OK, thanks for coming down to see us. I can’t wait to see you on Saturday. The next time we speak you’ll be Mrs Vanessa Hancock,’ I say, excited.
‘I know,’ she says, the smile reappearing on her face. I’ve clearly redeemed myself. ‘I wish I could have had you girls as my bridesmaids, though. You know that, don’t you?’
‘We know,’ I say, as I give her a kiss goodbye and wish her luck.
‘I wish we were bloody bridesmaids, too,’ says Cara as Vanessa heads out of the pub.
‘Do you? All that standing around, and can you imagine how intense she’s going to be the morning of the wedding? We’d have been sprinkling Prozac into her cornflakes.’
‘Yeah, but do you know how much being a bridesmaid increases your chances of hooking up with someone? It’s like the law that a bridesmaid has to get together with an usher.’
I roll my eyes at her. And there was me thinking she was being sentimental for the fact that we’d been friends with Vanessa for almost fifteen years.
I have to admit I was a little gutted when I found out that I wasn’t going to be bridesmaid, as it might have been the closest I’d get to an altar for a long time, but with Vanessa having three sisters and the groom having two, the places had already been filled at birth.
‘Despite not being a bridesmaid, I’m actually looking forward to the wedding.’
‘I know, me too. It sounds like it’s going to be amazing and she seems to have worked so hard on all the little details.’
‘Hmm,’ says Cara. ‘I’m more interested in the seating plan and how far away we’re going to be from her cousin Max. I hear he’s an usher. Do you remember him from her mum’s fiftieth when we were in sixth form? I’ve been looking for someone to help me test the headrest I’ve just bought for my swing since Bob the Baker is out of the picture as he did this weird bum thing.’
‘Cara, what have we said about over sharing? You know the rules. I don’t want to hear about what goes on in your bedroom,’ I say, thinking that conversations with her should come with their own form of brain bleach.
‘Well, you know what my golden rule is,’ she says in a husky way before giggling.
‘Isn’t it simply that anything goes?’
‘I do draw the line somewhere, you know.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I say, not believing her in the slightest.
‘So, seriously, are you OK about this wedding on Saturday?’ she says, changing the subject.
‘Yes, I’ll be fine. I know I was a bit jealous when she got engaged, but I’ve had plenty of time to get over it. Besides, Will’s going to be with me, and we usually have a bit of a mushy time at weddings. Plus, you won’t be the only one getting some. Weddings are like the one time we’re guaranteed to have sex when we get home.’
‘What is it about weddings that they’re like the ultimate aphrodisiac?’ asks Cara.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, my cheeks colouring at thoughts of the last time Will and I went to a wedding. We ended up getting pretty hot and heavy behind the marquee as we were leaving. If only I could channel the wedding horn and bring it out all year.
Both Cara and I are sitting in silence for a moment, and for once I’m guessing our thoughts are along the same lines. But while mine are like something out of a Jilly Cooper novel, I’m sure hers could be taken from the pages of a Sylvia Day.
‘Evening, ladies,’ says Janet, our writing group leader as she walks past us.
‘Hello, Janet,’ I say, looking up, startled to see her. My fantasy had been so vivid that I had expected Will to be standing in front of me.
I fan myself with my writing folder to attempt to reduce the colour in my cheeks.
‘I always feel like the naughty girl at the back of the class whenever she catches us having a drink beforehand,’ says Cara, draining the rest of her wine glass.
‘I know. It’s like if you don’t want us to have a drink first, don’t hold the meetings in a pub.’
‘Thank God she does, though, as I’d never be able to read out half of my work without a glass of wine.’
‘You’re telling me. I think most of the group are grateful that they can down something while listening to you as well. And to think, you don’t even go into the really raunchy stuff in class. I nearly had kittens when I read that first sample you gave me.’
‘Yeah, hardcore S&M novels can be a bit of a shock to the senses the first time.’
I’d think they would be a shock all the time. I can only just look Cara in the eye again since reading her work.
Who’d have thought she had been the quiet one in our group in sixth form. She barely even said boo to a boy. Yet, something had happened to her at uni and she discovered who she really was, and ever since then she’s been a rampant man-eater.
‘I’m not too sure that my homework is any good this week. I’m not looking forward to reading it out at all,’ says Cara.
‘Me neither.’
‘But I thought you said earlier you were pleased with it.’
‘I am, but I’m just dreading what Dr Doom and Mr Gloom will say.’
‘Ah well, you can ignore them. I’m sure it rocks.’
I sigh. If it wasn’t for the fact I get to have a gossip with Cara, then the negative comments of those two members of our group would have made me give up coming to this writing group.
I wrote my first complete novel four years ago. So far the only people that have read it in its entirety are Cara and Will. After sending samples and realising it was virtually impossible to secure an agent and get published, I joined the group for help. It’s great for making me write and try new things, and it would be perfect without Dr Doom and Mr Gloom who write ‘serious literary fiction’ and therefore always attack and pull apart the seat-of-your-pants thrillers that I write. Speak of the devils, here they are now.
The middle-aged man (aka Mr Gloom) and the younger failed hipster wannabe (Dr Doom) walk into the pub and mutter hellos as they go into the back room.
The rest of our group are an eclectic mix of writers of sci-fi and fantasy, steampunk, chick lit, historical fiction, poetry and plays.
‘Shall we go in?’ asks Cara, wrinkling up her nose.
If my commercial thrillers take a beating, you can imagine the reaction she gets for her erotic fiction. The only difference is Dr Doom and Mr Gloom are usually blushing too much to critique her in the same way as they do me.
‘I guess so.’
We slowly stand up and make our way into the room, finding ourselves our normal seats.
Once everyone has taken their seats Janet kicks the class off.
‘Right then, have we all had a good week?’
We nod enthusiastically.
‘Anyone got any news they want to share?’
She pulls her glasses down on to the bridge of her nose as if to inspect us a little closer, her face hopeful.
Every week she asks the same question, and every week you can see the disappointment on her face that one of us has not become the next J. K. Rowling.
She’s met with silence.
‘Right then. The only bit of news I’ve got is that my latest novel, for any of you following the series, is published on Thursday.’
Janet is a romance author and seems to have a book published every other week. They’re historical bodice rippers of the Mills & Boon series variety – not really my type of thing, but it’s nice that the group is at least led by someone who knows about the industry, even if Dr Doom and Mr Gloom like to pretend they know more.
‘Now, before we get stuck in, I want to warn you that we’re going to spend the next few sessions looking at marketing yourself. I know you might think it’s irrelevant, but these days as an author you’ll be asked more and more to do self-promotion, and it doesn’t just start when you get published. You’ll find that it could help you to secure a deal if you’re active in promoting yourself and have an existing following.’
I groan. How am I going to get a following? I’m lucky if I can get my mum to like a post on my personal Facebook page.
‘We’ll spend next week looking at what other authors are doing as best practice, and then the week after I want us all to have a go at setting up a blog. So, have a think about possible topics between now and then. It doesn’t have to be about books and writing – it could be about your life or a hobby.
‘You’ll write the first one for homework, and then I want you to keep on publishing for a few weeks. We can then look at social networking and promotion to see if we can push up your statistics.’
I know that’s a couple of weeks away, but I’m already panicking.
‘Back to this week and those introductions you wrote as homework. Let’s dive straight into the sharing part, shall we? I’m looking forward to hearing them.’
As hateful as this bit of the group is, I think my writing is slowly getting better as a result.
‘Lexi, why don’t we start with you?’ says Janet, smiling her ever-encouraging smile.
‘Um, OK,’ I say, rising slowly to my feet and digging out my piece of paper.
‘Klaus clutched at his sides as he approached the wooden cabin,’ I start, trying to keep my voice from going all high-pitched and squeaky. I read through the short introduction to a new thriller as best I can. It’s pretty hard when my hands are shaking as much as if I were on a rollercoaster.
I finally finish and scrunch up my sheet of paper.
‘Lovely, Lexi,’ says Janet, beaming the coathanger smile once more. ‘Very nicely read.’
Not quite the same as very nicely written, but still a compliment.
I sit back down and Cara gives me a thumbs up.
‘I thought it was ace,’ she whispers.
I smile at her as best I can and tense my muscles in preparation for the onslaught about to come my way.
‘So the guy dies of a heart attack?’ ask Mr Gloom.
‘Uh-huh,’ I say through gritted teeth. Here we go.
And as I listen to him and Dr Doom continue to slag off my work, it makes me feel like I’m never going to get anywhere. I try to let the comments bounce off me, developing that thick skin everyone says you need to cope as a writer, but I can’t deny that they get to me and I feel like giving up.
Perhaps I just need to accept my situation. I am not destined to be a published writer, any more than I’m destined to get married this side of thirty-five.