The Waiting House
February 2020. I’m in Rome, on a short break with my sister. It’s two months away from the launch of my debut novel and I’m searching for shoes. Along Via del Corso, I find them, elegant and punky, with heels just the right side of negotiable. Undecided between the green and the black—which will work better with the silk pleated skirt I’ve been saving?—I uncharacteristically splurge and buy both. This giddiness is short-lived: in April, two weeks into lockdown, the novel is publis...| The Stinging Fly
