The Long Hot Summer Read Online Free

recluse with the curtains drawn and only the hum of my computer’s hard drive for company. I told them I would accept phone calls but none came through. Nobody really knew where I was, which suited me fine.
    I started to write in earnest. Without the distractions of the farm and the pressure I felt from David’s discomfort at the content of the book, it flowed from my fingertips at an alarming rate. I established a routine of getting up early and writing for three hours in my nightdress, with several cups of tea to sustain me. I then showered, made my own breakfast and continued to write for another three hours or more. I made a light lunch in my room and lay down for an hour to sleep or read. I wrote again all afternoon until hunger started to distract me, and then I went out for the first and only time of the day. Up to the local pub for a steak sandwich and a beer or two.
    It was a blissful existence requiring no effort apart from thecreative process of writing. For the first time I could appreciate why so many writers find it impossible to concentrate with all the distractions of home. While I could easily bash out a gardening book with kids creating havoc all around me, when it came to writing in a deeper emotional sense I needed absolute peace and quiet. The Big Trout Motor Inn, phoney fish and all, was my haven.
    I phoned David to tell him where I was and to reassure him I was safe. I also told him I was doing my best to write the book without any reference to the love affair. I painstakingly removed all references to it in the manuscript, and tried to flesh out other aspects of my travels instead. David sounded relieved, and surprisingly wasn’t at all fazed by my sudden disappearance. He even offered to come over one evening and take me out for a meal. Which he did, and we had a very relaxed, stress-free evening together. Better than we had managed in months.
    The rest of the time in Oberon I ate alone, watching the TV news over the bar in the local pub. I didn’t stay more than an hour because by early evening I was totally wrung out by the volume of writing I had done – sometimes up to 5,000 words a day. One evening two rather ragged-looking blokes were sitting in the bar as I ate my toasted sandwich. In their mid-thirties, they were a scruffy pair with gnarled hands, more than a few teeth missing and hair that appeared not to have been washed or brushed for weeks. I took them to be timber workers, as Oberon is a big forestry region, and I also gathered that they had probably been in the pub all day because they were past the point of coherence. One called out to me.
    â€˜Gidday luv, ow’ya goin’?’
    â€˜Fine,’ I said, continuing to eat and watch the news.
    â€˜You know somethin’, luv,’ he continued, ‘you look great.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said, thinking I should probably down my beer quickly and leave.
    â€˜If anyone tells you that you don’t look great, luv, don’t you believe them. Because you look great,’ he went on, trying to win me over with his backhanded compliment.
    He then staggered around the bar and stood close, far too close for comfort, pressing his snaggle-toothed, beery mouth to my ear.
    â€˜You know somethin’, luv,’ he said, grinning broadly. ‘You could do better than me.’
    I stifled a laugh and responded, ‘You know something, I probably could,’ bolting my sandwich and making a hasty retreat, laughing at his self-deprecating, clumsy pick-up line that for me was quintessential Australian male. I don’t know how he thought I would respond, but probably not quite the way I did.

3
    After nearly two weeks of frenetic writing the book had evolved to a stage where it was virtually complete. I had carefully gone through and removed all reference to the love affair. I hoped instead that the chapters I had written about the joy and excitement of finding my sister Margaret after a separation of