Jana’s silence is deafening. Finally she says in a clipped voice, “What seems to be the problem? Writer’s block?”
I don’t think Jana gets very personal. In fact, she doesn’t know much about me at all and I know barely anything about her. Everything so far has been strictly business and she’s only mentioned Robyn a handful of times. Being honest feels like it comes with a price. I don’t want her to think less of me.
“I guess so,” I tell her hesitantly. “Fear, really. Fear that the book won’t be good enough, fear that I don’t know how to write without Robyn.”
More silence. I can hear the fridge in my kitchen kick on.
“You can’t edit a blank page, Grace,” she says after a moment.
“I know. I just can’t seem to…” I trail off, wondering how to explain. “Aye, I guess it’s just writer’s block then.” Seems easier to say it like that.
“That’s understandable,” she says. “You’ve been writing a cozy mystery series through twelve books, with someone else no less, and now you’re moving on to a book with romantic elements. I’m guessing the weather up there has been as shit as it’s been down here.”
“The gloom helped with the Sleuths of Stockbridge,” I admit, peering out the window at the cemetery.
“Of course it did. Even with the lighthearted tone, it still dealt with murder, crime, and the noir-like atmosphere of Scotland. It fit the genre.”
“Well, it’s not like I can change the weather.”
I’m met with silence again.
Finally, Jana clears her throat. “Listen, I know we don’t know each other very well, not that I have a close personal relationship with any of my clients. I don’t believe it’s necessary to represent them, and actually, it lets me conduct business better. But I am empathetic to your predicament, Grace. I know what loss is like and I understand. However, we are both in this to make money and jumpstart your career, and I am getting concerned that this might be getting out of hand.”
My cheeks burn. I hate being talked down to like this. My father was a pro at reprimanding me. He still is.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m trying. It’s just, this is a creative process and—”
“Yes, yes, the creative process. You’re not a machine and you can’t switch it on or off,” she finishes, obviously mimicking what her other clients tell her. Writers, no matter the genre, are all peas in a pod. “But we can’t wait around for your process to start. If you can’t find the muse, we have to produce the muse.”
I frown. “What do you have in mind?”
“I think you need to get away,” she says. “Go somewhere hot and sunny where there’s nothing to worry your pretty little head about. Find inspiration somewhere other than dreary old Scotland, because I guarantee you’re not going to find it where you are. You’re haunted by ghosts, Grace, and they’re holding you back.”
“I don’t think I can afford it,” I tell her. The advance I got for this book was fifty thousand pounds, which sounds like a lot until you break it down. I got fifteen thousand for signing, then I’ll get another twenty when I hand in the book, then another fifteen when the book publishes, whenever that is. Jana takes ten percent of all that, so that amount has to last me until I hand the book in.
“I figured as much,” she says. “How about this? I have a house in Italy, in Tuscany, right outside the city of Lucca. You can use it for a month, free of charge, so long as you work on your book. I want at least twenty-five percent of it completed in that month and I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
I stare at the floor, trying to think. “I can’t … you have a house in Italy?”
A pause. “Yes. It’s a wonderful place. You’ll have it all to yourself. The only person you’ll see is Emilio. He tends to the olive orchard and the pool and gardens.”
It sounds like heaven, but still. “That’s far too generous.”
“I’m not doing this to be generous, Grace. I’m doing this because this is my ass on the line. Now, do you think this will help you get the book done?”
Say yes. Say yes, because if you say no, that might be the end of all this.
I swallow. “Yes.”
“Good. Then it’s settled,” Jana says with such finality that I know there’s no way I can go back on this. “Let’s see … how about June first to June twenty-eighth? That’s almost a month.”
I briefly wonder why the twenty-eighth, since wouldn’t it be easier to make it from the first to the first?
“Are you planning on using the house?” I ask her. “Maybe after me?”
“Ha,” she lets out a dry laugh. “You think I have time for a vacation? No, my dear. I work. Work is my vacation. And remember, this is work for you too. I’m not letting you stay there so you can lie by the pool all day and work on your tan.”
“No, of course not.”
“So, are you in? Does this all work for you?”
“Sure, that works,” I tell her. June was just a few days away, which made it very last minute. “Hopefully I can find a flight.”
“There are flights to Pisa all the time. It’ll be no problem. In fact, I’ll book them for you. Cheap. It’ll probably be Ryanair or Easyjet, so don’t get your hopes up. It’s just a step up from flying cargo.”
I’m so overwhelmed that I feel like I’m going into autopilot, like none of this is real.
“Are you sure you want to do this for me?” I ask her.
“Darling, I’m doing this for me,” she says. “Now, I’ll email you the plane tickets once you’ve got them. Emilio has a key, so I’ll arrange for him to meet you at the airport. He’s an old fart, but he’s dependable.”
“Okay. Well … thank you so much, Jana.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s just hope this pays off.”
“It will,” I tell her before we say goodbye and hang up.
I stare at the phone in my hand for a moment before my eyes sweep across my flat. Jana is right about being haunted. It’s not about being across from a cemetery. It’s that all the memories in this flat are tinged with shades of Robyn. From our character and plot breakdowns over copious amounts of coffee (Irish Breakfast tea for her) while bundled up in blankets on the couch, to me texting her from my desk as I feverishly wrote and immediately emailed her chapters. I feel like there’s no escape from her.
And for the first time, I realize the only way I’m going to be able to move forward is if I physically, then mentally, make the change and leave her behind.
I put the phone back on the charger, then head into my bedroom to start packing.
When Jana first told me about Emilio Bertuzzi, her villa’s groundskeeper, I was expecting, well, an old fart (her words). But the Emilio that meets me at the airport in Pisa is anything but.
Yes, Emilio is old, at least eighty, and he has a forest of hair growing out of his ears, but beneath his bushy brows are kind and sharp eyes. He walks at a fast pace and practically wrestles my suitcase from my hands, hoisting it into the back of his beat-up truck with ease (and considering my suitcase is absolutely stuffed with clothes, that’s no small feat).