Page 63 of Novel Problems

Fuck.That didn’t sound good. If Michael wanted an extensive rewrite—or worse, if he wanted me to start again—we might miss the deadline to have it ready for publication in March of next year. And if that happened, then Barb’s future at her nursing home would be in peril. While George paid above minimum wage, even if I worked full-time at Novel Gossip, I wouldn’t be able to bring in enough to pay the bills.Shit.

First my identity being leaked, and now this. My chest tightened further as a stabbing pain took hold, and suddenly, I was gasping for air. I tried to regulate my breathing, doing my best to inhale slowly, hold, and then breathe out, just like my therapist had taught me, but it didn’t work. I sunk to the kitchen floor, wheezing. Pins and needles stabbed my face.

“Hannah?” George called. Footsteps followed. “Shit! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

George crouched down beside me, studying my face with concern. “Do you need me to call Blake or an ambulance?”

I shook my head. “No,” I managed to say, my voice strangled. “Panic attack.”

The first time I’d had a panic attack—on the opening night of the high school play when I was fourteen—I thought I was having a heart attack. But while they weren’t a regular occurrence, I’d had them enough to recognize the symptoms.

“Would it help if I held you?” George’s voice was calm and low.

I nodded, and she sat next to me, wrapping her arms around me. Focusing on the warmth of her body, her comfortingly familiar woody scent, this time mixed with baked goods, the pain in my chest subsided, and my breathing and heart rate started to drop. I still didn’t feel like myself, but at least I could breathe.

“Do you want to talk about it?” George asked after a few minutes.

Feeling like I’d burst into tears if I explained what had happened, I pulled up the news article instead and gave it to George.

George’s brow furrowed as she scanned it. “Oh shit!”

“I’ve got a whole heap of messages and missed calls from people who saw the article, including my parents,” I said, my voice wavering. I felt completely overwhelmed.

“I’m so sorry, Hannah,” George said, handing my phone back to me.

“And to make matters worse, I also got an email from my editor about the first part of the manuscript I sent him that sounds really ominous. He wants to meet in person because there is ‘lots to talk about.’ He must hate it.” Tears pricked my eyes.

“Hey, we don’t know that?—”

My phone, still on silent, lit up with a call from Tania.Just what I need right now.

We both stared at it. I was in no state to speak to her right now, so I let it go to voicemail.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” George asked once Tania’s name had disappeared.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

Thoughts tumbled incoherently through my mind as Istruggled to process what had happened and the implications. My carefully guarded pseudonym was now public and had already attracted the type of attention I’d been so desperate to avoid. My parents knew. Someone had betrayed my trust. And my new editor hated my manuscript.

My immediate instinct was to withdraw—to ignore the calls and emails, give up on my manuscript, and hide away in George’s apartment for the foreseeable future, with only George and Max for company. But even in my distressed state, I knew that wasn’t a real solution. It wouldn’t help me in the long run, and giving up on my manuscript sure as hell wouldn’t help Barb.

Perhaps my lawyers could take down the article. Maybe we could even sue for breach of privacy or something? I sighed. Realistically, though, I had to accept that the ship had already sailed. Even if we took down the article, the news would have spread, and it would be impossible to undo that.

The most practical course of action, rather than burning money on legal fees, was probably to sit down with Emma and my publicist to work out how best to limit the exposure. The three of us, all in the same room, could surely come up with some ideas on how to mitigate the damage. While I didn’t love the idea of returning to Manhattan, getting this addressed effectively and making sure my publisher took this seriously trumped those concerns. A teleconference didn’t have the same weight as showing up to a formal business meeting.

I could also kill two birds with one stone, since Michael had suggested an in-person meeting to discuss the manuscript. Meeting face to face might make it easier to convince Michael why my manuscript wasn’t as bad as hethought. If he didn’t see it, then—and my stomach flipped at the thought—I’d have to try to get Tania back as an editor. She’d get my manuscript, and as awkward as working with her again would be, that would be preferable to scrapping the manuscript and having to start again or trying to convince my publisher to find me a new editor. I didn’t have time to start all over again with a new manuscript or a new editor. And if I had to go begging to Tania, persuading your ex to work with you after she cheated on you and you ditched her definitely seemed like the sort of conversation you needed to have in person. I winced at the thought.

George and I sat in silence on the kitchen floor for a few minutes as my mind raced, George stroking my hair. I was desperate to get on top of the situation, to regain some control over this part of my life that had suddenly gone off the rails, and going back to the city to confront my problems seemed like the best way forward. I’d channel my character Esmae and fight for my privacy, my manuscript, and Barb.

“George,” my voice was croaky.

“Yes?”

George looked at me with such concern and care that guilt spiked in my throat. I inhaled shakily and then let out my breath. As much as I hated the thought of leaving George, I needed to face my issues head on.

“I’m really sorry, but I think I need to go to New York to try to sort this all out. Will you be okay without me for a few days?”

“Of course,” George said, her voice low and full of understanding. “Take as long as you need.”

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