makes perfect.’
Even though you’re not in the house, I feel close to you.
There are traces of you everywhere. Earlier, I found one of your hairs clinging to the sleeve of my shirt. I held it up to the light, examining the caramel shade, surprised to see the root bearing a hint of grey.
In the recycling bin, I found a screwed-up Post-it note, reading, Focus! No internet! I smiled at that because I can imagine how much self-discipline must be required as an author. What pressure you must be under to deliver an exceptional second novel.
We are all waiting for it.
I remember reading your debut for the first time. It blew me away. I read it in one sitting, pinned to the chair. The beauty and skill of the story, the racing pace. It left me breathless.
You’ve signed my copy at the front, a looping signature with a kiss.
I went to one of your book signings, I watched you from the back of a snaking line.
I studied the dip of your head as you bent to sign each copy, hair falling forward over your shoulder. You were smiling, chatting to readers as you asked their names, asked who you should dedicate each book to.
It was only when I looked closer that I noticed it – the way your legs were shaking beneath the table.
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