Lifesaving for Beginners

buses, I go right ahead and tell her all the other stuff too. The stuff about me not writing. Not having written in months. Not a paragraph. Not a sentence. Not one single word. All the lies I’ve told her. I can’t even call them white lies or half-lies. They were nothing but fully formed, gigantic lies.
    She doesn’t say anything for a while and then, finally, she says, ‘I see.’ Which is pretty damned good of her when you take everything into consideration.
    ‘I’m not myself,’ I tell Minnie.
    ‘Thank Christ for that.’
    ‘I need your help.’
    ‘OK.’ I love Minnie because she is the type of person who says, ‘OK,’ when you ask for help instead of asking what kind of help it is you need.
    ‘Do you know how to organise a press conference?’
    ‘No, but I know a woman who can.’
    Minnie always knows women who can.
    Minnie says, ‘You sure about this?’
    ‘Yes. I’m sure.’
    Neither of us say anything for a moment and then she says, ‘Why now? Why are you going public now?’
    ‘I’d prefer people heard it from me, before that man sells it to some British rag. Besides . . .’ I pause.
    ‘Besides what?’
    ‘It’s just . . . it’s time.’
    Minnie nods. ‘Yes, it is. It’s time.’
    Later, she rings. ‘It’s on for Friday. Ten a.m.’
    ‘But that’s the day before Christmas Eve.’
    ‘You got plans?’
    ‘No, but . . .’
    ‘Be there at ten past. Tamara, the PR, will have the place stacked with journos. She’s drip-fed them just enough to whet their appetites.’
    My stomach contracts, like I’m on a rollercoaster that’s inching its way to the top of the track. ‘Thank you, Minnie.’
    There’s no going back now but, in spite of this, the happiness persists.
    I’m happier than Ed, and that has never happened before. Not ever.
    He says the same thing every day. ‘When can I go home?’
    ‘I’m not sure yet. We’ll ask the doctor.’
    ‘Will I be home for Christmas? I don’t want to be here on Christmas Day.’
    ‘You’ll go home when the doctors say you can go home and not a minute before that, get it?’ But even though my tone is as snappy and taut as ever, Ed senses the happiness and he’s not delighted with it, to be honest. I suppose I can’t blame him. It’s not always easy when the shoe is on the other foot.
    He says, ‘You look different.’
    ‘I know.’ It’s because I’m smiling. It happens every time I see him. I get the feeling again. The reprieve. John Grisham. The Greyhound bus. The happiness.
    Ed says, ‘Why?’
    ‘I’m happy because you’re OK.’
    ‘I don’t feel OK.’
    ‘Well, you are, so stop feeling sorry for yourself.’
    ‘I’m not feeling sorry for myself.’
    ‘You are.’
    ‘It’s boring in here.’
    ‘I’ll read you a story. It’s one I wrote.’
    ‘You can’t write stories.’
    ‘I can, Ed. That’s what I do. I write stories.’
    ‘That story was written by Killian Kobain. It says it on the cover.’
    ‘I’m Killian Kobain.’
    ‘No you’re not, Kat.’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘You’re not.’
    ‘I am.’
    Ordinarily, Ed can beat me hands down in this type of conversation. Today, he just shrugs and says, ‘What’s it about?’
    ‘It’s about a policeman called Declan Darker who solves mysteries.’
    ‘Are there lovey-dovey bits in it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘OK then. You can read me a chapter and see if I like it.’
    Later, when Mum and Dad come to visit, Ed says, ‘Kat writes stories.’
    Mum looks at me. ‘Really?’
    Ed grabs my sleeve. Pulls it. ‘You do, don’t you, Kat? You do write stories.’
    There’s nothing else to say except, ‘Yes.’
    Dad looks at me. ‘I didn’t know you did that, Kat.’
    I shake my head. ‘Nobody did.’
    Mum says, ‘What kind of stories?’
    ‘Crime novels. I use a pseudonym.’
    She says, ‘Crime? That’s a . . . a fairly popular genre, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    She says, ‘So you do it in your spare time? When you’re not . . . doing your technical writing? Is that it?’
    ‘No, I, ah, I do it full-time. I’m not a technical writer. I never have been.’
    She smiles then and I’m not sure but I think there is a suggestion of pride in that smile. If she were a different type of person altogether, she might punch me on the arm and call me ‘a chip off the old block’.
    Dad says, ‘That’s lovely, Kat. What’s your pseudonym?’
    I say, ‘Killian Kobain.’
    Mum says, ‘Good Lord,’ and Dad says, ‘Oh my goodness,’ because, while I’m pretty