by Clare Pooley
“Come on, Julian!” said Monica.
“You folks go ahead,” said Julian. “I’d just like five minutes by myself. I’ll follow on.”
“Are you sure?” Monica asked him, not wanting to leave him alone. Julian was, she realized, suddenly looking every day of his real age. Perhaps that was just the effect of the falling dusk, the dark filling in all his creases.
“Yes, honestly. I’d like some time to reflect,” he said.
Hazard held his hand out from the back of the taxi, helping Monica to climb in. In that gesture, Monica realized, was everything she wanted in life. She looked back at Julian, sitting in his deck chair, Keith’s head resting on his lap. He gave her a wave, still holding the book in his hand. For all his idiosyncrasies and imperfections, he really was the most extraordinary person Monica had ever met.
Of all the cafés in all the world, she was terribly grateful he’d chosen hers.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Julian
Julian watched the taxis disappear with a sense of contentment. He realized that, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he liked himself. It was a good feeling. He reached down and patted Keith’s head.
“It’s just you and me now, old boy,” he said.
But it wasn’t just them. He watched as several people approached, from different directions, carrying deck chairs, picnic blankets, musical instruments. Didn’t they know the party was over?
Julian thought about standing up, walking over, and telling them it was time to go home, but he couldn’t make his muscles cooperate. He was very tired.
The light was so low now that it took him a while to make out any of the faces of the new revelers, but as they got closer he saw that they weren’t strangers at all, but old friends. His fine art teacher from the Slade. The owner of the gallery in Conduit Street. Even a friend from school he’d not seen since they were teenagers, middle-aged now, but with the same unmistakable red hair and cheeky grin.
Julian smiled over at them all. Then he saw, skirting around the Round Pond, his brother. No crutches, no wheelchair, but walking. His brother waved to him, in a fluid, controlled motion that Julian had not seen him use since he was in his twenties.
As the outlines of his friends and family become more distinct, the details around them—the trees, the grass, the pond, and the bandstand—fell away.
Julian felt a pang of nostalgia so deep that it was like a knife in his chest.
He waited for the pain to subside, but it didn’t. It spread out, working its way to the tips of his fingers and soles of his feet, until Julian couldn’t feel his body at all, just the sensation of pain. The pain morphed into light—bright and blinding, then into the taste of iron, then into sound. A piercing shriek, which muted into a buzz, and then nothing. Nothing at all.
EPILOGUE
Dave
Dave was rather sad his working day was coming to an end. Usually he was desperate to lock up the park and get to the pub, but today he’d been sharing his shift with Salima, one of the new trainees, and time had passed so quickly as he’d spent the whole shift trying to pluck up the courage to ask her to go to the movies with him. It was nearly dark. He was running out of opportunity.
“Dave, stop!” said Salima, making him jump. “Isn’t that someone sitting in a deck chair over there?” He looked over at where she was pointing, toward the bandstand.
“I think you’re right. You’ll discover there’s always one! You wait here, I’ll go over and turf them out. Don’t want anyone getting locked in for the night. Watch how I do it—polite but firm, that’s the trick.” He pulled the car over into a parking bay and turned off the engine. “Won’t be long.”
He walked over toward the man sitting in the deck chair, trying to stride in a way that looked strong and manly, as he was aware of Salima’s eyes on his back. As he approached, he realized that his renegade was rather old. And asleep. An ancient, scruffy terrier sat beside him like a sentry, his eyes unblinking, and misty with cataracts. Perhaps it would be a good idea to offer him and his dog a lift home, presuming he lived close by. That would give him more time with Salima and make him look kind—which he was, obviously.
The man was smiling in his sleep. Dave wondered what he was dreaming about. Something nice, by the look of things.
“Hello!” he said. “Sorry to wake you up, but it’s time to go home.” He put his hand on the man’s arm and shook it a little, to rouse him. Something didn’t feel right. The man’s head dropped to one side in a way that looked—lifeless.
Dave picked up his cold hand and felt his wrist for a pulse. Nothing. And no sign of any breathing. Dave had never seen a dead body before, let alone touched one. He took out his phone with slightly shaking hands and began to dial 999.
Then he noticed that the man was holding something in his other hand. A notebook. Gently, Dave prized it out of his fingers. Maybe it was important. His next of kin would want it. He looked down at the cover. On it were three words, written in beautiful italics: The Authenticity Project. Dave carefully put it in his inside jacket pocket.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Authenticity Project is a very personal story for me. Five years ago, I was—like Alice—living a seemingly perfect life, and yet the truth was very different. Like Hazard, I was an addict. My addiction was high-priced, good-quality wine (because if the bottle costs enough, you’re a connoisseur, not a lush, right?). After many failed attempts to stop, I decided—like Julian—to tell my truth to the world. I’m a little more modern than Julian, so I wrote my story about my battle to quit booze in a blog, rather than a notebook, and that blog turned into a book—The Sober Diaries.
What I discovered is that telling the truth about your life really can work magic and change the lives of many other people for the better. So, my first thank-you is to all the people who read my blog and my memoir and took the time to write me telling me what a difference that honesty made to them. This novel was inspired by you.
I was rather terrified about moving from nonfiction to fiction, and not at all sure that I could do it, so I enrolled in the Curtis Brown Creative three-month novel-writing course. I recently looked back at my application, and the three-thousand-word excerpt of The Book That Changed Lives (as it was called back then). It was truly dreadful, so I have a huge amount for which to thank my course tutor—Charlotte Mendelson—as well as Anna Davis and Norah Perkins.
One of the best things about the CBC course was the fabulous group of writers I met there. After the course ended, we formed “Write Club,” and we still meet regularly to share our work with one another over beers (for them) and water (for me), and to laugh and cry about the roller coaster that is the life of a writer. Thank you to all of you—Alex, Clive, Emilie, Emily, Jenny, Jenni, Geoffrey, Natasha, Kate, Kiare, Maggie, and Richard. And a special thanks to Max Dunne and Zoe Miller, who were the first two people to read my terrible first draft.
Thanks also to my other first readers—Lucy Schoonhoven, who advised me on Australians and gardening and has a mean eye for a typo or a repetition; Rosie Copeland, for her invaluable advice about art and artists; Louise Keller for her knowledge of mental health issues; and Diana Gardner-Brown for her insight and inspiration.
My two dog-walking buddies—Caroline Firth and Annabel Abbs—kept me sane and provided a sounding board through the last few years of writing, submitting, and editing. I remember when I first met Annabel, rather nervously telling her that I wanted to write a book. She replied that she was writing one herself, The Joyce Girl. I still can’t quite believe that we’ve now both been published. I’ve loved traveling this road with you, my friend.
I hate having my photograph taken, and Caroline took an informal shot on one of our dog walks when I was windswept and makeup free, which she’s generously let me use ever since as my official author picture.
My next thank-you goes to my wonderful agent—Hayley Ste
ed—for loving my book from the beginning, for helping to make it so much better, and for being a wonderful friend and mentor through the publishing process. Monica owes her obsession with color-coding Excel spreadsheets to Hayley. A huge thanks to the phenomenon that is Madeleine Milburn, for her sage advice and guiding hand, and to the amazing Alice Sutherland-Hawes, for managing simultaneous auctions in multiple territories, and selling The Authenticity Project to a whopping twenty-eight markets in the fortnight leading up to the Frankfurt Book Fair. The Madeleine Milburn Agency is an extraordinary powerhouse, but it’s also a family, and everyone has made me feel so welcome and has helped make this book as good as it can be. Thanks to you all.
And next, Pamela Dorman, my brilliant editor. I will never forget the day Pam first called me to say she was interested in publishing my book. Her reputation preceded her, across the Atlantic, and I was utterly terrified. And Pam is terrifying. Terrifyingly perceptive, terrifyingly passionate, and terrifyingly talented. Having Pam in your corner makes you feel like you have magical powers, and working with her on an edit is a master class.
Pam couldn’t do all of that without the powerhouse that is Jeramie Orton. Thank you, Jeramie, for all your phenomenal skill with the edit, for holding my hand through everything, for your patience and humor, and for answering all my endless and inane questions.
I’ve saved the best until last—my family. Thank you to my husband, John, for always believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself, and for being so insightful and honest about my writing, even when it led to me throwing a manuscript at his head; and to my wonderful parents, who couldn’t be more proud or supportive. This book is dedicated to my dad, who is the best writer I know, and whose column in the parish magazine is legendary. Dad read not just my first draft, but each one of the following nine, providing detailed feedback at every stage. Just to warn you, if you’re planning to leave a less than favorable review on Amazon, he will be responding! And thank you to my three children—Eliza, Charlie, and Matilda—my biggest fans and my inspiration, every day.
One thing I’ve been amazed by since working with the publishing industry is how many people it takes to publish a book. Not just all the people I’ve mentioned above, but so many others at Pamela Dorman Books and the wider Penguin Random House family, who have added their talent, their enthusiasm, their wisdom, their time, and their energy into getting this book into your hands. The cover designers, the copy editor, the proofreaders, the salespeople, and many more. So here is a full credit list of all those people who have helped bring my story to you:
Editorial and Publishing
Brian Tart
Andrea Schulz
Pamela Dorman
Jeramie Orton
Managing Editorial and Production
Tricia Conley
Tess Espinoza
Matt Giarratano
Nick Michal
Diandra Alvarado
Nicole Celli
Fabiana Van Arsdell
Copy Editor
Laurie McGee
Proofreaders
Susan Schwartz
Megha Jain
Art
Roseanne Serra
Elizabeth Yaffe
Interior Design
Claire Vaccaro
Meighan Cavanaugh
Marketing
Kate Stark
Mary Stone
Erin Merlo
Publicity
Lindsay Prevette
Shannon Twomey
Ciara Johnson
Rights
Leigh Butler
Ritsuko Okumura
Audio
Bridget Gilleran
Contracts
Robin Simon
And everyone on the sales team at Pamela Dorman Books/Viking/Penguin.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Clare Pooley spent twenty years in the heady world of advertising before becoming a full-time mother. Pooley writes from her kitchen table in Fulham, London where she lives with her husband, three children, dog and an African pygmy hedgehog.
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