Читать книгу It’s a Wonderful Life: The Christmas bestseller is back with an unforgettable holiday romance - Julia Williams - Страница 16

The Littlest Angel set out on her journey, and soon she was very lost …

I am sitting staring into space. I’ve been working on these same two double-page spreads for months. I’ve promised my publishers something new for the Bologna Book Fair in April, where they’d be keen to show it to foreign agents, but it’s rapidly approaching and nothing is forthcoming. I’ve never hit a wall like this before. Light-years ago when my original editor, Karen, had suggested this idea, we’d both been dead excited. We had a wonderful brainstorming meeting with the art department followed by a boozy lunch, and I came home completely fired up. This was going to be my biggest book yet – I just knew it.

At first it went great guns. I developed a rough draft which Karen loved, and the first couple of spreads which I did for Bologna last year just drew themselves. The next lot were a bit trickier, but then I hit a stone wall, and I had nothing new for the Frankfurt Book Fair in October. By then Karen was on maternity leave, and her replacement, Vanessa, had been inundated with work. I didn’t want to overwhelm her with my problems, and I thought my lack of enthusiasm was just a blip. But as the weeks disappeared, and my self-imposed deadlines kept slipping away, I knew I had to do something. So I bit the bullet in late November and rang her up.

Whereas Karen would have laughed and teased and said something comforting, Vanessa just sat on the other end of the phone in silence.

‘So how much have you done?’ she said eventually. She can only be in her mid-twenties, but her tone was so severe, I felt like I was up before the Head for not having done my homework.

‘I’ve got some roughs,’ I said, knowing it sounded lame.

‘Roughs?’ she said, so disapprovingly that my heart sank. ‘I was expecting some finished spreads by now. We do want The Littlest Angel out for next Christmas.’

Me too, I thought, me too. This was not going well at all. I could really have done with some reassurance. Karen would have known exactly what to say, but all Vanessa came up with was, ‘Do you think you can get them worked up by the other side of the New Year?’

She sounded tetchy and cross, which made me feel worse. I felt bad enough about being late as it was, I didn’t need lecturing.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ll do my best.’

With Karen I would have told her the truth, said nothing was working, and that my work was in the doldrums in a way I hadn’t encountered before. But Vanessa was still an unknown quantity. I wasn’t sure how she’d react, so I couldn’t face telling her the truth. Particularly if it meant a telling-off.

There was another pause on the other end of the line, followed by an exasperated sigh.

‘Well, I suppose we’ll have to hope your best is good enough.’

‘I suppose we will,’ I said. Vanessa was making me feel completely dispirited, and it wasn’t helping at all. ‘It’s all I can do.’

‘Good,’ she said briskly. ‘I look forward to seeing what you’ve done in January. I hope by then you’ll have something to show me.’

‘Right,’ I said, putting the phone down. I felt like banging my head against the wall.

Since that call I’ve tried really hard, but something is missing. The special spark of whatever it is that marks out a Beth King picture book (Sunday Times bestseller, don’t you know?) just isn’t there. And I don’t know what to do.

I’d deliberately not worked over the Christmas period, thinking the break would do me good. And then all the stuff with Mum and Dad happened. I’m still reeling from their news. I know my parents have never been particularly lovey-dovey, but they’ve always seemed to get along, and I assumed they always would. This has come like a bolt from the blue.

As families go, despite our differences we are as happy as the next one. Or I’ve always thought so anyway. When I was in my teens I used to worry Mum and Dad might split up – I seem to remember a lot of arguments back then. But now? I’m about to hit forty, my mum is about to hit seventy. This should have been a year of happy family celebrations, particularly with Sam turning eighteen and a new baby being thrown into the mix. Instead Mum and Dad are barely speaking. Mum is spending all her time indoors, and won’t be coaxed out, while Dad is being silently sullen about the whole thing. That’s the thing that kills me. I’ve always worshipped my dad – to be honest I get on better with him than with Mum. When I was little he was always the cuddly one, the one I went to when I was feeling low. Mum’s always been a more of a pull-yourself-together kind of parent. Dad always propped me up at those times when I felt I couldn’t cope. The thought of him having had an affair makes me feel sick. And I feel partly to blame too. If only I hadn’t encouraged him to go to art classes, he’d never have met this damned Lilian woman.

But then, how could I have foreseen what would happen? I find it so hard to believe that my lovely, funny, kind dad could have behaved so badly. I’m furious with him, and I hate feeling like that, but he’s made me angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t know where it’s all going to end, but I expect I’ll have to pick up the pieces. I usually do in this family.

On top of this, I feel so pressurised by the book. The deadline is looming over my head, and I’ve been so distracted that the creativity I so desperately need just isn’t happening.

Normally, I’d try and thrash this out with Daniel. Although he never tends to be very critical, it’s always lovely to hear his supportive comments. But at the moment he’s really preoccupied with work stuff. He’s still finding his feet at his new school, and some days I know it’s a struggle for him. They’re expecting an Ofsted inspection this term, and he’s already fretting about it. As the first black Head Teacher in a white, middle-class school, there’s an awful lot riding on it. Even though said school was woefully mismanaged before he turned up.

I know he’s feeling the pressure, and I don’t want to burden him with my worries. Besides, I think he’s taken the Mum and Dad thing pretty hard too – he’s always loved my parents, especially because of his own situation, and now they’ve thrown us all a huge curveball.

This is not good. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus on the work in front of me.

So – the Littlest Angel – where is she and where is she going next?

I get up to make coffee. I just can’t concentrate. My little angel is very lost. And so, I fear, am I …