Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Mrs. Fletcher reminds me of my dad—tough to impress. It makes her praise, when won, all the more valuable.
“I’m pleased. I’m really happy with how it turned out.”
“It’s remarkably…nuanced. I love what a slow burn it is. Although we know these two are destined for each other, I’m glad it’s left open ended. There’s no happily ever after for them. At least not yet. Not until a few books into the series, I hope.” She widens her eyes, taps her pencil twice on the printed manuscript she has in front of her, and sits back.
“I’ve had some off-the-record chats with publishers. I’m certain we’re going to auction. This is just what the market needs at the moment and your background as a doctor, working in a hospital, just like our protagonist—it’s all going to add to your salability. Very good.”
“Great. So, what’s next?”
“If you’re happy for me to send this out, I’ve got my assistant working on the package. Have you given any thought to what the next book will be?” she asks.
“The next book?” Have I missed something?
“Obviously this is going to be a series of mysteries. We’re not going to stop at one, right? It would be good to have a summary of the next one worked out. I’d like a three-book deal, if we can get it. But it’s got to be two-book, at a minimum.”
I’d not really thought beyond this one. “You think they’ll want me to write something else?”
“I know they will.”
“I’ve had some ideas, but nothing concrete.” The ideas for another book flowed thick and fast while I’d been up in Scotland. The first two days back at the hospital had been frantic—the levels of understaffing were borderline dangerous. I’d had four endoscopies cancelled this week, but been called down to A&E much more—nine times alone on my Tuesday shift. I’d left work every night exhausted and miserable, unable to think about anything other than how much I hated my job and how grateful I was that I only had to do it three days a week. Last night, I didn’t get home until ten. I’ve not even managed to see Ellie since I’ve been back in London. She’s coming to mine this afternoon for the first time. We’re going to spend the afternoon and evening together, and just the thought of pressing my lips to her neck relaxes me.
“When do you think you can have something for me?” she asks.
“I can work on something tomorrow and this weekend. How long do you need it to be?”
“Not long. I’m going to put you in touch with a freelance editor who will help you craft it into something I can use. She’ll identify any issues before we put it in front of publishers. Call her. She’s a cantankerous witch, so beware. She’s also the best at what she does, so tread carefully.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to cantankerous.” Images of my dad flash through my mind. Whatever will he say when he finds out his son is a writer?
“Good. So we’ll be formally submitting at the start of next week. I’m warming editors up before then. By the time they get their hands on the manuscript, they’ll know they have to act quickly.”
Mrs. Fletcher seems so sure of how this is going to play out. She’s so certain that everyone’s going to want to sign me up. But medicine has taught me that there are no guarantees.
“But there’s a chance no one’s going to want it, right? It’s not like I’m a bankable name. No one’s heard of me. And it’s not as though I have any background.”
“But I do,” she says without missing a beat. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep, and I like to under-promise and over-deliver. I’m telling you, this book”—she lifts the manuscript in the air—“will go to auction and make you a lot of money. And, unless someone seriously fucks up, it will be a bestseller. So strap in and let’s enjoy the ride.”
Except there’s one major hurdle I have to get over before I strap in anywhere. I have to come clean to my family and tell them everything. That I’ve written a book, that I have an agent, that I don’t want to make a success of my new private practice. That what I want to do is write. That, and hang out with Ellie.
Twenty-Six
Ellie
I buzz up to flat C and wait. I don’t expect him to come to the door, but as I watch him approach the Victorian glass inlaid at its center, the ache I’ve felt since I left him in Scotland disappears. All the nerves I’ve had about being here today, outside of the bubble of an isolated cottage on a Scottish island, just dissolve.
He opens the door and I fling my arms around him. He reaches around my bum and hitches me up so he’s carrying me.