A Whiff of Herbal Murder

Sophie winced as a burst of drilling vibrated through her feet and made her spindly kitchen table shudder. She’d had a restless night. It was nine in the morning, and her phone had been buzzing since six; the last thing she needed was a DIY freak in the flat below. He’d only moved in yesterday, but his power drill had barely been out of action. And when she’d met him on the stairs last evening, he’d assured her cheerily that a much larger model with advanced features was already on its way from Amazon, if she wouldn’t mind looking out for the delivery guy in case he got lost. The mention of Amazon sent Sophie’s eyes back to her phone with a shudder, to the latest stream of appalling reviews of Love on the Slops, as one bright spark had dubbed it.
‘Oh God. I knew I should have changed the title. Why didn’t I?’
Because she’d been on a deadline. All her deadlines were self-imposed, but that didn’t mean she could break them. Since her split with Phil, her rules and routines had become lifelines that kept her on her “writing rails.” The problem was, though her body went through the motions of getting up, showering and sitting at her laptop each day, her usually fertile imagination had gone into torpor. And after eight years of success as a self-published author, she could not rouse it from its mummified state.
No one had been more surprised than Sophie when her debut novel, Love on the Broads, had received rave reviews. She’d never dreamed she could make a living as an author, but it was the perfect job for someone who found it a challenge to visit a supermarket – and could certainly never work in one. All she had to do was tap away the days on her laptop, safe in her mum’s old flat (now hers, providing she could keep up the bills), dreaming up soft-focus, happy endings for her fictional lovers.
Naturally, blissful last kisses came at a cost. Every love story needed its share of conflicts – though not a relentless onslaught, as in Love on the Slopes, with every one the hero’s fault. Talk about swapping the soft-focus for a hard searchlight. She rubbed a hand over her aching forehead. It didn’t bear thinking about.
On the breakfast bar, her laptop sat open at page one of her new novel, its cursor pulsing aggressively. By now, she should be halfway through the book, but her mind was as blank as her screen. She’d tried writing prompts, writing at different times, using a notebook and pen, even experimenting with short stories in different genres, but nothing worked. What would she do if she couldn’t write? She had no other skill or income. She’d have to sell her flat … but where would she go? She wanted – needed – her familiar space.
Pull yourself together, she told herself sternly. You moved in with Phil, for pity’s sake, and you coped then.
Phil. It was hard not to blame him for this whole stupid debacle, but then it was her own fault for trusting him. He’d been the biggest gamble she’d ever taken, and she’d met him when she’d been at her most confident, buoyed up by her early writing success, and he’d swept her off her feet.