Page 41 of How Much Wine Will Fix My Broken Heart?
‘I did. And don’t worry. Linh is here, Meg’s been staying with me too, so we’re sorted. All hands on deck.’
Delphine’s face suddenly appears and splits the screen into three. I had an image of what an agent might look like and I was right – she’s willowy with pronounced cheekbones, a streak of white in her dark hair like a badger. That was the wrong animal to imagine. Now all I can think about are badgers. Her accessories are bright and primary-coloured.
‘JOYCE! LOVE!’ You get the sense that if she could double air kiss the screen then she would.
‘Delphine, good to see you. Can I introduce my wonderful daughter-in-law to you? This is Grace Callaghan.’
I hold my hand up in the air. Yep, that’s me. Delphine studies the screen like she’s giving me the once-over.
‘Why, hello! Well, I’m sure Joyce has told you about me. I am Delphine. A pleasure.’
‘Indeed,’ I reply, trying to act posher than I am.
‘So, I guess I should try and sell myself. I run a very small agency in London but I’m good at what I do. I’ve just sold Joyce’s rights in Italy, which is super exciting, and, seriously, I am entranced by your story, what happened to you, to Tom. I think people would want to hear that story.’
I smile. They would? I guess we all like hearing about a bit of tragedy to make our own lives seem better in comparison.
‘And god, you’re young. Of course you’re young. And a beauty! Joyce, you didn’t tell me she was beautiful.’
Joyce smiles.
‘Umm, thank you?’
Off screen, Meg stands beside my computer screen and puts her thumb up in the air. She told me to put on powder and that obviously has had an effect. I look at the screen and realise I should have gone for another view behind me, though. All Delphine can see is my bed and I am suddenly obsessed by the dust bunnies I can see under it, the bedsheet not quite pulled over the mattress.
‘My love, I am so glad we got a chance to talk to you.’
‘No, thank you. And for all the emails outlining everything. You’ve obviously gone to some lengths to think about Tom’s story and how we could raise some more money for charity. He’d love this.’
‘Of course, I mean after the runaway success of Joyce’s book, it was a no-brainer. And Joyce has told me all the ins and outs of your love story. Will they? Won’t they? Years of heartache and distance. It just has so much potential. That’s got epic romcom written all over it.’
I smile but the words fly over my head. Being a work-from-homer, I am queen of the Zoom call and, naturally, these sorts of meetings become a necessity, though I like the joy in not having to exert too much energy in them. You don’t have to be too conscious about maintaining eye contact and I can wear my yoga pants and not worry. It’s also means I’ve become preoccupied with people’s living spaces. Those are some bookshelf goals, Delphine. Those are not MDF. There is also a bronze sculpture of some pendulous, wonky boobs that I bet are hers. The nipples stare at me like eyes.
‘Joyce said you wrote letters to each other?’
I mentally come back into my own room and re-engage in the conversation.
‘Well, yes. We corresponded, whether it was by letter or email.’
She claps like a seal.
‘Then I love this. It’s what’s missing from the romance market: these relationships of real substance. It’s a modern yet old-fashioned romance for our times. I’m sick of reading treatments of romcoms where people meet in coffee shops and on Tinder.’
I am not sure how to reply. If we were to scan through all our emails, there’s one where I swear at Tom in all the colours of the rainbow. That was the one where he was mid-Aussie adventure and dumped me in one line:
I think it’s best we go our separate ways.
Well, off you fuck, you selfish, selfish wanker.
That hasWuthering Heightsangst written all over it.
‘I’m just unsure how honest you want me to be in all of this,’ I say. ‘When Tom was travelling, it wasn’t always pretty. We broke up many times and the letters aren’t very well written.’
‘Oh, we can embellish. Leave that to me. I loved how you wrote letters too, that’s so old school.’
‘It was mainly because he was without a phone. He wanted a technological detox so he’d write letters, and emails if he could find internet cafes. He once Skyped me from an internet cafe in Fukuoka, Japan, and then realised it was a sex cafe and all the other occupants were watching porn.’
Delphine throws her head back in laughter. Joyce is shaking her head, as that’s the sort of trouble that Tom was renowned for.
