Secrets and Lies

by Joanne Clancy

According to Ellie May, Hope's face was “a picture.” Ellie May was obviously the queen of understatement.

  Chapter 16

  Early morning was Kerry's favourite time of day, especially when she was writing. It was a perfect February morning and already the first signs of spring were in the air. She stood for a few moments by the French doors in the living room of Ballycotton House, high over the still waters of Kinsale Bay, one of the most beautiful places on earth.

  It was eight o' clock on a morning that was completely perfect. Robins bobbed about on the patio outside, and beyond the tangle of brambles at the boundary of the house, a rabbit grazed on old, lazy beds that were covered in bright new grass. The little rabbit paused for a moment to scratch her ears and then sat upright to check for any signs of Sabre, Maura's German Shepherd, who often roamed between the two gardens.

  East-southeast, a rim of sun appeared, simmering between two peaks of the far-distant mountains. Kerry sipped her second cup of strong coffee as the disc reddened and grew quickly, igniting a mesh of rubies and garnets on the surface of the bay and pinkening the blooms on the cherry blossom trees that lined the driveway.

  She pushed open the doors and the air, chilly but exhilarating, hit the back of her throat like clean white wine. Somewhere to the left, bell-like through the bird twitter and chatter, echoed the call of the cuckoo. Kerry loved the sound of the cuckoo and knowing that, as usual, she would not manage to catch sight of the bird, nevertheless she stepped outside in the hope that she just might catch a glimpse. She peered around the garden but couldn't spot him, so she finished her coffee and shivered in the cold of the early morning.

  Saoirse was staying at her friend's house and Conor was still fast asleep in bed. He loved the luxury of having a long lie-in at the weekend and he wouldn't be up for hours. Kerry relished the thought of having total peace and undisturbed quiet for at least a few hours. The deadline for completing her latest book was fast approaching and she was at the slightly panicky stage of tying everything together.

  The launch date was still almost three months away, a few weeks after their holiday to Japan, but there was a lot of work left to finish before then. Kerry fired up her computer and settled down to read her emails. Although she was an established and well-respected writer she knew she was only as good as her last book and that thought often filled her with almost overwhelming panic. “What if my book bombs? I'll be publicly ridiculed and humiliated, a total failure,” she'd moan to Conor.

  “Don't worry, darling, you won't fail, but if you do fail, fail gloriously,” were his slightly odd words of supposed comfort to her.

  Kerry was a skilled storyteller and even her own daughters loved her books. The highest compliment she was every paid for her writing came for Saoirse. “It's as if your sentences come alive on the page, mom. Your stories are like a duvet which I can snuggle into.”

  Kerry was lucky to have a wonderful editor who believed passionately in the value of her work. Nuala MacMillan was a straight-talking, willowy blonde who was tall and intimidatingly beautiful. They'd worked together from the beginning of Kerry's writing career, almost fifteen years ago and Kerry credited Nuala for much of her success. Nuala was not only a critic and guide, she was a huge advocate of Kerry's books within the publishing house. She constantly pushed for attention for her client's books, especially in the early days when Kerry was an unknown author struggling for her “breakthrough” novel. Nuala's skills as an editor were priceless. She never offered criticism along the lines of “this doesn't work, fix it” but instead made constructive suggestions as to how the book might be fixed.

  Kerry opened one of Nuala's emails which she knew would be full of helpful ideas about cuts, changes, different emphases and balances. She scanned it quickly to get a feel for the general thrust. She looked on her books as being her babies. A small, secret part of her still begrudged them being vivisected and returned to her for reconstructive surgery. Experience and longevity did little to help her with her initial reaction. This was her book, her baby.

  Kerry decided to make another coffee and try to digest Nuala's thoughts before settling down for some solid editing. She realised that she and Nuala shared a common goal; to make the book as good as good as it could possibly be, so she started at page one, line one and, using her editor’s letter as a guide and springboard, began to rewrite her precious book, and found herself far exceeding the scale and particulars of her editor's suggestions. She realised with each page that Nuala's criticisms were spot-on.

  Once each of Kerry's books finally left her desk and was in print, she refused to ever read them again, and except for enthusiastic co-operation with marketing and publicity departments, she left her books' fate up to others. Hindsight was simply too demoralising for her. She could not bear to find that, despite all the intensity and hard work, there were still aspects of her books that she could have written better, constructions that could have been improved and pruning that should have been done when she had the chance. The opportunity had passed and redemption was often many months away. Writing books was very different to other forms of writing like journalism where, in the very next edition of their daily or weekly publication the journalist has a chance to show that they've learned from their mistakes.

  Kerry's little assembly of books sat neatly on the bookshelf above her desk like a reproachful row of permanently discharged but not wholly cured hospital patients; at least they acted as a spur to improvement!

  Kerry found it bemusing that some of her friend's saw her writer's existence as a whirligig of jet-setting and exotic parties, not to speak of high-level, arcane discussions with fellow artists. Nothing could be further from her experience. Like most other authors she knew, she spent a lot of time at home, conducting most of her life at and through her keyboard.

  When the time came to attend book parties, give readings or participate in seminars, it was part of her job; far from a social whirligig, it was a blinking emergence from hibernation. Chats with her fellow writers were rarely arcane and when it touched on their profession at all, the context was usually what was going on with agents and publishers, which held true even when colleagues were friends too, although then, the confidences were the same as they were within any close relationship; family, friends, health, dreams and plans.

  Actually, it was a wonder to Kerry, and a source of immense gratitude, that her friends stuck with her at all, since she so often turned down social invitations, bleating that she had to work. It wasn't a convenient excuse; for her, once she got into writing a book, it was like being on a train that never stopped. Yet, when she finally finished and could pull the communication cord, relief was tempered by a feeling of blandness. Each book for her had been somewhat of an albatross, pal and sumo opponent on board that train which finally, after months of being her constant companion, gets off too and leaves her to her own devices. She missed each and every one of her books when they were finally completed and set free.

  Many people asked Kerry if she was very disciplined in her writing, which in her case the answer was that could be quite disciplined, especially when the cheeping of beetle-browed deadlines were getting louder. Unfortunately, however, Kerry was not one of those writers who could, seven days a week, sit down at her desk at exactly the same time every morning to work for a set number of hours. Her routine was messy. When there was no other call on her and those dreaded deadlines were within sight, she would work virtually around the clock, taking breaks only to eat and sleep. The rest of the time, although writing was a priority and was the main demand on her time most days, she often had domestic and family commitments. It was a juggling act, one that she had perfected over the years.

  She was surprised to learn the many different methods of writing from her writing group of friends. Some writers start at the beginning of their book and write all the way through until they get to the end. Some write quick first drafts and then spend a lot of time rewriting and polishing. Some prepare very carefully in advance, writ
ing outlines, plot summaries and detailed character biographies before even starting on the book proper.

  Kerry's methods were instinctive and she never planned her books in detail. She usually started with one image, something she'd read, seen or heard in passing. The image would embed itself in her mind and wouldn't go away until she investigated it further. She especially found this to be the case in her recent foray into writing adult books, specifically women's fiction and contemporary romance.

  Writing for children was so much more straightforward than writing for adults, but she thoroughly enjoyed it nonetheless. It was a joy to escape outside her comfort zone and see how her books would be received by the adult community. So far they had received some critical acclaim. The story of her last book had evolved in her head when she saw an elderly woman, erect as a statue and elegantly dressed in black, using a shopping trolley to run at cars in the middle of the motorway during rush hour! Her writer's creative mind had conjured up all sorts of scenarios. Who was that woman? What did she think she was doing and why? Where did she live? Who was her family?

  Although there was always a semi-linear track through the finished narrative of her books, Kerry didn't write in a linear fashion. Initially, to her the plot development was like a tightly closed rosebud. The initial image was wrapped around it like an outer petal and what was contained inside was a secret to be slowly uncovered.

  Sometimes, when she got to it, she found that the very centre of the bloom was not the centre of the story at all, and she had to set about rearranging the petals, pulling them apart, re-layering them, even adding more. Her system was like playing circular leapfrog; start with that single image or idea, write Chapter One, go on to Chapter Two, rewrite Chapter One, revise Chapter Two and go on to Chapter Three, rewrite Chapter Two, go back to revise Chapter One, and so on. By the time she finally reached Chapter Thirty, she'd have made extensive changes to every preceding one from between ten and fifty times.

  One of the most difficult aspects of writing for Kerry was deciding on a title for her book. Sometimes her titles had very little to do with what was between the covers, but she knew how important they were for marketing purposes. She envied some of her writer friends who were truly brilliant in that regard; they thought about what their next book was going to be about, an appropriate title popped into their minds, and so, before they even sat down to write their first line, they've put one vital task to bed.

  One particular friend had an uncanny knack of choosing a title that miraculously encapsulated exactly what the book was about, ergo: the first line of “Party Time” was “let's have a party” and the plot seemed to spread from there.

  By contrast, Kerry's titles were often “working” right up to the last minute. She seemed to have no talent in that regard and, with a book close to production, was usually to-ing and fro-ing with Nuala, and, by extension, her publisher, right up until the last minute.

  Kerry's first novel went right down to the wire. Nuala came to her house on the evening before the book had to go to the printer and they'd sat in her living room trawling through dictionaries, books of quotations and poetry, a thesaurus and even a Bible until, at about quarter to midnight, they'd finally hammered out a suitable title for the book; “A Place of Sunshine.”

  Nowadays, out of sheer desperation, Kerry maintained an ever-growing file on her computer with a list of phrases which in her opinion, could potentially be used as titles for future books. However, she had never yet been able to use even one of them, no matter how many ways she tried to adapt them to suit what she'd written! Maura always laughed at her sister's attempts at advance planning. One of her favourite sayings was, “when people make plans, God smiles.” She was definitely one of the people to whom Kerry instantly turned when plans in her writing life went askew. Poor Maura was used to getting panicky calls in the middle of the night from her sister.

  Kerry had experienced her worst writing disaster only that very week; literally half of what she had written for her latest novel had completely and mysteriously vanished into the ether and could not be retrieved. Maura and had been exceptionally consoling and had tried her utmost to be helpful, as did the computer guy in Cork's Apple computer dealership, who, when she brought her computer into him, worked on it for more than seven hours. He'd surfed the internet asking for help, and even rang Apple headquarters in California for assistance, but nobody could solve the problem. The only clue about what had happened was a small, pie-shaped area of damage on the machine's motherboard that nobody could quite figure out.

  It was unimaginable how Kerry felt when the moment finally dawned on her that she would not be able to retrieve her book. She would never forget that day as she pulled into the driveway at Ballycotton House and saw white horses tricking about on the beach below her. She felt as if they were dancing on the grave of her poor lost book. They didn't have a care in the world and it seemed like they were laughing in the face of her misery. She could hear the mockery in their neighing voices, “serves you right, never coming out here to play in the fresh air, always hunched over your computer in there...”

  She resolved to backup her work in as many ways as she possibly could; USB stick, email, laptop. Saving her work almost became an obsession to her.

  A week's loss of work carved by her method was a very serious matter; six weeks' loss of ten chapters and six weeks' worth of changes was a total catastrophe! Kerry decided that the setback with her computer had occurred for a reason. It was an omen or a lesson. Was someone or something trying to signal to her that she should quit writing altogether and seek another challenge? She dreaded the thought of having to rewrite most of her book. Nuala would have an absolute meltdown. There was no way she'd reach the deadline now!

  Kerry sat back in her chair and gazed unseeingly out the window. Her mind raced with the possible jobs she might be able to do, but nothing appealed to her. She was forty two years old and had no desire to pursue a new career at her age! The thought of starting at the bottom of the ladder and struggling to work her way up made her shiver. Most people were vaguely contemplating retirement at her age, not starting all over again!

  She knew she was lucky. Her family wasn't dependent on her money to survive, unlike some of her other writer friends, who had no pension plan and nobody to fund disability, sick or compassionate leave. When something unexpected happened in their lives they just had to keep going, splitting their concentration between their writing and the crisis. They were forced to shorten their sleep and try to increase their work rate within the hours available to them.

  Kerry took a few deep breaths and shook herself. It was time to be practical. The work rate that it would demand to fulfill her contractual deadline was not humanly possible. She stood up and threw a few more briquettes on the open fire which kept her study toasty warm, then she poured herself another coffee and sat down in the warm, flickering quietness to consider her options.

  For half an hour she carried on an internal mental battle on what she could possibly do to salvage the situation. Finally, she accepted that there was absolutely no way that she could let a stupid technology glitch defeat her. Bathed in the calm light from the fire and the early morning sunshine, she sipped her coffee and tried to settle into a frame of mind where she could go back to the beginning of her latest book and rewrite the whole damned thing! She decided that she'd just have to confess to Nuala what had happened and ask her to extend the contractual deadline for delivery, which would be personally difficult for her as she prided herself on her professionalism and ability to deliver what she had promised.

  So was this to be her lesson? Would she just have to learn to accept that she couldn't please everyone all the time? Thinking about this, she remembered being sent oodles of similar lessons but she hadn't been paying attention.

  “Bloody computer!” she shouted, thumping her desk.

  “What's wrong with you?” Conor asked, suddenly reappearing in the doorway, almost making her jump out of her skin.

/>   “Do you have to sneak up on my like that?!” she cried.

  “Sorry, what's up with you?” he repeated.

  “This bloody computer has lost most of my book so I'll never make the deadline now. Nuala's going to kill me.”

  “Didn't you save your work as you went along?” Conor yawned loudly as he rubbed sleep from his tired eyes.

  “Of course I saved my work, that's fundamental. I'm obsessed with saving my work! I don't know what happened. I spent hours at the Apple store in town trying to get it fixed but it's irretrievable, I might as well just face facts, but I'd love to know what caused it. I mean, what if it happens again?”

  “The only possible explanation for what happened is that either while plugging in your computer or unplugging it, but a trillion to one accident of coincidental timing, it was struck by lightning.”

  “What?” Kerry stared at him incredulously.

  “Yeah, don't you remember when we first moved here that Jerome told us that this part of Kinsale is rich in copper and Ballycotton House actually rests on a seam? Copper, as I'm sure you already know, attracts lightning. It doesn't even have to be stormy outside. Remember, years ago, when I was waiting for some important work documents to be faxed through to me and it took us ages to realise that the machine was inexplicably broken?”

  Kerry nodded slowly, vaguely remembering the incident with the fax machine.

  Conor suddenly started chuckling to himself, much to Kerry's annoyance. “What's so funny?” she asked. “I could do with a laugh.”

  “I'm just remembering another of Jerome's many stories,” Conor explained. “He said it was all he could do to persuade his wife, Eileen, to have the telephone installed in the house, anyway after many months of begging and pleading she finally relented and agreed to his urgings that a telephone should be installed. He said that it was with great difficulty and the use of a lot of manpower and heavy machinery that the foundations for the telephone lines were set. Over a period of a few weeks a long line of poles was erected at great expense across rough terrain, finally reaching Ballycotton House. The much anticipated telephone was finally installed, tested and found to be working perfectly. However, Eileen was still mistrustful and refused to use it, with good cause as it turned out. One evening, while she was sitting by the fire, there was a sort of fizz-bang sound and the phone flew past her head and crashed to the ground beside the window!”