hovered above the typewriter keys. What then? As he walked, he considered  . . . What?
Her mind drew a blank.
Frustrated, Alice flipped the paper guide back into place, lay down her glasses and surrendered her attention to the view from her window. It was a warm day in early June and the sky was a brilliant blue. As a girl sheâd have found it impossible to resist the call of the outside world on a day like this, with its smell of sunlit leaves and honeysuckle, the ticking sound of concrete baking and crickets hunkering down in the cool underbrush. But Alice hadnât been that girl in a long time and there were few places she preferred to be now, even when her creative powers had deserted her, than here in her writing room.
The room was at the very top of the house, in a red-brick Victorian terrace high on Holly Hill. It was small with an angled ceiling and bore the distinction, according to the estate agent whoâd shown Alice through the property, of having been used by a previous owner to keep his mother locked away. Sheâd become an inconvenience, one presumed. Alice was glad sheâd never had children. The room was the reason sheâd bought the house, though not because of its unhappy past. She had enough of that in her own family, thank you very much, and was quite immune to the folly of mistaking history for romance. It was the roomâs position that had driven Alice to possess it. It was like a nest, an eyrie, a watchtower.
From where she sat to write, she could look out over Hampstead towards the heath, as far as the ladiesâ pool and beyond to the spires of Highgate. Behind her, a small round shipâs window offered a view of the back garden, all the way to the mossy brick wall and small wooden shed marking the rear limit of her property. The garden was dense, the legacy of another past owner, this one a horticulturalist whoâd worked at Kew and devoted herself to creating a âGarden of Earthly Delightsâ in her own backyard. It had been allowed to grow unruly under Aliceâs care, but not through accident or neglect. She was most fond of woods, preferred spaces that defied manicure.
Downstairs, the latch on the front door shook and the entry floorboards creaked. There was a thump as something dropped. Peter. It wasnât that he was clumsy so much as his long limbs had a habit of getting in his way. Alice glanced at her wristwatch and noted, with surprise, that it had just gone two. No wonder she was hungry. She laced her fingers and stretched her arms forwards. She stood up. Frustrating to lose an entire morning to the rigours of pushing Diggory Brent from A to B, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Half a century as a professional writer had taught her there were some days when the best thing to do was to walk away. Diggory Brent would just have to pass the night in the no-manâs-land betwixt morgue and office. Alice washed her hands at the little basin by the back window, dried them on the towel, and then started down the narrow stairs.
She knew why she was having trouble, of course, and it wasnât as simple as boredom. It was the damned anniversary and the fuss her publishers intended to make when she reached it. An honour, well-meant, and ordinarily Alice would have enjoyed a bit of ceremony in her name, but the book was going badly. At least, she suspected it was going badlyâand that was half the problem: how was she to know, really? Her editor, Jane, was clever and enthusiastic, but she was also young and awed. Criticism, real criticism was too much to hope for.
In her darkest moments, Alice feared there was no one left to tell her when the standard dropped. That it must eventually drop she didnât doubt; Alice had kept up with the works by other writers of her generation and genre and knew there was always a book in which it happened: the authorâs grasp on the mores and minds of the modern world began to loosen.
Her mind drew a blank.
Frustrated, Alice flipped the paper guide back into place, lay down her glasses and surrendered her attention to the view from her window. It was a warm day in early June and the sky was a brilliant blue. As a girl sheâd have found it impossible to resist the call of the outside world on a day like this, with its smell of sunlit leaves and honeysuckle, the ticking sound of concrete baking and crickets hunkering down in the cool underbrush. But Alice hadnât been that girl in a long time and there were few places she preferred to be now, even when her creative powers had deserted her, than here in her writing room.
The room was at the very top of the house, in a red-brick Victorian terrace high on Holly Hill. It was small with an angled ceiling and bore the distinction, according to the estate agent whoâd shown Alice through the property, of having been used by a previous owner to keep his mother locked away. Sheâd become an inconvenience, one presumed. Alice was glad sheâd never had children. The room was the reason sheâd bought the house, though not because of its unhappy past. She had enough of that in her own family, thank you very much, and was quite immune to the folly of mistaking history for romance. It was the roomâs position that had driven Alice to possess it. It was like a nest, an eyrie, a watchtower.
From where she sat to write, she could look out over Hampstead towards the heath, as far as the ladiesâ pool and beyond to the spires of Highgate. Behind her, a small round shipâs window offered a view of the back garden, all the way to the mossy brick wall and small wooden shed marking the rear limit of her property. The garden was dense, the legacy of another past owner, this one a horticulturalist whoâd worked at Kew and devoted herself to creating a âGarden of Earthly Delightsâ in her own backyard. It had been allowed to grow unruly under Aliceâs care, but not through accident or neglect. She was most fond of woods, preferred spaces that defied manicure.
Downstairs, the latch on the front door shook and the entry floorboards creaked. There was a thump as something dropped. Peter. It wasnât that he was clumsy so much as his long limbs had a habit of getting in his way. Alice glanced at her wristwatch and noted, with surprise, that it had just gone two. No wonder she was hungry. She laced her fingers and stretched her arms forwards. She stood up. Frustrating to lose an entire morning to the rigours of pushing Diggory Brent from A to B, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Half a century as a professional writer had taught her there were some days when the best thing to do was to walk away. Diggory Brent would just have to pass the night in the no-manâs-land betwixt morgue and office. Alice washed her hands at the little basin by the back window, dried them on the towel, and then started down the narrow stairs.
She knew why she was having trouble, of course, and it wasnât as simple as boredom. It was the damned anniversary and the fuss her publishers intended to make when she reached it. An honour, well-meant, and ordinarily Alice would have enjoyed a bit of ceremony in her name, but the book was going badly. At least, she suspected it was going badlyâand that was half the problem: how was she to know, really? Her editor, Jane, was clever and enthusiastic, but she was also young and awed. Criticism, real criticism was too much to hope for.
In her darkest moments, Alice feared there was no one left to tell her when the standard dropped. That it must eventually drop she didnât doubt; Alice had kept up with the works by other writers of her generation and genre and knew there was always a book in which it happened: the authorâs grasp on the mores and minds of the modern world began to loosen.
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