All We Have Lost Read Online Free PDF

never have stopped sending Christmas cards. How many others have I forgotten? Connor used to be my closest friend before I met Ian. We told each other everything, shared promises. My friend became our friend. The kids arrived and time, well, it evaporated.
    I reach for the phone.
    He laughs when he hears my voice.
    And it’s like we never lost contact.
    ‘Interesting,’ he says of my news.
    ‘Define interesting.’
    After a pause, he asks, ‘What are the chances of getting published, a hundred to one?’
    ‘Shut up.’
    ‘Actually, a hundred to one is probably optimistic.’
    And still he manages to wangle a dinner invitation out of me. For later today.
    ‘So eager,’ I say.
    ‘Just a lazy chef.’
    ‘A word of warning: you have sampled my culinary delights in the past.’
    ‘I like to live dangerously.’
     
    As soon as I hang up, Ian calls with a newsflash. O’Donnell Haskins PR has just been sold to an international firm for fifteen million euro. It’s all over the business pages. I try to remember helpful suggestions from the numerous self-help books I’ve devoured over the years. Don’t look back. Ne regrette rien. Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway . I didn’t want to build an empire and sell it. And yet, a nest egg would be nice. Especially a nest egg that size. Kim Waters hacking back undergrowth in the Amazon basin. Kim Waters breaking the sound barrier. Kim Waters opening a funky art gallery.
    The phone call stimulates an urgent return to the computer. And Amazon. I pour over books and finally end up buying five – three on writing, one on finding agents and publishers, and a crime novel that catches my eye.
    Once more, I confront the empty screen. I should start with a title. Titles sell books. Eats, Shoots and Leaves . The title sold that book.
    Or maybe I should start with the ending, so I know where I’m going.
    I put on music for inspiration.
    I make coffee for stimulation.
    I hear the post arrive. Maybe the walk to and from the front door will trigger something.
    I open the post.
    Bills, mostly.
    I try to think of a brilliant twist. But to have a twist you need a story.
    I make another coffee.
    I check Twitter and Facebook for possible inspiration but, really, I’m procrastinating.
    My alarm goes off. I stare at my phone in horror. The morning’s gone! I have to pick up the kids! I can’t believe it!
    A quick analysis of my first day as a writer reveals the following:
    Word count: zero
    Plot: non-existent
    Characters: unborn
    Title: Murde r …
    And I’m not sure that the word ‘murder’ in the title isn’t a bit obvious.
     
    But it is good to see their little faces, to be there for them as they burst out into the sunlight, to pick them up and swirl them around, to feel their arms around my neck, to hear that they love me.
    We go to the park and have ice cream.
    We watch a DVD together.
    I feed them at five like they’re used to. We chat. No rush now. Just time.
    I bathe them in 60% bubbles, 40% water.
    Putting them to bed, I nuzzle Sam’s tummy. Chloe screams when I tickle her. Their love is so physical, so huggy. When finally they sleep, I’m not far behind. But it’s a different kind of tired than I’m used to. A satisfied kind.
     
    I go downstairs to put on fresh pasta. The laptop sits on the kitchen table like a dare. I remind myself that it was my first day. It’ll get better. Once I get started. Once I have momentum.
    I’m stirring in the non-homemade sauce and trying to think of titles when Ian arrives home. Hungry.
    I sense his disappointment when he sees the pasta. He says nothing just grinds a lot of pepper onto it. I’m passing him the Parmesan when the doorbell rings.
    ‘Oh my God! I forgot Connor!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I invited Connor to dinner.’
    Ian looks down at it as if to say, ‘not much of a dinner’.
    And I forgive him. Because he’s right.
     
    Standing at my front door, Connor looks very Christian Grey. Expensive suit. Equally expensive hairstyle. His