Eve was silent. The reviews ranged from calling the book uninspired to terrible. It still sold but not as many as Serena had hoped.
‘They were right. I was bored and it showed. This detective I am writing, Anna Tilson, she feels so real when I write that it’s as though I’m transcribing her life, thoughts, what she sees and feels.’
He turned to face Eve.
‘When was the last time you were in the flow?’ she asked.
‘The what?’
‘The flow, when the words come easily, when it’s not a slog. That’s what you’re describing. Artists get it, songwriters, novelists, anyone who creates.’
‘I know what you mean but you don’t think I was in the flow when I wrote the other books?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said. ‘But there is something different in this writing. It’s cleaner, crisper. You get straight to the point. It makes me want to read more.’
A knock at the door interrupted them and Hilditch walked in with a tray of coffee and what looked to be freshly made crumpets with a small glass bowl of jam and another of butter.
‘I thought you were heading to Crossbourne?’ she asked Hilditch.
‘I am but I’m bringing breakfast to Mr Priest first.’ It was pointedly obvious that it was only for Edward with one cup and one plate on the tray.
‘Thank you, Hil,’ said Edward barely glancing at the tray. ‘Can you bring back a cup and plate for Miss Pilkins? You must be starving after such a late night, reading my ramblings.’ He looked at Hilditch. ‘The wind interrupted her. We must try and keep the doors shut at night.’
‘I will be sure to check that each night, sir,’ said Hilditch.
There was something in his tone when he spoke to Hilditch that bothered her. A shared look, her giving a small nod as though she understood something unsaid. Hilditch disappeared and came back quickly with a plate and cup and saucer.
‘We’re off to Crossbourne. If you think of anything you need, text me.’
Edward nodded as Hilditch left the room.
Eve’s stomach grumbled as Hilditch left but Edward made no attempts to serve himself anything.
Was it rude to jump straight in? He seemed to have been up late, like her. She needed the coffee to get through the morning.
Edward started talking about the books but she could only smell the crumpets and the coffee.
She couldn’t wait any longer. She wanted the butter to melt and drip, and if Edward kept talking they would be as cold as Flora’s babies.
‘I’m eating. I can’t concentrate unless I have some food in me,’ she announced and started helping herself.
Edward stared at her. ‘I never eat when I’m writing.’
Eve wanted to laugh at his pomposity but managed to control her disdain.
‘No wonder you’re behind in your book then – you’re hungry. Try eating and writing; one helps the other.’
Edward took a sharp breath and she wondered if this would result in another outburst but instead he laughed.
‘I meant to say, I forget to eat when I write. I just zone out.’
Eve poured them each a coffee into lovely coffee cups on saucers.
It was a change from drinking instant from her ‘Fuck off I’m Reading’ mug that she used at home. It was a present from her brother Nick and it made her laugh more often than not.
She could not imagine warming her hands on that mug in this setting.
The coffee woke her up and the crumpets stopped her stomach from protesting and she settled into her chair.
