Camilla believed that for some reason her fate was to always be an outsider. She had felt different — had been different — from the rest of her family. Then, as a scholarship student from a working-class background, she'd been singular, distinct from the other girls at the convent school. Afterward, at college in America, she had felt unlike the Americans — who seemed somehow younger and more carefree than she.

Now, living in Italy, although she'd made a few Italian friends and had certainly been passionate about her Italian lover, Gianfranco, she knew that, once again, she was different, an outsider. They all had the strong ties of family, of homes they had lived in for generations, of allegiances to the city in which they were born. Being an outsider had made her self-conscious and had helped her to write. In a way, it cleared her vision. But it certainly didn't make for a warm and pleasant personal life.

Despite living alone she could never be totally lonely if she had a good book. Books spoke to her, more directly, more deeply, than most people did. Her greatest pleasure had been reading, and now she found that she could write as well. Not well, not really well, not as well as Beryl Bainbridge or Kay Gibbons or Anita Brookner, but well enough to entertain herself — and maybe others.

The secret she had discovered, known to all other writers, was that when she wrote she wasn't lonely. It did more than just fill her mind and empty pages. It also seemed to be a communion, a communion with her future reader — if there ever would be one.

Now, thinking of the publishing business, she realized that once again she was an outsider. How in the world would she manage to break into that elite group? Who in London did she know? Camilla was good at slogging and perseverance, but she was simply useless at putting herself forward, at pushing herself on anyone. What would she do now that she had finished her little book? In some secret part of her heart, she had written it hoping that it was a way out. Because she knew she had hit a dead end, here in sunny Italy. But what if the book was simply another dead end?

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