“Why?” she asked.
“A few things to chat about. We’ve thought of a couple of extra ways to support you. It would be better to talk it through when we’re all a bit fresher. Do you think Mr. Gupta will be able to spare you for an hour?”
“Are you going to—”
She didn’t finish. “Going to what?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“No,” said Sasha. “We’re not. Come on, Molly. Time for Mum to take you home, eh?”
I still wanted to know what Mum had been going to say after “are you going to,” but I was too tired to try to find out. Me and Sasha stood up but Mum stayed sitting on the ground. She didn’t move her body at all, so it was still in the same shape it had been in when I had been sitting between her legs, and she looked empty without me there. I held out my hand in case she needed help getting up. She didn’t take it. She stared at Sasha.
“We’re going back?” she said. “Both of us?”
“Yes,” said Sasha.
“Really?” she said.
“Yes,” said Sasha.
Mum stood up slowly, without using my hand. She wobbled like she might be going to fall back down and Sasha took hold of both her elbows. They talked to each other with their eyes for a bit, then Sasha went inside. I could just see her, standing in the doorway that went to reception, waiting for us. Mum took my hand and squeezed it tight.
“Come on, Molly,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have always said that my favorite thing about writing books is getting to work with so many talented, interesting people. It is a pleasure and a privilege to have had that experience again.
I would be lost (emotionally, practically, professionally) without my wonderful agent, Hattie Grünewald. Thank you for fielding breakdowns / boy trouble / horrific early drafts with tact and skill; for keeping me sane during the most exciting period of my writing life; for being the better half of the Dream Team. Thank you also to the rest of the team at the Blair Partnership: Georgie Mellor, Mirette El Rafie, Jessica Maslen, and Luke Barnard for overseeing foreign rights sales; Ompreet Cheema for keeping everything running like clockwork; and Rory Scarfe for being on hand to offer wisdom and expertise. In the United States, thank you, Catherine Drayton, for embracing me and my work with such enthusiasm and orchestrating a deal in record time.
In the process of licking this book into shape, I have had the privilege of working with three inspiring editors: Sarah McGrath, Jocasta Hamilton, and Selina Walker. I have spent weeks agonizing over how to thank you adequately for all you have done for me—both as a writer and as a young woman. I think it comes down to this: Thank you for taking care of me and Chrissie.
Thank you also to the other editors who read and critiqued The First Day of Spring along the way: Anna Argenio, Delia Taylor, and Alison Fairbrother. I am so grateful that you gave up your time to offer such valuable insights.
Publishing a book takes a village, and I have been lucky to work with a population of wonderful women. Thank you to Rebecca Ikin, Clare Simmonds, and Najma Finlay at Hutchinson; Claire McGinnis, May-Zhee Lim, Melissa Solis, Caitlin Noonan, Denise Boyd, and Amanda Dewey at Riverhead; and copy editor Kym Surridge, and proofreaders Sandra Ogle and Christina Caruccio.
As well as those who have helped turn this story from something in my head to something I can hold in my hands, a whole other contingent of people scaffold me behind the scenes.
Thank you, Arminda, Charlotte, Ellie, and the rest of the team at Vincent Square, for tolerating my temperamental moods, relentless texting, and compulsion to sing at work.
Thank you, Allie, Becci, Carys, Kate, Nimarta, Miranda, and Ros, my loyal and generous team of friends, for sharing my joy when things have gone well and helping me pick myself up and dust myself off when they have gone wrong.
Thank you, Sarah, for endless Whatsapp counseling / wise opinions / poppet pictures.
Thank you, Mum, Dad, Mattie, Granny, Grandpa, Jo, and the rest of my family, for helping me, holding me, and keeping my feet on the ground through this giddying experience.
Thank you, Phil, for making my life better and brighter than I ever imagined it would be; for loving me when I have been objectively unlovable; for being my home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nancy Tucker studied psychology at the University of Oxford. This is her first work of fiction.
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