I hear a string of expletives and then she says in a surprisingly gentle tone, ‘Start at the beginning, Anais. Where are you?’
‘I’m at L’Hotel du Parc.’
‘That’s the hotel your husband bought on a whim?’
‘The very same.’
‘And where is Francois-Xavier? Why did a neighbour have to rescue Manon yesterday?’
The trashy tabloidParis Scandalereported on the dissolution of my marriage recently but evidently the news hasn’t travelled across the English Channel, so none of my British colleagues have any idea. I inhale, filling up my lungs with the requisite oxygen needed to catch her up.
I haven’t confessed about the divorce to anyone outside the family. It’s not exactly a fun subject matter. And only Manon really knows the true extent of it. When I booted my husband out of our apartment for good, he posted on Facebook about our split, playing the woe-is-me card. Shortly after that, I received a torrent of messages from loads of other women who he’d had… tête-à-têtes with. Some he’d brazenly invited to our apartment while I was writing at the library; others he’d met at theirs. They all believed he was in the throes of a divorce, or worse, single, as if I never existed. To say I was blindsided is an understatement. Who knew heartbreak and humiliation could feel like a death?
And while all that was happening, I had to pretend to Margaret everything was super, and I was ecstatic when we were negotiating the Kiss Films deal. What should have been one of the happiest moments of my career was marred by despair.
‘Francois-Xavier slept with our housekeeper.’ I go into great detail about catching them entwined together on our fifth wedding anniversary so Margaret knows just how fragile I am right now. ‘We’ve since divorced; he got the apartment, I got his rundown disaster of a hotel in the 6th. Manon is here to help me after giving up her true crime podcast and three jobs. I convinced her to join me in case I snapped and killed my ex-husband. With her experience with grisly murders, I figure she’d know how to dispose of the body so it would never be found. All that aside, we’d like to soft launch the hotel by Christmas because I need the income pronto and I want to be swept up in the festive season and start the New Year with a clean slate.’
‘Focusing on a Christmas launch makes sense. But as for the rest… just,wow. This is a lot to process, Anais. No wonder you can’t write. IknewFrancois-Xavier was a phony. No one has a tan like that all year round, and why was his skinorange? And those too-tight shirts he wears, surely they cut off his circulation?’ Margaret met Francois-Xavier a few times, including at the British Romantic Novelists Awards. He flirted up a storm with my fellow nominees, which I’d put down to him trying to charm them in his innocent French way. The writing has always been on the wall, and I just didn’t translate it.
I swallow a sigh. ‘I was the last to see, so it seems.’ Of all the clichés. Gah.
‘Look, it’s not ideal but this sort of thing happens every day. How many heroines have you written that go through the same sort of conflicts and come out the other end shinier, happier versions of themselves, complete with a new man who worships them?’
I groan. ‘But they’re fictional! I’m going to die alone in a hotel, possibly crushed by a falling chandelier or when I tumble down the stairs because the banister falls off clean in my hands.’OK, I’m exaggerating because that seems to be my new default setting.
‘Anais, you’re overwrought. This isn’tlikeyou. Perhaps you need your ownamour-affaireto put your past to bed, eh? That Noah guy any good? His voice was certainly alluring. Wish we’d video called now.’
I roll my eyes at the thought of anamour-affaire.‘Noah is a literary nerd with a side of buff brawny mountain man about him. All he needs is to wear a woollen turtleneck and have a stag head on the wall to complete the persona. Wait, he probably does have a stag head on the wall. I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘Who doesn’t love one of those rugged, good-with-their-hands types?’
‘Moi, that’s who.’
She groans as if I’m a disappointment. ‘Think of a brief dalliance as good old-fashioned research for your book, eh? No harm, no foul.’
‘No way. The warning bells clang whenever he appears. So can we talk biz for a moment?’ While I don’t want to draw her attention to the fact my words have dried up unless they’re about bludgeoning, I want to talk about men even less.
‘Right, so what’s the problem exactly? You’ve got the rejuvenation to contend with and…?’
‘And, I can’t write about love. I just cannot. It makes me wail. Or stare in a semi-catatonic state at the wall while I replay all my failures with men, and how I rushed into marrying the king of idiots when everyone warned me about him. Even the little fluffy dog in the apartment next door in Le Marais used to bark aggressively and flash its teeth whenever Francois-Xavier appeared, andstillI brushed it off. Dogs alwaysknow.’
Margaret tuts. ‘You write fiction, not memoirs. Can’t you use that great big imagination of yours? Your fans are expecting yourChristmas romcom to come out next September. Get your jingle on, girl!’
‘All I’ve got so far is the red Rudolph nose.’
‘Perfect! You’re halfway there!’
‘That’s from crying though.’
‘Oh.’
‘This state of… flux is just temporary,’ I rally. I need to pump those Christmas carols and turn my mood around for good. ‘In terms of writing a romantic comedy, my heart isn’t in it. I don’t want to lose my fanbase writing subpar love stories and, as much as I try to avoid it, the hero always ends up dead. First his fingers and toes are blowtorched off and it descends into madness from there and that’s just the first chapter.’ Sharing this is really a tonic; I feel lighter already.
‘It descends into madness fromthere?’ I can almost hear her shuddering. ‘OK, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call in a favour with your publisher and ask they give you two more months. It’s almost unheard of, I know, but they can rush things through when necessary. But that’s it, Anais. I’m empathetic to your plight, I really am, but we’ve got your 2025 Christmas book scheduled across all territories and all formats. We’re risking future deals if you don’t meet the timelines. I’m sorry, that’s just the way the beast works with traditional publishing.’
I’m grateful at this unexpected stay of execution; alas, there’s still that niggle deep inside. ‘But… but what if this latest block is permanent? What then?’ What if my career is over after all this time? What if I never get over it?
‘Nothing is permanent, not even marriage, remember that. Use it as fodder for your book. We can always publish a gripping serial killer thriller under a pseudonym later, if that’s where your heart lies. But first, get this Christmas romcom done.Please.The LA production company has the first right of refusal for it, after they optionedThe French Billionaire’s Secret. Progress hasbeen slow on the movie front but that’s the film industry. They’re keen to read your latest offering, so make it good.’
