Page 2 of Unexpected Company
“Tell me you’ve at least started your first draft?”
I fiddle with the button of my chunky knit cardigan, crossing my legs and then uncrossing them again. Her eyes drill into me and I struggle to meet her knowing gaze.
“Uh…”
“Garrett!” Mary’s voice booms around the scarcely decorated office. “You have four months to deliver the final installment of the series. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you signed a contract?”
I shake my head. I know what is expected of me. I just have nothing. Detective Inspector Jack Sniper is playing hardball and refusing to have his story concluded. Blaming my characters for my writer’s block is my new low.
Mary sighs, reminding me of my old English teacher, who seemed perpetually disappointed in me. “Your last three releases haven’t done as well as expected and now, with this final book, your fans and the publisher are hoping for great things.”
My chest tightens, the pressure to produce something amazing weighing heavily on me. I love being a writer. I love my characters and I love my fans. But somewhere along the line, Istopped writing for myself or for enjoyment and I think that’s showing in my work.
“For want of a better word,” Mary continues, “you’ve been a bit lacklustre lately.”
At least she didn’t say ‘boring’.
I open my mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand.
“Don’t mention your breakup. That was months ago and let’s be real. It was over long before Nico left. But I do think your living situation is stifling your creativity. That house is not you. It’s too bland and sterile. It’s suffocating the writer in you.”
When I wrote my first novel, no one warned me against having my best (and only) friend as my agent. She’s far too honest sometimes.
Leaning back on the sofa, I tip my head to look at the exposed pipework in her ceiling, scoffing at how similar this office is to the modern place Nico insisted we pick over the old Victorian semi-detached I had my heart set on. Ironically, I now live in it alone and he lives…well I don’t actually know where. Nor do I care.
“What do you suggest?” I ask, sighing and running a hand through my chestnut hair. “Christmas is a few weeks away. It’s not exactly the best time to look for a new place.”
“I have an idea.” The clicking of a keyboard has me straightening, watching Mary behind her big white desk as she taps away at the laptop in front of her.
“Here.” She spins the device to face me. “I’ve booked you this charming little cabin for a few days over Christmas.” A carousel of images flits across the screen and I get a glimpse of a quaint, stone faced cottage, ivy creeping up around the front door, and a chimney standing proud from one end of its tiled roof. It’s surrounded by nothing but trees, thick and dense, acting as a guard to the sunshine trying to break through behind them.
“That’s your solution?” I ask, leaning closer to the screen.
“It is. The change of scenery will help you find your spark and give you a chance to refocus. It’s cosy and remote and it has no Wi-Fi or cell phone reception. You go and do what you do best – write – with no interruptions or distractions, and I’ll keep working on getting this series picked up by a TV network.”
Using her pen, she points to the text below the images. “This is just what you need.”
‘Perfect for those who want to get lost while finding themselves.’
While I don’t think I need to ‘find myself’, I will admit that I need to find my muse, or my creativity or a fucking hammer to take to this mental wall. So while the slogan is cheesy, the logic is sound and the idea of escaping to the middle of nowhere feels right. It’ll be me, my typewriter and DI Jack Sniper. And maybe by the end of it, I’ll have a complete – far from lacklustre – manuscript.
Chapter two
Roman
There is every possibility that what I’m about to do is a terrible idea, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve ignored my gut, telling me to think very fucking carefully before my next move.
Tilting my head, I look at the makeshift jump my production crew has placed in the centre of the ice. From this angle, it doesn’t look too scary. All I have to do is pick up speed, jump onto the ramp and yeet myself over the end and land gracefully on my feet.
Simple.
We won’t mention the fact that I haven’t ice skated a day in my life prior to this, or that I am notoriously clumsy on my feet. This has to be done – all in the name of enthralling content creation.
Forty-million followers, here I come.
Straightening my shoulders, I look at my best friend, cameraman and producer, Liam. He gives me a thumbs up and I blow out a nerve-laced lungful of air before edging forward.
My legs shake, as the blades cut through the ice, and I pick up speed, my heart thumping so hard, the sound of it in my ears becomes the soundtrack to my stunt.
