inspired my debut novel, so perhaps I should start by reading you the opening page.’
The familiar rhythm of the words begins to lend my voice confidence, soften my nerves. I concentrate on speaking slowly, getting my breathing under control. I can do this. I have done this dozens of times, to bigger audiences.
I manage it, planting my feet firm, speaking in a clear voice, pulling my shoulders back. But just as I think that I am going to be okay, my eye catches on a mark on the page. A word has been circled in red pen.
I have absolutely no recollection of when I’d have done this, or why. I never write on my books – there is something sacrosanct about the printed page.
I hurry through reading aloud the final few lines, yet all the while my thoughts are pinned to that one strangely circled word.
You.
*
The talk careers on, with me skidding and sliding from one topic to the next, only pausing to snatch breath. I’m running on adrenalin and can feel the tension in my shoulders, in the small bones at the back of my neck.
There is a brief round of Q&A, but the audience – perhaps sensing my desperation to be freed – keep the questions to a minimum. After that there is a small queue of readers wanting signed copies, then the thank yous and goodbyes with the library staff, and then, finally – finally, I am released from the building.
Fresh air spikes my skin, the damp shirt cooling on my back. My car is parked on the roadside under a treeline of poplars and, as I pull my keys from my handbag, Fiona appears, a cigarette between her fingers.
‘Need a drag?’
I nod, then lean against my car taking a long draw of smoke into my lungs. It’s been years since we’ve shared a cigarette, and the rush of nicotine fills my head.
‘Who did you bum this from?’
She taps the side of her nose.
I take another drag, then hand it back. ‘Aren’t you going to say something polite about my talk, like, There were some good moments once you found your stride?’
‘Do you need me to?’
I exhale hard. ‘I think what I need is alcohol.’
‘It wasn’t as bad as you think.’
‘Thank you for coming to my rescue.’
‘What happened to your notes?’
‘They were inside the cover of my book, which I left on the library table. Someone must have moved them.’
Fiona arches an eyebrow. ‘What, like that man on the front row who you accused?’
‘I didn’t accuse him. I asked him. That’s Mark – Frank and Enid’s son.’
‘Oh. The bin tipper.’
I can hear the light tease in her voice and can’t quite tell whether it is helping, or whether I’m annoyed by it.
‘I can’t believe he had the gall to sit on the front row. He must’ve loved seeing me die on stage.’
‘Maybe he was genuinely interested in what you had to say.’
‘There’s nothing genuine about him.’
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