Silence. An awkward shuffle of limbs as Emily continued to eat, her jaw clicking in response.

“What’s the book about?” Tyler picked up Emily’s glass, moved it away and replaced it with a bottle of water.

“Which one?” she said as she leant back her head, felt the weight of it sink into the soft leather upholstery. “You are going to have to be more specific, because I do not believe I am in full control of my faculties. Or facilities. One of the two.”

Tyler stood, opened the overhead locker, and reached inside Emily’s bag. He lay the book open on the table between them to reveal a picture of a girl who worked for her father, picking olives from the nearby groves and crushing them into oil. A child with dreams as big as the heavens, but who didn’t want to disappoint her family by not carrying on their traditions.

“It’s about her,” Emily said as she ran her fingers over her grandmother’s words. She could see it now; understood that the story was about how Catriona had left behind a whole other life. One that would have meant marriage, children, normality.

Would such a life have crushed her like the small, green fruit in the story, or would she still have found a way to soar?

Head bowed, Emily felt the first tears fall. She watched as they dropped onto a plain white envelope she hadn’t yet had a chance to open, thinning the paper and showing up the suggestion of words within.

“Let me read it to you.” Tyler took the envelope from her, fingers resting on her hand a moment longer.

Why not? Emily thought as she sank into her seat and allowed her eyes to close. She listened to the soft timbre of his voice as he read her grandmother’s words aloud. He’d already snooped through everything else, what difference would one thing more actually make?

11 December 1965

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

Oscar Wilde

More Wilde, I know. I keep coming back to him, to his raw honesty, his “fuck you” attitude to the world. No doubt it’s because of Antoine, because of what happened between us. I probably should have stayed, but I was getting fed up of being tossed aside whenever he found someone more interesting to hang out with. Then apologizing, always apologizing, when he sobered up, said he was sorry, he couldn’t do it without me.

I always forgave him. Because he is who he is and I owe him so much. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have been able to write “Imagination.” I’m not saying it’s some kind of literary masterpiece, but it’s a beginning. And I do think it tells a story that many women can relate to, on some level. I mean, we don’t all fall in love with someone like Sebastian, and I’ve never had those kind of feelings about Antoine (although wouldn’t it have all been so much easier if we did fancy each other?).