“That’s all right,” Roz said. “I quite understand.”
Edward bowed his head. “You are most gracious, my dear. I hope we can put the whole sordid business behind us. And who knows, perhaps we may be able to work together again in the future, under different circumstances.”
Roz did her best to return his smile, but the tight lines around her mouth told a different story. “Perhaps. But my work has taken a different direction, Edward. I much prefer to work with a younger audience. They’re so engaged, so open. You can’t put a price on that kind of sincerity, and I wouldn’t swap it for the world.”
“Well said,” Alan chipped in, attracting an appraising glance from Edward.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Edward extended his hand. “I’m Edward Hatcher, but you may know me by my pen name, Max Cardew.”
Alan shook his hand. “I’m Alan Hargreaves. Actually, we’ve met before, Edward, but only briefly. It was at a conference. I don’t suppose you remember. You must meet a great many people.”
“My apologies, Alan. This is my first time at this little retreat, and I know some of the people on the list, but I have no memory for names, I’m afraid.” Edward turned to Dan, offering his hand. “Are you a writer as well?”
“No, I’m a friend of Alan’s.” Dan shook Edward’s hand, surprised at the firmness of the older man’s grip. “I’m just here for a few days’ holiday.”
“Really?” Edward raised his eyebrows. “You must be a glutton for punishment. We writers are an odd bunch, and we’re probably not fit for normal company. But you must come along to our little dinner tonight. Some of us have planned to eat at the Thai restaurant along the road, and it would be nice to have at least one normal human being in the mix.”
“I might do that,” Dan replied. “I enjoy Thai food, so long as they do tempeh or tofu or something.”
Roz sat up straight. “Oh, are you a vegan, Dan? Me too.”
“Almost,” Dan said. “I still eat fish, I’m afraid.”
“There’s no need to sound so apologetic about it,” Roz replied. “We are each of us on a journey.”
“How charmingly New Age,” Edward said. “Anyway, I understand the restaurant is thoroughly modern, so I’m sure they’ll be able to cater for your needs. But, naturally, it’s entirely up to you to decide. The table is booked for 7:30. I hope to see you there.” Edward flashed a smile around the group. “I must go and find a quiet spot to work. I’ve grown used to the stillness of the countryside: the fresh air, birdsong, the gentle peal of the bells of Saint John’s, and in the summer, the scent of lavender drifting in from the fields while a train chuffs away into the distance. It’s most conducive to work. But I was getting stuck on a crossing of the first threshold, and I thought the change of scene would do me good, so here I am. And it’s working already! There are some notes I want to make, and I must get them down before they vanish from my mind completely. Forgive me, but when the muse calls, I must obey.” He smiled once more, then he headed for a door that gave onto the garden. A moment later, Dan saw Edward pacing back and forth across the lawn, staring straight ahead and speaking into a small device in his hand: a dictation machine perhaps, or a mobile phone.
“What the hell is a crossing of the first threshold?” Dan asked.
“It’s when the hero gets committed to the journey,” Alan said distractedly, his attention on Roz. “Are you all right?”
Roz shrugged.
“I thought you handled that very well,” Alan went on. “He’s insufferable, isn’t he?”
“Forget about it,” Roz replied. “Edward’s a bit of a stuffed shirt, bless him, but as I said before, I don’t bear him any ill will. I’ve moved on.”
“Good for you,” Alan said.
But Roz did not appear to have heard him. “It’s all forgotten,” she went on. “Water under the bridge. I’m not going to let that man spoil my week. Whenever I see him, I’m going to smile and be friendly. Just you watch me.”
“Right,” Alan said slowly. “Roz, what are you doing between now and lunchtime? Because I’m happy to keep you company. I’d love to hear what you’re working on at the moment, and maybe we could talk about some of the sessions you’ve been doing in schools. I really should be doing some of those myself, so it would be good to hear your take on it.”
Alan cast a meaningful glance at Dan, and it was instantly understood.
Dan drained his coffee cup. “I think I’ll take a walk into town and get my bearings. I might even scout out a nice place to grab some lunch. We could meet up later, and if you like, we could go to this dinner with Edward and his cronies. What do you say?”
“Good idea,” Alan said. “I’ll see you later.”
Dan stood. “It was nice to meet you, Roz.”
“You too,” Roz replied. “And you do, by the way.”
“Pardon?”
Roz smiled. “You do live up to the legend. I thought Alan must have been exaggerating, but if anything, he downplayed your abilities. I look forward to talking to you later, and who knows, I might be able to work out a thing or two about you. After all, no one looks quite as keenly at the world as an artist. When you have to express an emotion with a few lines and some blobs of colour, you really have to understand your subject matter.”
“I never thought of it like that before,” Dan replied, and rapidly revising his opinion of Roz, he took his leave.
CHAPTER 4
Dan enjoyed the brisk walk from the hotel into town, but a brief tour of the local shops convinced him that he needed something else to occupy his mind. He had no real need of artistically designed greetings cards, and though he glanced at a few shops as he passed, he couldn’t muster much interest in the artfully displayed knick-knacks attempting to pass themselves off as retro chic. Besides, he didn’t have enough money to spend on fripperies. I really need to find some work, he thought as he marched through the town, ignoring the festive displays in the shop windows.
His bank balance was kept afloat by a small income from the start-ups he’d invested in over the years, and there was still some money left over from the sale of his flat. He could get by, for a little while at least, but the future was a different matter, and there was a spreadsheet on his laptop that he hardly dared to look at anymore.
Turning away from the town, Dan found a footpath that led across a stretch of grass, and he followed the path without knowing where it led. The grass was short, the path well maintained, and in the summer months the area would probably be crowded with kids playing football, families enjoying picnics, and teenagers lolling with a practised air of nonchalance. But now it was deserted, and as Dan left the town behind him, he seemed to be turning away from the world.
Dan took a deep breath of cool air, tasting salt and detecting the faint aroma of damp sand and seaweed. And the smell of the seaside took him back to childhood holidays, simpler times. I need to unwind, he told himself, and he rolled his shoulders, lengthening his stride to get his heart and lungs going. He had his running gear back at the hotel, so perhaps he could work out a suitable route for a quick 5K. He might even be able to drag Alan along.
The path forked, and Dan stopped to weigh up his options. On his left, the path looked as though it led along the clifftop and that would surely be an inspiring route to run.
Dan turned left and strode onward with a new sense of purpose. Soon, he was following the ragged line of the coast, separated from the cliff’s edge by a waist-high chain-link fence. He leaned against the fence to peer down to the sea. The tide was freshly out, the damp rocks still gleaming wetly in the winter sunlight. How far was the drop to those jagged rocks? Perhaps twenty metres or so, but it was hard to judge: the vertical cliff face gave no reference point, and beyond the rocks the sandy beach was empty. Perhaps he could run on the beach. He couldn’t see a way to climb down to the sand, but there had to be a path or some steps. Surely, he’d find a way down if he followed the clifftop path, so he turned away from the sea view and
walked on.
After a while, the path led back toward the road, and Dan spied the Regent Hotel in the distance. There were a few more walkers strolling along, some with the aid of walking sticks, and all swaddled in winter coats and hats. One man threw a ball for his dog: a slender greyhound that leaped and raced across the grass at breathtaking speed. And as Dan followed the dog’s progress, he caught sight of a familiar figure wandering dreamily along the path, heading in the same direction as him. Roz. There was no mistaking her long red hair, her untamed ringlets streaming out behind her, caught by the breeze. And the long winter coat she was wearing was, of course, a distinct shade of turquoise.
Dan watched her for a moment. Roz moved in an oddly theatrical way, her back straight, her head held high and her arms swinging at her sides as if she were on stage in a West End musical. Had she suddenly spun around and begun singing a song about bluebirds, Dan wouldn’t have been entirely surprised.
And there was something else. With a start that made him hold his breath, Dan realised that Roz was not, as he had first thought, walking on the same path as him; she was on the wrong side of the fence. She must have found a way through or climbed over, but she was strolling along the very edge of the cliff, marching along the narrow strip of earth which could surely crumble beneath her feet at any second.
Dan started running, his legs kicking into action before he even had time to think about what he was doing. He dashed along the path at full speed, his feet pounding against the unforgiving gravel path. He was gaining on Roz now, and he called her name, but she did not turn around, did not slow her strangely energetic progress.
Dan pushed himself to run faster. He called again, shouting her name, although his instincts made him hold back from yelling at full volume. What if he startled her? What if she turned at the sound of her name and slipped, plummeting to her death?
As he ran, Dan felt for his phone in his pocket. He might need to call for help.
But Roz had stopped walking. She’d turned away from the edge, and now she was clambering over the fence, stepping over the wire as if oblivious to the danger.
Dan slowed to a jog, unsure what to do. Roz was safe now and heading back toward the street. Dan had only just met her, and he had no right to question her actions, so he halted, catching his breath as he watched her stroll across the grass. She did not look back.
“Did you see that?”
Dan turned to see a man watching him from the comfort of a park bench.
“Yes.” Dan studied the fence where Roz had climbed over. The wire sagged, the top curled over as if damaged deliberately. “This fence is ridiculous. Anyone could climb over. It isn’t safe.”
The man considered the fence for a second, then he looked at Dan. “I saw you this morning. At the hotel. Are you one of us?”
“I’m sorry?”
“A writer,” the man explained. “Are you here for the retreat? Only, I saw you with Alan Hargreaves, so…”
“No, I’m not a writer. Alan’s a friend.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “I see. People don’t usually bring their… friends to these things. Enemies, yes, but friends, never.”
The man studied him as if expecting an explanation, but Dan simply smiled.
The man stood, stepping closer and extending a gloved hand. “I’m Brian Coyle. Dr Brian Coyle. The writer.”
“Dan Corrigan.” Dan shook hands. “I don’t remember seeing you at the hotel. When did you arrive?”
“Yesterday. And I keep myself very much to myself during these things. I know most people like to mingle and gossip, but when I’m on a writing retreat, I retreat and I write. That’s what I’m here for. The clue’s in the name.”
“You probably get tired of answering this question,” Dan began, “but what kind of thing do you write?”
“There are two things I have to say to that, young man. The first is that a writer never gets tired of being asked about his work. The second is that I’m surprised you haven’t heard of my award-winning YA series, Department Seventeen.”
“Erm, no. I can’t say I have.”
Brian stared at him for a moment. “Ah, would I be right in guessing that you don’t have any kids yet?”
“That’s right.” Dan made to leave. “Nice to meet you, Mr Coy—”
“Doctor,” Brian corrected him. “And it was interesting to make your acquaintance, Dan. Any friend of Alan’s is a friend of mine. But I must say, I’m a little surprised. I never knew that he was… that is to say…”
“To say what?” Dan asked.
Brian waved his hand in the air. “Sorry, I’m a bit of an unreconstructed old fart, and you never know where you are these days. The terminology is forever changing, and I worry I’ll say the wrong thing and offend someone.”
“In that case, you’re going the wrong way about it. The word you’re looking for, Doctor Coyle, is gay, and though it’s none of your business, I’m not, and though I probably shouldn’t speak for him, neither is Alan.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry. Forgive me, I didn’t mean…”
Dan was tempted to let Brian flounder, but instead he said, “Never mind. It was a simple misunderstanding. Forget about it.”
“Thank you.” Brian sighed in relief. “Anyway, what do you make of Roz? I couldn’t quite believe it when she appeared in front of me, climbing over the fence like that. She was quite the sight, her flaming hair flowing in the wind. She put me in mind of a pagan goddess. Brigid, perhaps, the patroness of poetry, medicine, and arts and crafts.” He chuckled. “Quite appropriate when you think about it, given her line of work.”
“I wouldn’t know about pagan gods,” Dan said. “But she had me worried for a minute. The cliff edge isn’t stable. There are signs all along the fence.”
“What you’ve got to understand about Roz is that she’s not quite—” Brian broke off suddenly, pressing his lips together.
“Not quite what?”
“Nothing. I spoke out of turn.” Brian offered a genial smile. “Roz is great. She’s very talented. She’s won more prizes and awards than I care to think about. If there was any justice, she’d be loaded, too. But she’s not had an easy time of it, and though literary prizes can be nice, they’re not all they’re cracked up to be. I’ve known plenty of prize-winners who spend their days working in an office to fund their writing habit.”
Dan studied Brian Coyle. The man liked the sound of his own voice, but he had some skill as an orator. After a shaky start, he’d recovered quickly, taking control of their conversation and steering it in a direction of his choosing. And he’d done it with a certain flair, throwing in titbits of information to capture Dan’s attention and lead him by the nose. But Dan was not to be so easily distracted. “Dr Coyle, I wouldn’t normally interfere, but frankly I’m concerned for Roz’s well-being. If you know of some problem she’s having, you should tell someone — if not me, then talk to Alan. He and Roz are friends, and I’m sure that Alan would be very discreet.”
Brian shook his head. “It’s nothing. Least said, soonest mended.” He glanced from left to right, then he took a step closer to Dan and, when he spoke, his voice was a guttural whisper, his tone emphatic. “This conversation is at an end.”
Dan held his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. And when it came to a staring match, he won.
Brian turned on his heel and stomped away, his steps rapid but his posture stiff and his shoulders hunched.
What a pompous jerk, Dan thought. But there was more to Brian Coyle than an overinflated ego. His parting words had contained a thinly veiled threat, and his glare had told Dan all he needed to know. The man was brimming with repressed rage. And anger, when it was constrained for too long, could break out in any number of ways. Unless the good doctor changed his state of mind, then sooner or later he’d give vent to his fury. It was only a question of time.
Dan looked back toward the hotel, but he’d no desire to follow in Coyle’s footsteps. And anyway, Alan would still be busy
so there was no reason to head back. Turning away, Dan retraced his steps and headed for the town. There was one thing that he did need to buy, and that was a decent lunch.
CHAPTER 5
As the welcoming lunch drew to a close, Alan cast his eye around the table. New friendships had formed, old ones had been renewed, and already the writers had formed into two distinct cliques. At Alan’s end of the table, Roz, Brian and Edward had congregated around the retreat’s organiser, Dominic Rudge. And they’d been joined by another writer, Tim Kendall. Alan didn’t know Tim well but decided he was good company. Tim had been around the literary circuit for years, and he had a rich seam of anecdotes to mine, each one enlivened with the artfully dropped names of the great and the good.
At the far end of the table, the Johnson twins held court. Margaret and Pansy Johnson were quietly self-effacing sisters who, in their sixties, had discovered a talent for creating the kind of contemporary romance stories that sold in huge numbers. But as well as being commercially successful, their hardworking no-nonsense attitude had earned them the respect of their peers. And now an eclectic mix of admiring writers hung on their every word.
Marcus Slater wrote epic tales of fantasy, and he was a young man on the make. Dressed in an impressively white shirt and a grey suit that was slightly too large for his slim frame, his intense gaze never left the Johnson twins, and it looked as though he was peppering the conversation with searching questions. Opposite Marcus, Albert Fernworthy had heard of the stereotypical image of the science-fiction writer and was keen to conform. Although only in his forties, his extravagant beard and his full head of unkempt curly hair were grey. His glasses had a heavy black frame, and his checked shirt was open to reveal a black T-shirt emblazoned with the Starfleet logo from Star Trek. Marcus would happily explain which series this particular variant of the logo was from, and Alan made a mental note not to ask. Sitting next to Marcus, Lucille Blanchette listened attentively but did not join in the conversation. Lucille was in her late twenties, petite and with her hair styled in an elegant bob. She was the only person of colour in the group, and she was, by far, the most prolific. An intensely serious and studious person, Lucille tended to remain quiet during the social gatherings, but she’d written a bestselling time-travel series that needed its own shelf in any bookshop. Teenagers spent their free time arguing over her books, and some even dressed as the characters she’d created. Teachers praised her for encouraging their students to read, and parents read her books as soon as they could wrest them from their kids. Hollywood had come calling many times, but according to rumour, Lucille wasn’t interested. She preferred to get on with writing her next book.
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