My next novel.
Oh, crap.
My stomach clenches as Margot’s voice echoes in my head:
“Darling, Highbury House is getting antsy. They’ve been more than patient, but if we don’t deliver this manuscript by October, they’re pulling the plug.”
My literary agent of eight years isn’t known for sugar-coating things, especially when staring me down in her sleek Toronto office like a principal scolding her delinquent student.
“You need inspiration? Fine. Find it. Seduce a stranger. Join a cult. Go to this writers’ conference in London,” she said, sliding a brochure across her desk. “I don’t give a shit, but for the love of God, write something.”
I flipped through glossy images of writers looking pensively out windows in a converted Victorian manor house. “London in June. That’s...”
“Perfect timing to jump-start the new book and have a complete draft by October.”
My fingers were numb from the air conditioning, but I felt a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognized as panic disguised as determination. I nodded, mentally calculating how to turn this pressure into something productive.
“I’ll make it work.”
That night, as my anxiety threatened to bloom into a full-scale existential meltdown, I reached out to Lila. Since our first year at U of T, when she found me crying into my philosophy textbook at an unholy hour, we’ve been practically glued together. She didn’t say a word then; she just handed over her sacred stash of emergency chocolate like it was no big deal.
Now, she traipses worldwide as a travel photographer, yet as it is with soul sisters, there’s never a time zone too remote or obscure for either of us to pick up each other’s panicked calls.
Lila’s face popped up on my laptop screen in all its freckled glory. Her fiery curls were wrestled into anunruly bun on top of her head, and she was wrapped in a scarf so bright it could have been woven from rainbows.
“Mills!” She greeted me with infectious cheerfulness that shone through the pixelated screen. “What’s up?”
“Just wrestling with my usual demons: self-doubt and deadlines,” I admitted with a shrug. “You know how it is.”
Her laughter echoed around my quiet living room. “Alright! Where are you thinking of heading next? Somewhere exciting enough to kickstart that brilliant brain of yours back into gear?”
“London,” I mumbled, sprawled on my couch with a glass of mediocre pinot noir balanced on my stomach.
“London?” Her voice wobbled slightly, and she sounded tired, understandable, considering she’d just returned from an intense photography expedition in Southeast Asia.
“Mills...that’s so…predictable. Every writer desperate for inspiration heads there.”
I sighed but couldn’t help the grin tugging at my lips. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lil.”
“Listen,” she leaned in, her eyes sparkling with a sudden idea. “I’m not saying don’t visit the UK. But how ’bout somewhere that might shake things up?” She paused for dramatic effect. “Like Scotland? Specifically, Inverness.”
I choked on my wine. “Where Brady lives? Are you bonkers?”
Lila plowed on, her voice a vibrant splash of color against the grayscale backdrop of my thoughts. “London is England’s literary heart, sure. But Scotland? It’s got this raw, untamed spirit. And Inverness—with its highlands, lochs, and legends—it’s gritty and real in a way London hasn’t been since Dickens wrote about small orphans.”
She waved her turquoise-painted nails at me through the screen, an impish smirk on her lips. “Your stories are filled with bold heroines who seize life by the freakin’ balls and don’t let go. We both need to live more like them!”
Her words resonated with me, circling in my head as I fiddled nervously with my laptop’s edge. “And what? Just show up uninvited at Brady’s place?”
Her laughter filled my speakers—a sound so infectious it managed to coax a reluctant smile onto my face.
“Well, he should have extended an invitation by now! You’ve been chatting for months! And besides,” she added slyly, “since when do you need an invite to write your own story?”
A sigh slipped past me, but I could feel Lila’s suggestion igniting something inside me—a rush of adrenaline that was both terrifying and tantalizing.
“Alright,” I conceded after a moment ofcontemplation and gulping down my last splash of red wine. “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll think about it.”
We both knew that meant I was already mentally packing my bags.
