thing. I love playing house with other people’s things,” she added with a beatific smile.
“Maud!” I said, slightly stunned at her altruism. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Darling.” She gave me a fond hug. “ ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.’ I heard that the other day. Isn’t it fab?”
“That’s Karl Marx,” said Sarika faintly.
“Maud, you are not a Communist,” Nell said in outrage. “Do not start pretending you’re a Communist.”
“I’m not anything!” Maud blinked at her. “You know that, Nell, my love. Except founding member of the Ava-writing-her-book support group.”
“The most important thing is, we won’t disturb you, Ava,” said Sarika, hauling the conversation back on track. “We’re here when you need us, but if you need to ignore us, that’s fine too.”
“Take as long as you like.” Maud nodded. “Focus on what you’re doing. Don’t worry about anything else. It’ll be great! Only, don’t meet anyone,” she added sternly. “Or you’ll never finish.”
“I won’t.” I rolled my eyes. “No chance.”
Buoyed by their support, I then negotiated an unpaid sabbatical with Brakesons. I’d actually planned to hand in my notice. It was the head of department who offered a sabbatical and said it would look good as data in their new Staff Flexibility and Welfare initiative and would I mind writing five hundred words about it for the recruitment webpage?
So it was all set. I couldn’t have had second thoughts even if I wanted to. But the truth is, I never did. Sometimes life just needs to swerve a new way.
I let my gaze drift over my screen, over the story I’ve been telling these last few months. It’s not about Clara or Chester. I got sick of them, and what the hell do they know about life anyway, with their corsets and hay wagons?
It’s about Harold. And me. It’s the story of our relationship from the first moment I saw him and experienced an overwhelming, instant love. I didn’t know how much I had to say about Harold till I started writing, and then I couldn’t stop. I could write six books about him. It’s funny in parts, because Harold has done some outrageous things (I’m really quite embarrassed), but it’s also painful. Because that’s what life is like. And you can’t talk about dogs without talking about life. I’ve written about my parents. And my childhood. And…stuff.
Matt’s in it, too, though I’ve changed his name to Tom. And what I’ve written about him is also painful, in places. But, then, it’s real.
Real is hard. And you can’t dodge that. As I’ve come to learn.
Sensing my attention has drifted away, Harold gives a little bark, and I tilt my head to gaze down at my precious boy. Undimmed, undaunted, forever Harold, gazing up as though to say, “What next?”
“Ava?” A soft voice sounds at my door, which is ajar.
“Hi!” I swivel in my seat. “Come in!”
A moment later, Farida is in the room, wearing an elegant ensemble of flared black trousers and an embroidered tunic.
“How’s it going?” she asks, with a bubble of anticipation in her voice.
“Finished!” I say exuberantly.
“Oh, my dear Ava!” Her face creases into a joyful smile.
“Only a first draft,” I amend. “But I’ve typed ‘The End.’ That’s something.”
“Typing ‘The End’ is everything,” Farida corrects me. “Especially for the first time. It answers a question you’ve probably been asking your whole life, even if subconsciously.”
“Yes.” I nod, rubbing my face, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I can’t believe it. I never thought…”
“I did.” Farida gives me a wise smile. “You must come and have a drink. We must celebrate! Felicity will be thrilled! We’re in the anteroom.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I say, and watch as she walks out, her leather slippers noiseless on the stone floor. She’s been such a mentor. Both Farida and Felicity, her partner.
As my thoughts rest on Felicity, I smile for the thousandth time. I still remember that extraordinary moment after I’d arrived in October and was drinking a welcome cup of fennel tea in the refectory, hoping I’d done the right thing. Farida said casually, “Let me introduce you to Felicity, my partner.” Then a familiar woman with salt-and-pepper hair walked into the room and I nearly fell over backward.
Because it was Scribe! Farida’s lover is Scribe! Or Felicity, as I call her now. It turned out that throughout the retreat, when everyone’s attention was on Dutch and me, the real blooming romance was going on between Farida and Felicity. And theirs