The Unexpected Consequences of Love

by Jill Mansell

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to help.”

  “I know, darling, and it’s sweet of you. But you can’t.” Marguerite, who never cried, blinked away a tear. “That’s the thing; no one can. God, look at me.”

  Riley grabbed a tissue from the box on the shelf behind him. “Here, you’re okay. Mascara hasn’t run.”

  “No, I mean look at me.” Marguerite indicated the paused YouTube clip on the computer screen, filmed at a hugely popular book festival last year. She pressed play and they both watched the confident, glamorous version of Marguerite Marshall, author extraordinaire, being interviewed up on the stage in front of a jam-packed audience.

  “…and you’re known as a plain-speaking woman,” the interviewer continued. “Tell me, what are your views on the subject of writer’s block?”

  He was asking the question because a particularly pretentious and generally disliked literary novelist had been banging on in the broadsheets about the tortuous process of having to produce words to order when the muse refused to comply.

  “Ha!” With a dismissive snort of laughter, Marguerite said, “Well, I’m sure we all know who you’re talking about. And my reply is that the man in question needs to get a grip, pull himself together, and stop being such a ridiculous whining drama queen.” This statement was greeted with laughter and the beginnings of applause, but she didn’t stop there. “Seriously, whining and making a fuss like that, it’s just attention-seeking nonsense. Real writers don’t suffer from these namby-pamby problems, let me tell you. We just work our socks off, put our heads down, and jolly well get on with it. Writer’s block is nothing more than an excuse for failure.” With glittering eyes and utter disdain in her voice, she concluded, “Trust me, writer’s block simply doesn’t exist.”

  On the screen, the audience applauded wildly. Another tear rolled down Marguerite’s cheek as she closed the link. Without looking at Riley, she shook her head. “I sounded like Margaret Thatcher. I can’t believe I sat there and said all that. Talk about karma.”

  There was simply no answer to that. She was right. Unaccustomed to so much reading and intense concentration, Riley rubbed his eyes and said, “Okay, sorry. I tried.” Another huge yawn almost dislocated his jaw. “I’m going to bed.”

  But despite his exhaustion, sleep had proven elusive. Eventually he’d dozed, waking every so often to the sound of Marguerite’s characters in his head.

  Bloody ridiculous. What were they doing pestering him?

  At lunchtime he got up, jumped into his car, and drove along the coast road to Mariscombe Bay. The sun was out, the wind was up, and the waves were crashing onto the beach. Conditions were perfect, and there were plenty of surfers already out there, taking advantage of an unexpectedly good day.

  Riley surfed for a grand total of twenty minutes before giving up, peeling off his wet suit, climbing back into the car and making his way home again. His friends couldn’t understand what on earth had gotten into him. He couldn’t work out what had gotten into him; all he knew was that the voices were still there in his head, the characters were… God, it felt as if they were harassing him, demanding impatiently to be allowed to get on with whatever was about to happen next in their lives.

  It was almost scary; when people with mental illnesses got arrested for doing something bizarre, didn’t they always say it was the voices in their heads that had made them do it?

  And that was kind of how it felt—like being taken over, possessed. Back at Moor Court, Marguerite had gone out, leaving a note as she always did on the kitchen table:

  Giving retail therapy a try. Home by seven. If anyone calls, tell them I’m working and can’t be disturbed. M x

  Riley made himself a strong coffee and took it through to the office. He sat down in front of the computer, switched it on, and took several deep breaths. Then, refusing to allow himself to panic that this was crazy, of course he couldn’t do it, he began to type.

  Two hours later he noticed the untouched mug of coffee next to him on the desk.

  At six thirty, he sat back and stared at the screen with a mixture of befuddled achievement and disbelief. According to the computer, he’d produced two thousand two hundred and seventeen words. The last time he’d written anything longer than a text or a quick email had been… God, it must’ve been when he was back at university. As for fiction, he had a vague memory of writing a short story for the school magazine about a stunning female chemistry teacher seducing a young male pupil called…ahem, Riley. When the headmaster had refused to allow it to appear in the magazine, that had been the end of his literary efforts. He’d read plenty of books in his time, but it had never once occurred to him that he might have the ability to write one.

  He scanned the screen, reading the words that had poured out of him this afternoon. At times his fingers hadn’t been able to keep up with the ideas in his head; there were typing errors all over the place. A couple of repetitions jumped out at him too… He’d used the word shouted twice in one paragraph there. But the characters felt right—they seemed real—and as far as he could tell, they sounded like the same people Marguerite had created.

  Whether or not he was right about that, only time—and Marguerite—would tell.

  For the next twenty minutes he corrected the errors, tidied up the manuscript, and printed off the pages. At ten past seven, Marguerite returned loaded down with expensive shopping bags. When she’d kicked off her shoes and thrown herself down on the sofa in the living room, he handed her a stronger than usual gin and tonic and a folder containing the pages.

  Then he left the room and waited. What he’d written was probably rubbish. And if that were the case, at least he knew Marguerite wouldn’t be afraid to point it out. Suffering fools gladly had never been her forte.

  Oh well, if it was that bad, maybe this would give her the jolt she needed, spur her on to show him how it should be done.

  Which would be the very best outcome, of course.

  Although even as he was thinking this, Riley inwardly experienced a twinge of unease at the prospect of Marguerite taking over what now felt like his cast of characters. Because what if she made them do and say the wrong things, took them off in directions he didn’t want them to go?

  The kitchen door burst open and Marguerite appeared, white-faced and trembling with fury. “You told someone. I asked you not to and you did it anyway.”

  “What?” Startled by the venom in her voice, Riley said, “I haven’t told anyone.”

  She shook the sheaf of pages at him. “So who wrote this?”

  “I did!”

  “You? But you can’t have!”

  “Well, I did.”

  The outrage had given way to utter disbelief. Marguerite was staring at him as if he’d just turned into a hobbit. “But…but you don’t know how.”

  “I know.” He shrugged. “I just gave it a try. So, does it make you want to rip it up and rewrite it yourself?”

  “No.” She shot him a suspicious look. “Did you get someone to help you?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t, I promise. I wrote every word myself.”

  “How? Just…how?”

  “I got to know the characters. Then I listened to them. They started doing stuff…” God, it was hard to explain how it happened. “And I kind of wrote everything down. Is it awful?” He had to ask, needed to know.

  “No. It’s not perfect, but it’s a damn good first draft. I still can’t believe you did it.” Her expression softening, Marguerite said, “You’ve got the voice right, that’s the extraordinary thing. It sounds exactly like me.”

  “I’ve spent long enough listening to you. I know what you sound like.” Emulating her direct, punchy style had been surprisingly easy. If she’d been a writer of very light romantic fiction, he’d have found it harder.

  “Well. I’m in shock,” Marguerite declared. “How
long did it take you to write this?”

  “Five hours.”

  “Good going.”

  “It just came out of nowhere. I didn’t want to stop.”

  “I remember that feeling.” Her tone was wry. “And what happens next? Do you know?”

  Would she be offended if he said yes? Would it sound like he was barreling in and taking over, wrestling the characters out of her control? After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Kind of.”

  “Yes or no?”

  What the hell. “Yes.”

  “Fantastic.” Marguerite broke into a huge smile. “My God, this is incredible. Can you carry on doing it, do you think?”

  Could he? He was already itching to get back into the story. The characters were giving him grief, hassling him to pay them some attention. He smiled back and said, “I’ll give it a go.”

  Chapter 38

  That had been six years ago. Riley glanced up at the bookshelves above the computer, packed with hardbacks and various foreign editions of Marguerite’s novels. Unbelievably, he’d now written nine books under her name. And if that sounded easy…well, it hadn’t been. Sometimes it had turned out to be the hardest thing in the world. On rare occasions the words poured out unstoppably as they had on that first day, and other times they refused to cooperate. Structuring an entire book could also be a nightmare—keeping the various plot threads under control was like fighting to squash an octopus into a bottle. When it was going badly, you despaired of ever getting through to the end. Luckily, when it was going well, there was nothing better.

  Marguerite had never gotten her writing mojo back, but she critiqued his work rigorously as he went along. Which was annoying, of course, but undoubtedly necessary. Her editorial suggestions always made good sense. And when each book was finished, she went over it again with a fine-tooth comb, altering words and phrasing to ensure the end result sounded exactly as if she’d written it herself.

  No one else must know; that had been the remit from day one. Marguerite had insisted upon it and he’d understood why; she simply couldn’t bear the thought of people learning the truth. Her whole persona revolved around confidence and can-do achievement. Admitting to failure wasn’t something she could bring herself to do.

  And so the deception had begun and been rigorously maintained. Marguerite continued to play the part of the beloved bestselling author. Her various editors, agents, and many publishers had no idea she was no longer writing her own books. They continued to shower her with praise and promote her all over the world, while Marguerite in turn carried on delighting her fans and promoting herself. Confiding in even one person was out of the question; such an enthralling item of gossip might too easily become public knowledge.

  Their secret was still a secret because only the two of them knew about it.

  And up until now Riley hadn’t minded at all. Marguerite was his only living relative and he loved her. When his parents had been killed, she had stepped up to the plate, and not because there was ever likely to be anything in it for her. Aware that he owed her everything, he’d vowed never to let her down.

  And it had genuinely never been a problem, not receiving any public praise or acknowledgment for having written nine bestselling novels. Nor had it bothered him that everyone who knew him thought Riley Bryant was a lazy, work-shy, pleasure-seeking hedonist. He’d enjoyed playing the part, immersing himself in the role…which was, after all, pretty much an extension of how he’d been spending his time since university.

  The brutally sudden loss of his parents had hit Riley hard, prompting a couple of wild and reckless “gap years,” followed by another one for luck. In all honesty, he’d been privately starting to wonder what the future held. If Marguerite’s catastrophic attack of writer’s block hadn’t come along, who knows how much more of his life he might have frittered away? In one way, becoming her ghostwriter had been the making of him.

  Except now there was this situation with Tula, and although there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, being rejected by her was really starting to get him down. There was no way he could impress her with a proper job as well as writing the books; everyone else might think he slept all the time and wasted his days, but he was actually putting in a good sixty hours a week. It was no picnic.

  Even more ironically, when Tula had moved down here, he’d been the one who’d encouraged her to go for the position at the Mariscombe. Now, seeing her almost daily and having to cope with her utter lack of interest in him, he was beginning to wish he hadn’t.

  This was killing him…

  ***

  After two unsuccessful attempts to photograph the mystery bird, Sophie had begun to wonder if it was ever going to happen. Then the next morning, there it was, high up in the branches of the towering ash tree. Within minutes of arriving at Moor Court, she had what she’d come for. Third time lucky.

  But the curtains in the office were tightly closed; if Riley was hard at work, she wouldn’t interrupt him again. And there was still no sign of the sporty red Mercedes on the driveway, which indicated that Marguerite was out.

  Oh well, no hurry. She had the photos of the bird; that was the important thing. Flushed with success, Sophie jumped into her own car and headed back to St. Carys.

  She hadn’t been expecting to bump into Marguerite at the Mariscombe House Hotel when she dropped in shortly afterward to return a book she’d borrowed from Tula, but there she was. Looking quite astonishingly glamorous and grand as she sat alone at a table out on the terrace. Her hair was immaculate, she was wearing full makeup, and her outfit was very mother of the bride, a fitted gold silk dress with translucent turquoise and gold jacket. Even from this distance you could see her jewelry glittering in the morning sunlight. As far as Marguerite was concerned, more was definitely more and simple, understated outfits were for wimps.

  Sophie collected her camera from the car, then made her way out to where Marguerite was sitting.

  “Hello!” Marguerite greeted her with a heavily perfumed kiss on each cheek. “Sit down, sit down, keep me company for a bit—I’m being interviewed for one of the glossies and the journalist just called to say that her train’s been delayed for thirty minutes. Whereas I’ve been up since six, writing away, then getting myself ready and here on time. All I can say is it’s a good thing I’m not a diva.”

  Sophie somehow managed to keep a straight face. She said, “Not being interviewed at home this time?”

  “My last few photo shoots have all been at home. I thought we could do with a change of scenery. The magazine’s sending its own photographer,” Marguerite explained. “Sorry, darling, I do my best to support local businesses but I can’t use you all the time.”

  “That’s fine. Anyway”—Sophie held up the camera—“I’ve just come from Moor Court. I was going to email you the photos, but I can show you them now. Finally got some shots of that bird.”

  “Really? Excellent! Let me see.” Marguerite’s eyes lit up as she leaned over for a look. “And?”

  “You were right. Lawrence was wrong.”

  “Ha, marvelous. I knew it!” She clapped her hands in delight; it was clearly all about the winning for Marguerite. She peered at the camera’s screen and said triumphantly, “There it is, clear as day. Red beak, different-shaped head…and look at the curve of the wing. Honestly, Lawrence is an idiot if he thinks that even looks like a blackbird. I told him he was talking rubbish!”

  And she’d gone to considerable lengths to prove it. Sophie said, “I’ll email these to you. You can show him.”

  Pausing on her way past with a tray, Tula said, “Morning, ladies. Everything okay? Anything else I can get you?”

  “Another pot of tea, please, I think. Sophie? Can you stay for a cup? And we’ll have some lemon cake.”

  “Good choice. Coming right up.”

  “I like your friend.” Marguerite watched as T
ula made her jaunty way back inside. “Lovely smile, always cheerful.”

  “Riley’s pretty keen too.” Sophie settled back on the cushioned chair. “He has a total crush on her.”

  “A crush? Why doesn’t he ask her out, then?”

  “He has. She said no.”

  Marguerite looked shocked. “What? No one says no to Riley. Why would she do that?”

  “Well…you know.”

  “Tell me.” Marguerite was indignant. “Why would any girl not like him?”

  Sophie hesitated. She hadn’t told Tula what she’d seen the other morning at Moor Court; she hadn’t shared her discovery with anyone. Oh well, may as well be honest. “Tula likes him,” she explained. “Everyone likes Riley. I think she just doesn’t respect him. You know, too much playing around, not enough work ethic.”

  “He has a job.” Marguerite’s spine stiffened, the lioness protecting her wayward cub. “He works for me. I need someone to organize my life, and that’s what he does.”

  There was clearly no way in the world Marguerite would admit what had been going on. Sophie said mildly, “I know. I’m just saying that’s the way she feels.”

  “If she likes someone, she should accept them for who they are.” Twisting around in her seat as Tula reappeared, Marguerite said, “I’ve been hearing all about your views on my nephew.”

  “Really?” Tula grinned as she rearranged the china on the table. “Are there asterisks involved?”

  “He’s a lovely boy. You couldn’t ask for better.” Marguerite was clearly taking the rejection badly on Riley’s behalf. “He even took you to that wedding in Wales!”

  “I know,” said Tula.

  “All the girls adore him. Yet I hear he asked you out and you turned him down.”

  “He’s great fun. Just, you know, not my type.”

  “Well, I have to say, I’m surprised. Wouldn’t have thought you’d be that fussy. You’re not exactly his type either.” Marguerite’s gaze flickered over the tied-back dark hair and cocoa-brown eyes, the lack of supermodel slenderness. “He usually goes for stunning blonds.”