Losing the plot, p.4
Losing the Plot, page 4
No pressure!
It still seemed so weird … They said that truth was stranger than fiction, but what if you didn’t know whether something was truth or fiction in the first place? A few days after Wax editor Amy Dunphy rejected Lost and Found Heart, Vanessa had picked her ego up off the floor. So she’d had one knockback; was she really going to fall at the first hurdle? What kind of message would that be sending the boys? If at first you don’t succeed, give up, it’s not worth the bother … So she’d decided to try another publisher; after all, she was hardly the first author to face rejection. Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind—thirty-eight rejection slips! J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone—twelve! (Again with the J.K. Rowling.) Vanessa knew she’d never forgive herself if she gave up this easily. So she emailed Amy Dunphy and asked her to email the copy of Lost and Found Heart Vanessa had sent. But when she received Amy’s reply, you could have knocked her over with bellybutton lint.
Dear Ms Rooney,
Thank you for your email, but I regret to say that I’m not aware of any manuscript entitled Lost and Found Heart having been submitted to myself or any other Wax employee via email or otherwise, and I’m afraid I have no record of any previous correspondence with you. Perhaps you’ve mistaken Wax for another publishing house? I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, and I wish you the best of luck with your endeavours.
Regards,
Amy Dunphy
Commissioning Editor
Vanessa was completely stonkered. Either (a) Amy Dunphy had the shortest memory in living history, (b) there’d been some kind of dreadful mistake, or (c) she was lying—but why? Vanessa begged Amy to check her trash, but Amy said there was nothing there, and after deleting her own emails with Wax and having lost her laptop and back-up drive, Vanessa couldn’t prove a thing. It was devastating. She’d even half wondered if she was going mad and she’d imagined writing Lost and Found Heart. Joy and the boys assured her the book was real, but by then it had disappeared into the mist like a ghost ship. It was a ghost novel and, after several fruitless phone calls to Wax, she’d been forced to give up on Lost and Found Heart for good.
She’d attempted to move on by signing up for a botanic art course, but botanic art didn’t float her boat and she abandoned it halfway through a watercolour of an Acacia pycnantha. Then she tried photography and Thai cooking, but the same thing happened. It seemed like the more she tried to distance herself from romance writing the more she missed it, and then Kiri surprised her with tickets to see Charlotte Lancaster at Readings tonight—an act of true friendship on Kiri’s part, considering her scorn for romance. Vanessa was convinced that hearing Charlotte read from her new novel, Love Transplant, would give her the confidence to start a new novel of her own.
She flushed the toilet and pulled up her old cotton undies, grimacing at the fraying elastic. Joy said it was dangerous for Vanessa’s self-esteem to wear undies that screamed a non-existent sex life—she should be wearing skimpy thongs to attract the passion she wanted. Which is all very well, Vanessa thought, but I don’t like the feeling of being sliced in half by dental floss. Did thongs feel like dental floss to other women, or was that just due to her profession? She’d always found skimpy lingerie uncomfortable. Craig used to say that comfort was more important and she was sexy just the way she was, but then one day she’d seen black lacy thongs hanging on Craig and Natalie’s line, and she’d felt like the unsexiest woman in the world.
Better not to think about it.
She washed her hands and stuck them in the vertical dryer, and it almost sucked her watch off. She checked the time. Charlotte was starting in six minutes—it was lucky Kiri was saving a spot. But when Vanessa emerged from Lygon Court, Kiri was still in the car.
In a panic, Vanessa stepped out onto the road, straight into the path of a cyclist who seemed to be attempting some kind of speed record. What was it with those lycra-clad guys with their grim intensity and their dead eyes? He swerved to avoid her, hurling abuse. If she was somebody else she would have hurled abuse back, but she wasn’t, so she didn’t. She could feel red blotches popping up on her neck and cursed the way they always betrayed her feelings.
She made it to the other side of the road and took her place at the end of the line. A gaggle of elderly ladies gathered behind her, chatting excitedly among themselves. Vanessa gave them a distracted smile and turned to peer through the bookshop’s window, hoping to catch a pre-emptive glimpse of Charlotte.
DAVE
Dave pulled his 2006 Volvo station wagon into a loading zone outside Readings. The car was caked with dried mud from a camping weekend a month ago, and some clown had scratched Wash me! on the rear windscreen—not exactly original, but it had still given Dave a chuckle. He and Nickie were dropping Mrs Hipsley off at the bookshop to meet the other members of her romance readers’ book club. Apparently one of their favourite authors, Charlotte something-or-other was appearing, and judging by the line outside it was generating a lot of excitement.
As Dave alighted from the car he regarded Readings with affection. It was great to know there were still some stores that thrived by selling actual books. Dave had a Kindle and he listened to audio books now and then, but it wasn’t the same. He knew he could never relinquish the evocative smell of paper or the thrill of turning an actual page. And imagine a world without bookcases. It didn’t bear thinking about. But Dave was quietly confident that, for Nickie’s generation, ‘old school’ books would become retro cool in the style of vinyl records. Could be a way off, though. Nickie declined his offer to buy her a book, preferring to stay in the car and check out her friends’ ‘Insta’ stories.
Dave helped Mrs Hipsley out of the Volvo and guided her over to her mates at the end of the line.
‘Rosalie!’ they all twittered, throwing curious looks at him. A younger woman in front of them glanced around briefly, and Dave was struck by her slate-blue eyes and dainty upturned nose.
‘This is my solicitor, David,’ Mrs Hipsley announced. ‘David, this is Myra and Gwen and Joan and Pat.’
‘Oh, David!’
‘David, we’ve heard all about you!’
‘David, hello!’
‘So you’re David?’
‘It would appear so.’
They all giggled appreciatively.
‘Are you a fan of Charlotte Lancaster?’ asked Myra, a plump lady whose pink scalp was peeking out from beneath her thinning hair.
‘Can’t say I’m familiar with her oeuvre.’
The ladies all competed to fill him in, talking over the top of each other. It seemed that Charlotte Lancaster wrote turgid tales about feisty nurses and doctors with jaws like Chesty Bond. As the ladies bickered about their favourite fictional doctors, all of whom sounded like the same ill-conceived cardboard cut-out to Dave, he couldn’t resist teasing: ‘So you like the look of his scalpel, do you?’
Mrs Hipsley’s girlfriends shrieked with laughter and Dave chuckled obligingly. He’d always been a bit of a magnet for postmenopausal women, which was nice, but not quite as gratifying as being a magnet for pre-menopausal ones.
‘Rosalie,’ yelled Myra, ‘David’s teasing us about our stories!’
‘Oh, I don’t think romance is David’s thing,’ Mrs Hipsley said with a twinkle. ‘Is it, David?’
Not according to Evanthe, no.
Dave felt that kick in his guts all over again. He wondered how long it would come as a shock to him that he was no longer married. He suddenly found himself back on that horrendous night when Evanthe had returned from her girls’ weekend away and catalogued his failures.
‘I don’t feel treasured or cherished or adored,’ she’d said.
Dave was baffled. ‘But I asked you to marry me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And don’t I always put you first?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And haven’t I’ve always been faithful?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And don’t I try to be a good dad?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And shouldn’t a husband be judged by his actions?’
‘Yes, but …’ Her voice trailed off unexpectedly, and she suddenly looked weary and sad.
Dave was gripped by fear, so he went on the attack. ‘That’s a lot of buts, Evanthe. But what? But my actions aren’t good enough? But you’ve fallen out of love with me?’
A small tic in her cheek betrayed her—she had fallen out of love with him. Dave felt as though she’d punched the air right out of his lungs.
‘I’m sorry, David, but I need romance.’
‘And you got me? Ripped off.’
Back at Readings, Dave pushed thoughts of his romantic deficiencies away and forced himself back to the present. ‘As long as it’s your thing, that’s the important thing,’ he said.
‘I wish you men would give it a chance,’ Myra sighed. ‘Romance is so uplifting.’
‘I’m sure it is, but I’m more uplifted by real-life stories. War crimes, genocide, that kind of stuff.’
The old ladies shrieked again. Cheeky boy. Mrs Hipsley seemed gratified that Dave was such a hit. She gazed up at him with a proprietorial air and wrapped her little fingers around his arm.
Dave gently disentangled himself. ‘Well, Nickie’s waiting, so I’ll be off. Enjoy the reading, Mrs Hipsley.’
‘What was that, David?’
‘I said maybe you should turn your hearing aids on!’ Dave boomed.
Mrs Hipsley obliged.
‘That’s better. Now if a handsome doctor wants to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, at least you’ll hear something.’
The old dears seemed to find that devastatingly witty.
‘And you young ladies enjoy it too,’ he added.
Dave turned to leave, but he’d only taken a couple of steps when something stopped him in his tracks. The woman in front of them with the blue eyes had tucked her dress into her undies. A string of elastic was trailing down her shapely left thigh, and the bottom curve of her bum was exposed. Dave hesitated. Would he look like a perv if he told her? He glanced around for rescue, but no one else appeared to have noticed, and surely she’d rather know sooner than later …
‘Um, excuse me,’ he murmured, but she didn’t hear him. He was forced to tap her on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me?’
VANESSA
Vanessa turned to see the tall gangly guy with the puppy dog eyes who’d arrived with the tiny old lady. She’d been surprised to see a man at a Charlotte Lancaster reading, but good for him. He was probably gay, although he didn’t look it—she’d never seen a gay guy in a suit that old.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I just noticed you’ve … um … you’ve got your …’
The guy kept his eyes on her face, but now he was pointing downwards. Vanessa followed his finger … to her bum. Oh my God. She reached down to feel her dimpled flesh and nearly died. Not only was her dress tucked into her undies, but the elastic had fallen away and her bare bum was on display. Vanessa could feel her face burning, but she tried to retain some semblance of dignity as she scrambled to untuck her dress.
‘Oh! Thank you.’
The gangly guy nodded. She couldn’t be sure, but she suspected he was even more embarrassed than she was.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well …’
Well, what? Why was he still standing there? He hovered uncertainly for a moment and then he left. Thank goodness.
Vanessa backed up against the Readings window. Had everyone in the queue seen? The passers-by? The outdoor diners? She pictured them all nudging each other and asking, ‘Was that a bum or a bowl of pink jelly?’ Although the thought was kind of amusing, it didn’t stop it from being mortifying. And now Kiri was crossing the road to join her. Finally.
‘Kiri. About time! Where the hell have you been?!’
Kiri reeled back. ‘Chill, Niss. What’s up your nose?’
Vanessa checked herself. It wasn’t Kiri’s fault, although it would have been nice if her friend had been here to warn her about her wardrobe malfunction. ‘Sorry, I’m just being impatient.’
But Kiri had already shrugged it off. Up ahead, the line started moving into the bookshop, and Vanessa’s embarrassment was replaced by a thrill of anticipation. She was just moments away from seeing Charlotte Lancaster in the flesh.
Vanessa and Kiri were squashed at the rear of the personal development section, but if Vanessa leaned to the left she could get a clear view of Charlotte, who was even more gorgeous than she’d imagined. How could someone be so beautiful and so talented? I bow before you, Vanessa thought.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ the author was saying in her transpacific accent. ‘Can everyone fit? I’m so humbled by the turnout …’
Charlotte turned to smile at the guy beside her who’d been introduced as Wax’s publisher, Alan McManus, and then the young woman on her other side, commissioning editor Amy Dunphy. Yes, that Amy Dunphy. Vanessa wondered what Amy would say if she stood up and asked, ‘Why did you lie about not receiving my novel? Was it so unspeakably bad that you had to erase it from your mind?’ Not that she’d have the guts to do that—but maybe she’d try to pluck up the courage to corner Amy later?
‘Would you like a sneak peek at the cover?’ Charlotte was asking her fans.
‘Yes, please!’
‘Absolutely!’
‘Show us!’
And such.
‘Amy, if you’ll do the honours?’
Amy pulled a sheet off an easel to reveal a poster-sized version of Love Transplant, which featured an illustration of a petite blonde nurse and a tall dark doctor getting hot and heavy in surgical scrubs. The doctor was untying the nurse’s surgical gown, exposing a creamy shoulder. The crowd gasped approvingly and applauded. Vanessa nudged Kiri, who was playing Sudoku on her phone.
‘Fabulous cover.’
Kiri lifted her eyes just long enough to clock the poster and snort with laughter. It made Vanessa laugh too, and before she knew it they were both in the grip of the giggles. She forced herself to get it together—where was her respect? This was the woman whose work had inspired Vanessa to try to live her own writing dream.
Charlotte Lancaster. Author. Celebrity. Celebrity author. Vanessa knew her fairytale journey by heart. After arriving in Melbourne from her native New York at the age of sixteen when her high-flying father Chip was appointed CEO of a multinational mining company, Charlotte attended PLC and then enrolled in a nursing degree. But she was soon discovered by a modelling scout and plucked out of university. For the next few years her face graced countless magazine covers, but Charlotte found that lifestyle unfulfilling and she decided to follow her true dream instead: writing. Eight novels later she was a fixture on the bestseller lists and regularly snapped at A-list events with her husband, renowned barrister Marcus Stafford—a man so impossibly handsome he could have modelled for one of her covers.
Vanessa watched Charlotte smooth her auburn tresses while she waited for the fawning to subside. Her whole body seemed a hymn to personal maintenance. How on earth did she find the time for those immaculate toenails, fingernails, eyebrows, etc.? Not having kids probably helped. Vanessa made a mental note to put Jackson and Lachie up for adoption—but not before they’d put the bins out.
‘Just to set the scene, Love Transplant begins during a heart transplant operation in a major New York hospital.’
Vanessa raised her eyebrows. Great minds think alike.
‘Our heroine, Angelique, is a ballsy cardiac nurse from Brooklyn. Tragically, during the heart transplant she discovers that the donor heart belongs to her new husband, who’s just been killed in an auto accident.’ The audience gasped. Vanessa gaped. ‘When Angelique hears this tragic news, she faints in the middle of the operation, and the brilliant but arrogant transplant surgeon, Dr Rufus Rowntree, is furious …’
Was she really hearing this? Vanessa nudged Kiri. ‘It’s the same as mine,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Charlotte’s story is exactly the same as mine.’
Kiri looked up from her Sudoku. ‘What? The same? But how?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘He threatens to have Angelique sacked, but she doesn’t tell him about her husband’s death because she prides herself on her professionalism, and she doesn’t want pity. It’s their first clash, and they’ll clash a lot more, but … I think you can probably guess how it ends.’
‘With plagiarism?’ Kiri muttered.
Vanessa shushed her as Charlotte picked up a copy of Love Transplant.
‘I thought I’d read from a passage quite early in the story. Rufus is visiting a cemetery to lay flowers on his mother’s grave, when he finds Angelique sitting alone by her husband’s tombstone …’
Vanessa had the exact same sequence in Lost and Found Heart!
‘Rufus reads the inscription on the tombstone and realises why Angelique fainted during the heart transplant. It’s a humbling moment for the arrogant surgeon.’
What on earth?! Vanessa felt like everything was swirling out of control. ‘What’s going on?’ she muttered to no one in particular.
‘Shhh!’ hissed the balding old lady who’d been standing behind Vanessa in the queue with her friends.
Vanessa smiled apologetically but, as Charlotte started reading the passage, she found herself mouthing along in a whisper:
‘You should have told me about your husband,’ said Rufus. ‘I would have gone easier on you.’
