by Lucy Dawson
‘Thank you,’ she says quietly.
I don’t know what to say after that and, it seems, neither does she. She stares into space for a moment then starts, making me jump too and looks around her, gathering her things again.
‘I’m sorry, Mia. I have no idea why I just told you all of that. I apologise.’ She stops again, still holding her cigarette. ‘I suppose the point is…’ She peters out and sighs. ‘Actually, I don’t know what the point is, or was. He was far too young to lose his life.’
‘That’s so tragic.’
She sighs again, much more deeply this time. ‘Yes it was, and repatriating a body is not something I’d wish on my worst enemy. Later, there were also ominous mumblings that I might have had something to do with it, purely on the basis of the kind of books I write. Which was nice given I’d lost my fiancé.’
‘From the police?’ I’m astounded.
‘No, an ex-friend started the rumour. Once I’d first killed someone in a book, in fact. Much as I try to explain to people that it’s all fiction and I haven’t slept with a seventeen-year-old boy, murdered a diabetic in a forest, had a one-night stand with an ex, run someone over or burnt a house down either, I’m not sure anyone ever really believes you lead an innocent life. Not once they realise you know how to plan the perfect crime.’ She laughs. ‘Every single ex-boyfriend I’ve had has contacted me to say they know I’ve based books on them, and of course, I haven’t. You must get the same thing when people confuse you with characters you’ve played.’ She shoves the cigarette and lighter back in her bag after all. ‘I loved Daniel very much. I would never have hurt him. What I’m trying to say – and no writer uses five words when they can use five hundred – is I understand how you felt when your fiancé blew your life apart. Thankfully we both recovered and met the man who is right for us. We’re survivors, Mia.’ She reaches out and pats my hand briefly, before standing up again. ‘Come on, we’ve got a book to sell.’
And yet that statement doesn’t feel real even at the printers, despite my staring down at the cover sheet of the manuscript in my hands and seeing my name under the title.
Complicit
by
Mia Justice
Perhaps because I’m so used to pretending all of the time, I don’t actually feel freaked out in the slightest as I lug it up Old Compton Street. I’m too busy thinking about Charlotte and everything she told me. Why would she tell me something so intimate? Maybe she made it all up to make me feel better, because I’d already stitched my heart onto my sleeve with a blunt needle, telling her all that stuff about Ava and my parents. But her admission had the ring of truth about it. I’ve worked in showbiz long enough to know when someone’s bullshitting me and when they’re telling the truth. How horrendous to have someone think you might have hurt your fiancé simply because of what you do for a living. I turn left, then right, past the NCP car park and finally left again.
When I buzz the door at the agency and announce at reception that I’m dropping something off, I remember just in time what Charlotte told me to do as we parted on the steps of the church.
‘Actually, can you ring Ruth and ask her to come down and pick it up now? Or I’ll take it up?’ I smile winningly as I loll against the front desk.
The receptionist places the call. ‘She’s coming right down.’
I cross the lobby and sit down on the rock-hard sofa to wait. It’s impossible to recline on – only perching allowed. As I scan through the book, making sure the pages are all in order and reading snatches of it here and there – it actually looks really good – that’s when it suddenly hits me. I am sat in my agent’s building, actually about to pass off someone else’s book as my own. This is insane… actual fraud – but I can still change my mind. I can walk out right now. I should do exactly that. I will…
I wobble to my feet, and bend to quickly to gather my stuff, right as the main doors open and a small huddle of people sweep in off the street and into the lobby. The energy changes instantly, the receptionists sit up straighter and I realise right at the centre of the group is Emily Blunt herself, head down, as several people talk around her, one of whom is Cary. I quickly plaster a big smile on my face, but he attentively ushers Emily straight into the lift without even noticing me, unless – even worse – he does and I have just been blanked by my own agent.
The lift doors close, leaving me frozen to the spot like a fool. I’m not sure the shitshow that is currently my career could be summed up any better than this pathetic interlude. I feel sick and wonder if anyone else just saw what happened, but when I sneak a glance at the receptionists, they’ve already got their heads down again. Nobody even cares.
When Ruth bounds down the stairs, seconds later, I am ready with a second big bright, determined smile.
‘Mia!’ she exclaims, holding her arms out. We exchange kisses on both cheeks and she points at the book on the sofa. ‘Is that it? This is so exciting!’ She claps her hands. ‘Everyone is on tenterhooks to read it.’ She picks it up and reads the cover sheet. ‘Ooooh! I love it! You little diamond! I had no idea!’
‘I haven’t told anyone… except for my editor friend.’ I remember quickly.
‘Yeah, well say nothing, do nothing, but most importantly sign nothing until we come back to you, OK? Standby!’
I nod obediently and put my bag over my shoulder. ‘Will do.’
She makes big wide eyes at me, inhales dramatically, crosses her fingers and trots off to the stairs, turning on the spot again as she reaches them. ‘Try and relax, darling,’ she calls. ‘I’ve got one of my good feelings about this!’
And just like that, I’ve written a book. I am, indeed, complicit… but what have I got to lose? Absolutely nothing.
The call comes the following morning. I’ve come in early because I have the dreaded Wednesday matinee and am shivering on a bitterly cold platform at London Bridge waiting for my connection. My bad mood falls away immediately, however, when my screen lights up with the magical announcement:
AGENT!!!
I always get a thrill when I see it display like this because it means business potential: a job! Out of habit, because I’m expecting Ruth, I answer with a familiar ‘hello!’
‘Hello! Now, would that be Mia Justice?’ The unfamiliar man’s voice is warm, confident – almost amused.
‘Yes. Speaking?’
‘This is Jack Cartwright from… your agents!’ He laughs. ‘I read your book last night, Mia. In fact, I stayed up most of the night reading your extraordinary book. I wonder if you might be able to have lunch with me today?’
Ooooh! This sounds promising – except I haven’t read it yet, so blatantly the answer has to be no. ‘I’d love to but I have a matinee this afternoon. Could we maybe do tomorrow, instead?’
He laughs again. ‘You can’t make me wait another twenty-four hours! I don’t think I can bear it. Go on then, let’s have coffee this afternoon instead – in between shows – how about Paul’s on Bedford Street? Shall we say half past five?’
I blink. Um, slow down there Mr Pushy. ‘That would be great but—’
‘Excellent! I’ll see you then.’ And he hangs up!
I stare at my phone in astonishment. I just got manoeuvred. BIG time manoeuvred.
Frowning, I phone Ruth, who picks up immediately with an excited: ‘MIA! I told you! Didn’t I tell you I had one of my feelings? Has he called you yet?’
I hesitate. ‘Has who called me yet?’
‘OK,’ she lowers her voice. ‘You know how Cary is King agent for the actors here? Well the King agent for the authors is a man called Jack Cartwright. He handles all of the really BIG writers – I mean like the ones you’ve actually heard of – negotiates all of their contracts for them, gets them huge deals. Heads up, baby girl – he’s going to be calling you for a meeting! Arghhhh! It’s so exciting!’
I feel a bit faint. ‘So I should definitely go then?’
She laughs like I’ve just said something hilarious. ‘I kn
ow, right? I’m beyond thrilled for you!’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘You should know he’s already been in with Cary this morning. They were fired up and totally smelling the money, which must mean they think this is going to go big. You see? I told you! Go get ’em girl!’
I immediately google Jack Cartwright when I get off the phone – and turn cold when I see who he represents; Ruth wasn’t joking, they are proper authors who win prizes and everything. And I’m going to have a meeting with him in eight hours about a book I’m meant to have written that I haven’t even read. This is going to be an even worse version of the casting when I’d put fluent French on my CV, the producer chattily started speaking to me in French and all I could say was ‘Pardon?’
I whimper aloud. Charlotte told me to read it and I really meant to, but I went to see Seth at his flat after work instead. All that talk about Ava and Hugo yesterday unsettled me. I wanted to be held. I wanted to have Seth kiss the bad memories away and replace them with happy ones. At least I didn’t stay over at his, like he wanted me to, otherwise I wouldn’t even have uploaded the book – which I did when I got back from Putney at 1 a.m. But still. I should have listened to Charlotte and done as I was told.
So now what? Cancelling the coffee is clearly not an option, having had his status update from Ruth. He won’t even be able to remember the last time someone said no to him, I bet. I’m going to have to go – this is too important, but I can’t possibly read the whole thing and do a matinee in the next eight hours, even though, thank you God, I do at least have my laptop in my bag.
I could tell Charlotte, come clean and admit I haven’t read it so she can at least give me a summary of the story? But she’ll be understandably furious. I picture her face and immediately decide against that as an idea, plus I don’t want to disappoint her. I said I’d take this seriously and I must. I’m just going to have to wing it.
I take myself to the top of Foyles to channel ‘writer’ and get into character. How would I feel if I really had written a book and someone like Jack said it was ‘extraordinary’. I’d be… embarrassed? Thrilled, certainly. Grateful that he’d read it. Grateful for anything probably. Plus he knows I’m an actress, so he’s also going to be expecting a lot of self-doubt, but plenty of charm. In fact, while I might be confident in my abilities as an actress this would all be new to me, so I’d be nervous and eager to please. I picture myself walking into the book department at the agency. I bet it’s calm, quiet – intelligent. I think it would make me feel pretty deferential and very out of my depth. Well – that won’t be a stretch to play, at least.
Now… why have I decided to write a book? I sit back in my chair and chew my lip. Because I had the time in between castings and jobs, plus… I like the escapism, I like the space it gives me. When you’re turning up to auditions and rehearsals… constantly performing and giving, it’s draining. People take from you all the time. There’s so much rejection. This book was what I held back, for me. I like the peace that writing gives me. I’ve enjoyed stepping from one life into another. Yeah – he’ll like that. That’s what I need to make feel real to him. He’s already on board with the book itself.
And talking of the book… I get my laptop out and switch it on. He’s almost certainly going to ask me how I came up with the idea for it. I read the first chapter hurriedly… and God bless Charlotte, I realise there’s more than enough to get a handle on. I can do this. I know I can.
What I don’t bargain on is the twenty-four carat gold charisma of the man. He’s nothing to look at – at best a cut-price Patrick Dempsey; not as tanned, a little fatter. Brown eyes not blue – but sweet Jesus, he’s one of the best snake charmers I have ever met. I can feel myself falling for every word he says.
‘I can’t tell you how excited I am!’ He exhales in wonder as he looks at me. ‘You are the whole package. Bright, glorious company, heartbreakingly photogenic, you have a press-worthy backstory, more than enough social media presence and you write like an angel. It’s dazzling to watch the stars align like this! You have no idea how life-changing this is going to be!’
‘It is?’ I find myself genuinely intrigued. ‘Tell me.’
He laughs. He laughs a lot, in a ‘isn’t this a wonderful time to be alive?’ sort of way; I like it. ‘This is your big break, Mia. The one you’ve been waiting for.’ He leans forward and whispers: ‘the one you’ve always known you deserved.’
I blush and clear my throat. ‘I’m so glad you think Complicit has got potential. When I was little I used to write endless song lyrics in notebooks. Somehow in dressing rooms, on trains, waiting for castings, at the back of coffee shops in between shows, that passion has turned into a book. I’ve loved every minute of it.’ I imagine myself actually doing this and it begins to feel real.
He shakes his head. ‘Potential? You have no idea how good you are, do you?’
I feel excited for Charlotte to hear him say that. I must tell her.
‘That opening to the book… you had me in the palm of your hand. Our heroine is at home, doing her grown-up children some Saturday night tea… she’s bored, messing around on social media – I mean, don’t we all?’ He takes a thoughtful sip of coffee. ‘She’s got that nagging, empty feeling that something is missing from her life; she thought it would all be a bit more exciting than this; pretty much something every reader will identify with.’ He puts the cup down, excitedly. ‘And then – boom! – the WhatsApp video comes in from a number she doesn’t know telling her she has to get out of the house, now! If she’s watching this, it’s because something catastrophic has happened. Her whole life is a lie… she must go and look in the mirror for the tiny scar on her head; the evidence of the surgery that was performed to make her forget everything she used to know… and it’s impossible to believe this can be a hoax, because the woman telling her what she must do – is HER!’ He laughs. ‘It’s a gloriously mad mash-up of Harry Potter meets Lisbeth Salander!’ He grins. ‘I could see the jacket of the book straight away. The title itself isn’t great – too literary – but whoever publishes it will change it anyway. What I totally bought into with Layla, your heroine, is that she’s interesting. She’s not necessarily likeable and that’s quite a departure for this kind of fiction. It’s rather the golden rule that you must at least have one character readers can identify with and this doesn’t – but I was intrigued by the question you pose: what indeed does make a woman with a very ordinary home life – she’s a wife and a mother – walk into a room to negotiate with men that want to kill her? You also write about parenthood very convincingly.’
‘Thank you,’ I murmur, not thrown for a second. ‘There’s a big age gap between me and my older brother and sister, but I’ve been lucky enough to be very involved in helping bring up their children – my sister’s especially – but because we are sisters, she’s also very candid with me about the realities of motherhood. She doesn’t sugar coat it.’
‘No, I can see that!’ he agrees. ‘I think it’s a brilliant take on someone leading a double life.’ He sits forward, urgently. ‘Mia, I want to do this for you, for us. I want to bring your book to the world. And I do mean, the world. I want everyone to meet Layla. This is what we’re going to do.’ He pulls a pen from his pocket, reaches across the empty table and snatches up three clean napkins. ‘I am going to get you at least this much money when I sell your book in this country.’ He scribbles, passes it over and I have to fight not to let my eyebrows shoot up in shock. ‘At the same time, I’m going to sell it in the States for at least this much money.’ The next napkin flies over the table, and I gasp when I see the figure he’s written. ‘And then I’m going to sell it in France, Germany, Italy, The Netherlands, Poland, Spain, Denmark, Norway, China – possibly not Russia,’ he laughs, ‘but Hungary, Estonia – you name it – for at least, collectively, this much.’ He waits as I pick up the third one and swear under my breath. ‘And that’s before we even think about the film of the book.’
‘I can’t believe
this,’ I say truthfully.
He frowns soberly ‘You really are completely unaware of how good you are… I don’t think I could bear it if someone came along and took advantage of that.’ He sighs heavily. ‘Forgive me, Mia. It’s just I become enormously invested in my writers. I’m so proud and protective of them all and it’s such a joy to see their books go on to delight the whole world when they started out as those scribblings in between shows, on the train home, in that coffee shop.’ His eyes twinkle… ‘It’s magical.’
I am spellbound.
‘We are going to have such an adventure!’ he whispers. ‘May I start the wheels turning?’
‘Yes!’ I exclaim, so completely caught up in the moment I feel genuinely excited.
‘Ha!’ he claps his hands, delighted. ‘Well then, we have begun! I’ll get the contract drawn up – but the important bit is, I will now send your wonderful book out to the best publishers in the business so they can begin vying for your hand. Hold onto your hat, Mia. The next couple of days are going to be a lot of fun!’
By half past six I’m running down The Strand to Embankment Place, to see if I can catch Seth – just for five minutes before I have to double back to work – because I can barely contain myself. I did it! Jack totally bought into me. I know I can’t tell Seth because I promised Charlotte I wouldn’t breathe a word, and I won’t – yet… but I need to share this excitement and this moment with someone. I phone him breathlessly from outside the building.
‘Hey! It’s me, are you still up there?’ I ask, when he answers. ‘I’m outside, can you come down? Just really quickly?’
He appears moments later, looking around him, his face lighting up when he finally sees me.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you at work.’ I don’t kiss him because I’m very conscious of lots of people spilling out of the doors of the building. No one wants to see the boss snogging on the doorstep. How unprofessional would that look? ‘I’ve just had the most incredible day and I can’t wait to tell you all about it just as soon as I can.’ I smile. ‘That’s all really – that’s what I came to say. That and… I love you!’ I blurt it out, just like that and immediately cover my mouth with my hands, horrified.
