by Katy Cannon
In the summer at St Stephen’s, the large old oak tree at the end of the school field is where everyone tends to congregate. In February, it was deserted – which was perfect for my purposes.
“So? What’s going on?” Rohan dropped to sit on a tree root, the bag of hot chips in his hand. He held them out to me and I took one, while Anja spent a little more time choosing her seat, laying her scarf out over the knobbly roots before sitting. “You realize we’re missing ogling the famous new boy in the common room, right?” He rolled his eyes as he said it, and I knew he wasn’t exactly disappointed to be skipping that particular treat.
“This is kind of more important than some guy who was on TV once or something,” I told them.
Rohan raised his eyebrows, exchanging a look with Anja. “Oh?”
“Sounds ominous,” Anja commented.
I bit my lip as Gran’s challenge buzzed around my mind again. “Not ominous, exciting. But, well … you know that category of things we have that we never tell anyone else? This is one of those.”
“That much we guessed,” Anja said, flashing me a smile. “Is it like the time Rohan made us deliver that balloon in a box to Hope Edwards for Valentine’s, or more like the time I needed you to sneak me out of the house so I could go to that swim team party with Joey when I was getting over the flu and the dads said I couldn’t go?”
I considered. “Neither. Well, maybe a bit of both.”
“Well, is it like the time—”
“Anja?” Rohan interrupted impatiently. “Lunch is only an hour long. How about Tilly just tells us what’s going on?”
Anja reached across and stole a handful of chips from his bag, before settling back down quietly.
“The thing is … remember how my gran got sick last year?”
I’d been practising how I was going to tell them in my head all morning (something I was pretty sure my teachers must have noticed, since I had no idea what any of my lessons had been about) so it didn’t take long to give them the basics of everything that had happened since last summer.
Which brought me to last night.
“So Gran figured it out, of course.” I took a deep breath then let the words fall out in one quick stream. “And now she wants me to start her next book for her.”
Rohan, halfway through a chip, stared at me. Then he stared at Anja, who was also staring at me. And then he went back to staring at me.
“Lunch time is ticking away, guys,” I pointed out, after a silent minute. “So if we could move past the astonished ‘are you crazy?’ reactions, that would be great.”
Anja swallowed down her chip and frowned. “But I thought she finished the Aurora series? Or, actually, you did, I guess. So what does she want you to write?”
“Something new.” Just saying the words made me bounce with the same feeling of anticipation I’d felt when I’d picked up the notebook. “Her next bestseller, in fact.” Sure, it was a hard act to follow. But more importantly, this was my first big chance.
“Wow.” Anja’s eyes were wide but I didn’t see the same excitement I felt in them. “Are you sure you want to do it?”
“Of course!” I stared at her in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Rohan shrugged, selecting another chip. “Yeah, I mean, she’s already written one. How hard can it be to write another?”
Anja glared at him. “Tilly finished one book. One that had fifteen other books backing it up. And that she had all her gran’s notes for.”
“Kind of taking the glow off my day there,” I commented, feeling a bit like Anja was diminishing my achievement.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to… The thing is, do you remember how you were, when you were working on that, Tilly? I just thought it was you being worried for your gran, but everything makes a lot more sense now. You buried yourself away for weeks, you would hardly talk to us, even Rohan noticed there was something wrong. And that was when all you had to do was tie up the loose ends of a story.”
Anja was right about one thing – just finishing Gran’s book had been hard enough. I’d spent hours sitting next to her hospital bed after school, typing away on my laptop while she slept the afternoon away, a panic crawling in my chest. A panic that I’d never finish it, that it wouldn’t be good enough, that I’d let Gran down.
And under all that, of course, the clenching dread that Gran might not wake up again.
But I hadn’t let her down. And she had woken up and got better.
“It won’t be like that this time,” I said, my confidence returning. “This time, you guys know, so I’ll be able to talk to you about it. Plus, Gran isn’t sick any more. She’ll be there to help me, if I need it. It’ll be fine.”
“OK, sure,” Anja said. “It might be easier. But Tilly … doesn’t it bother you that you’ll be essentially writing someone else’s book?”
Rohan gestured at me with his chip. “She’s got a point. Whose name will go on the cover? You don’t want to do loads of work and not get your name in shiny letters on the front, right?”
“We didn’t talk about that,” I admitted. “But there are probably loads of details we still need to hammer out. So I’ll talk to Gran about them. It’ll be fine.”
Anja still didn’t look convinced but Rohan held out the chips to me as a sign of agreement.
“What about your stories, though?” Anja asked. “Tilly, you’ve been talking about wanting to write a book of your own for years. You have to have ideas – I know that’s what you scribble away at in that notebook of yours. Why not write your own story instead?”
I shook my head. “You wouldn’t understand.” I tried to find a way to make it make sense to her. Anja’s passion was swimming – and she swam to win. For her, it was all about being the best and doing what she loved. And sure, she trained and trained to be that good. “It’s like … you wouldn’t have attempted that sea challenge you did last summer if you hadn’t trained hard enough, right?”
“Right. So?” Anja’s brow was crumpled with confusion.
“Or, Rohan, you wouldn’t try to play some really complex symphony until you’d learned the basics, yeah? Sat and practised your scales and your beginner pieces?”
“I guess.”
“Well, this is like that for me. My ideas … I don’t know how to write them yet. I don’t know how to make them good or make them come to life. But with Gran’s books … I know them. I’ve watched her piece them together from scratch and polish them until they’re as perfect as can be. I’ve helped her do it. I can write those books. And maybe working on them will help me be a good enough writer to figure out how to write my own ideas, too.”
“I suppose that makes sense. Sort of,” Anja said reluctantly. “So, is your gran going to give you the idea for this book? Or do you need to come up with it on your own?”
I pulled a face. “That might actually be one of those things we haven’t talked about yet.”
“Sounds to me like you and Bea need to sit down and have a long chat.” Rohan shoved the last of the chips into his mouth and balled the bag up in his fist.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess we do.”
The bell rang not long after that and we headed back towards the main building, only to get caught up in a crowd of other students, all gathered round one person.
“Reckon that’s him?” Rohan whispered in my ear. “St Stephen’s latest celebrity?”
I shrugged, still mentally listing the questions I had for Gran. “Probably.” I didn’t really care. Whoever he was, he was still a schoolboy. And now, more than ever, I only had time for heroes – preferably fictional ones.
But then, as the crowd started to disperse as people headed to class, I caught a glimpse of the new boy. He stood with his back to the windows that looked out over the field, and the winter sun shining through them made his hair glow golden, even while it shadowed his face. But even that brief glance showed he was taller than most of the guys in our school and, as he walked away, I found myself watching him go
. His spine straight, his shoulders back, his stride long but relaxed…
Something told me the new boy wasn’t like anyone else at St Stephen’s – and not just because he was a celebrity.
And against all my usual instincts, I found myself wanting to know more about him.
I shook my head and hurried to class. This was absolutely not the time to suddenly develop an interest in random boys.
Not when I had a whole love story to create on paper.
Gran was waiting in the kitchen when I got home from school. She tried to make it look casual – as if she just happened to be there, making a pot of tea, at the exact time I always came home from school. But since I’d seen her watching out of the window, then scampering over to the kettle when I opened the back door, I wasn’t fooled. She was waiting for my answer.
Gran’s house did have a front door, of course, but no one ever used it. (It was a big, white, imposing structure that led to the airy front hall, which housed, among other things, an armchair, three mirrors, a large wooden trunk full of dressing-up clothes I hadn’t used in years and a piano.)
Anyone who’d been to the house even once before knew to use the back door. Mum always muttered about the cliché and gender role reinforcement of the kitchen being the heart of the home but in Gran’s house it really was. Mostly because that was where the kettle was and our family was fuelled by tea (except for me and the twins. The twins were fuelled by biscuits, or possibly evil, and I was fuelled by these delicious iced coffee drinks that came in a can that Rohan introduced me to), even before the twins came along and we all had to give up on the idea of ever getting a good night’s sleep again.
The kitchen itself was large and bright, with white cupboards and honey coloured wooden counters. At one end, a huge, heavy farmhouse table sat in the middle of an oversized bay window, looking out over the garden. Cushioned window seats ran along the bottom of the windows, and they were one of my favourite places to lounge on boring summer afternoons, when the sun streamed in and warmed them just right.
Gran, however, was perched on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, with a teapot, two cups and saucers, milk jug and a plate of biscuits in front of her.
Apparently, we were having tea. I’d never been a huge fan of hot drinks but in Gran’s house you kind of had to get used to drinking them anyway. And at least the biscuits were always good.
“Tilly! How lovely.” She faked surprise well, my gran. “You’re just in time for tea.”
“And how convenient you already had a spare cup set out,” I commented as I dropped my schoolbag and coat by the door and boosted myself up on to the stool beside her.
“Isn’t it?” Gran beamed at me, no hint of embarrassment in her voice. “Now, since you’re here, why don’t you tell me about your day? Did you have a chance to think about the little challenge I set you last night?”
Little challenge? Was that what we were calling it now? It didn’t feel that little to me.
But as I sat there with Gran, feeling her practically vibrating with excitement at giving me the chance to go after my dream of being an author – my own excitement levels started rising again. My chest drew tight and I bit my lip, trying not to smile.
I wanted to do this.
More than anything, I wanted to prove that I could. Whatever it took.
“I’ve thought about it,” I admitted.
“And?”
I took a breath. Last chance to change my mind.
“I’m in,” I said quickly, before I could try and take it back.
Gran clapped her hands together with glee, before lifting her teacup to clink against mine. “I knew you would be! You’re my granddaughter, after all. Can’t resist a challenge.”
“Or a chocolate chip cookie,” I agreed, selecting one from the plate. “So, how is this going to work, exactly?” Rohan was right – there were a lot of questions I still needed answering.
Tilting her head to one side, Gran considered.
“You had actually thought through this plan of yours, right?” I asked.
“Mostly I was just focusing on getting you to agree to it,” Gran said with a shrug. “And now you have … how about this? We keep the whole project a secret, just between you and me. You come up with some ideas for a brand-new Beatrix Frost romance, and write the first three chapters and a synopsis of what happens in the rest of the book. Then we’ll sit down and go through it together, see if it’s going to work.”
Three chapters. I could totally write three chapters.
“And if you like it?”
Gran shrugged again. “Then we’ll discuss what happens next!”
Meaning she hadn’t thought about it yet. “Was this whole idea totally spur of the moment?”
“Not entirely – I mean, I’d already bought you the notebook, right?”
“Bought it for me, or found it in your notebook cupboard?” I asked suspiciously. Even express delivery has its limits and Gran has an unholy love of notebooks. There’s an entire cupboard in her study dedicated to them – one side for used, one side for unused. It’s a stationery addict’s paradise in there. She put a padlock on it when I moved in and started pilfering them.
“Fine, it was from my stash,” Gran huffed. “But I did buy something for you today to help with your writing!”
Gran opened the kitchen cupboard at her knees and pulled out a hatbox.
Oh no.
Gran has a theory about hats. (To be honest, Gran has a theory about most things but the hat one is the most relevant right now.) She believes that hats have powers. (Stay with me. It gets weirder.) Not, like, magical, wizard hat powers. But the power to give you confidence, I guess. She’s always said that if you need to stand tall and make an impression, you have to wear a hat.
Gran always, always wears a hat when she goes out. And often when she stays in.
And, most pertinently, when she’s writing.
Other authors might have a mood board for their books, with pictures of the characters or a playlist that goes with the story. Gran, before she starts writing a new book, always chooses a hat.
I’ve spent a lot of time in hat shops over the years – even though I look notoriously awful in hats. (Seriously, my dad actually falls down laughing whenever Gran makes me wear one. He says it’s because I pull a ‘hat face’ but I know the truth.)
So I wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic about the contents of Gran’s hatbox.
Reaching in, Gran pulled out a forest green, felt hat with flat flowers made of the same material pinned along the edge. It was a cloche style, the sort of hat that a woman might have worn in the forties, as she chased along a station platform, waving goodbye to her one true love.
I stared at it balefully. At least it wouldn’t clash with my hair, I supposed.
“Try it on!” Gran pressed the hat into my hands, apparently unaware of my feelings towards it.
I placed it dutifully on top of my head, then scowled. Gran tutted and reached up to adjust it, pulling my hair down from its usual ponytail and fanning it out over my shoulders as she tweaked the angle of the hat.
“There. Perfect.” She leaned back in her stool to admire her handiwork. “Go look in the mirror.”
Sliding off my stool I slouched through to the hallway to take advantage of the many mirrors. The hat looked equally awful in all of them.
OK, maybe it wasn’t the hat. The hat was lovely, if you liked such things. I just didn’t.
But if it helped me write Gran’s book … well, maybe it was worth a go. I mean, Gran knew what she was talking about when it came to books. Even if she believed in the magic power of hats.
“So what do you think?” Gran asked as I made my way back into the kitchen.
“It’s a really nice hat,” I said, not totally lying. “Thank you.”
“I knew you’d love it. Now, take another look in the hat box,” Gran said, shoving it into my lap.
I dug through the piles of tissue paper, wondering what o
n earth I was supposed to be looking for, until my fingers hit leather. I pulled out a leather wallet, just bigger than a hardback book, and stared at it.
“Open it,” Gran urged, so I did.
Paper after paper, note after note, Post-it after Post-it, fell out on to the kitchen counter, every one of them covered in Gran’s sloped writing. There were scraps of envelopes, receipts, the backs of birthday cards – all with notes written on them.
I knew what this was. This was the Holy Grail, the mother lode of romance writing. This was Gran’s ideas folder. I ran a few of them through my fingers, looking for an explanation in the random words assigned to each, remembering the first time Gran had shown it to me.
“This is my ideas folder,” Gran had said. “Every time I have a great idea I don’t want to forget, I write it down on whatever is to hand and put it in here. Then, when it’s time to start a new book, I go through it, pull out anything that looks useful and copy it into my notebook for the story. It gives me something to build on, when I’m right at the start with nothing but a hat and a blank page.”
And now it was mine to use. Every idea the brilliant Beatrix Frost had ever had (that hadn’t made it into a book already) was lying on the kitchen counter. If I couldn’t find three chapters of a book in this lot, I had no business even trying.
Except… “Gran, are you sure you don’t want to write this book? I mean, it’s your editor, your fans waiting for it. If I write it, isn’t it, like, well, cheating?”
Gran clicked her tongue. “Tilly, it’s three chapters. It’s no different to what you did for Aurora Rising, really.”
That was true. Of course, I hadn’t got any credit for that…
“So, if you use my chapters, do I get my name on the cover of this one?” Thank you, Rohan, for reminding me about that important detail.
“Absolutely!” Gran laughed. “In tiny, tiny letters under mine, of course…”