by Jill Mansell
What could she do? What could she say? The two of them had been so certain she’d be happy about this thrilling newsflash, it hadn’t even occurred to them to ask first. And the awful thing was, the fact that the prospect filled her with horror was all her own fault.
Because Coral was wonderful, the best flatmate anyone could ask for. And Evan was lovely too, a genuinely nice person. He was kind and clever, thoughtful and sweet-natured, and not afraid of a bit of washing-up. He was even happy to carry perilously overfilled bin bags down the narrow rickety stairs. In so many ways he was everything you could possibly want in a flatmate.
If only he didn’t have some of the most annoying habits known to man. For some reason they didn’t bother Coral at all, but these irritating traits drove Tula to distraction. When he ate, he made the kind of sloshing, chomping noises a pig might make. When he wasn’t eating, he repeatedly cleared his throat and sniffed. He also breathed really noisily. All the time. And finally, he had a habit of chewing the skin around his fingernails and making tiny wet sucky-bitey noises that meant Tula spent every minute in his company wanting to scream at him to STOP IT, STOP IT, JUST BLOODY STOP IT.
And failing that, to drive a sharpened stake through his heart.
She’d tried discreetly raising the matter in the early days when Coral had first started seeing Evan, but Coral had been genuinely mystified by the idea that anything like that could bother anyone, or indeed be annoying in any way.
And the thing was, Evan was just so nice. Concluding that her hypersensitivity and low irritation threshold was her own problem, Tula had gritted her teeth and forced herself to tolerate the various tics and noises, for all their sakes.
But that had been only just about bearable when he was at the flat every now and again. Having him here full time would be more than she could stand.
Snort … breathe … cough … chomp … slosh …
‘Isn’t it great news?’ Coral was lovingly stroking Evan’s arm.
‘Yes … great,’ Tula said faintly, her skin already crawling at the thought.
Help.
Chapter 8
Marguerite Marshall was in her mid fifties, with elaborately coiffed black hair, immaculate make-up and birdlike, miss-nothing dark eyes. Over the course of the last twenty-five years she had written thirty-eight best-selling novels, which had been translated into over forty languages. In the region of twenty-four million copies of her books had been sold worldwide, though it was impossible to announce an exact figure as her devoted fans never stopped buying them; sales just kept spiralling upwards.
Sophie knew this because she heard pretty much the same spiel every time they met. Not for Marguerite the British habit of modesty and self-deprecation; her confidence was breathtaking and she loved nothing better than a captive audience.
Which was why Sophie had allowed an extra couple of hours for today’s shoot. She knew from experience that once Marguerite had you on the premises, it wasn’t easy to escape.
The house, Moor Court, was an imposing ivy-clad Victorian residence with well-tended grounds and a staff cottage at the bottom of the driveway.
Well, it had originally been a staff cottage. These days it was more of a shag pad.
And it was the shagger himself who opened the door of the main house, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.
‘Morning, angel. She’s all ready for you in the drawing room.’ Leading the way across the hall, Riley pulled open a second door and said, ‘Mags, Sophie’s here. I’ve told her she’s going to have to use all her tricks to blur out those bags and wrinkles. You know, you really shouldn’t have downed that second bottle of gin last night.’
No one else would get away with speaking to Marguerite like that. No one would dare to even try. But all she did was shake her head and say good-naturedly to Sophie, ‘Ignore him, it’s all lies. And I certainly don’t have bags and wrinkles.’
Riley said, ‘That’s because you’ve spent the last two hours covering them with make-up.’
‘I’ve spent the last two hours writing fifteen hundred words,’ Marguerite declared. ‘And rather brilliant ones they are too.’
He winked at Sophie. ‘Whatever you say. Right, anything you want picking up while I’m out?’
‘No thanks, darling. What time will you be back?’
‘Who knows? See how the day goes. OK if I take the Merc?’
‘Fine. Just try not to prang it.’
Riley grinned, raised a hand in farewell and left them to it. They heard the front door crash shut, the throaty sound of the red Mercedes Sport starting up, then the scrunch of the tyres on gravel as he tore off down the drive.
‘That boy.’ Marguerite shook her head fondly. ‘He’ll be the death of me.’
And whose fault would that be? Not that Sophie said this aloud, but really, Marguerite had no one to blame but herself. Riley’s parents had died in a boating accident nine years ago, when he was twenty. His mother and Marguerite had been sisters. Marguerite, who had married and divorced three husbands, had never had children of her own, nor known a moment of maternal longing in her life. Babies repulsed her and older children were either boring or unendurably tiresome. But when Riley had lost his mum and dad, she’d risen to the occasion with typical magnificence.
Now, almost a decade on, the damage had been done. Having lavished him with love, attention and access to all the money a work-shy, profoundly hedonistic twenty-something could wish for, Marguerite had succeeded in turning him into a feckless Peter Pan figure who was all but unemployable. Officially, Riley was meant to be driving her around to literary events, organising the author tours and public appearances, and handling all the tedious company paperwork. In reality, he appeared to do little other than please himself, and spend his days surfing, socialising and having fun.
Which was undoubtedly nice work if you could get it, but hardly admirable. Riley might be good company, but you couldn’t say he possessed the kind of qualities you’d look for in a man. Not that it seemed to bother the girls he brought back to his cottage at the bottom of the drive.
‘Right, let’s see.’ Having finished scrutinising herself in the mirror of the gold powder compact, Marguerite snapped it shut and said, ‘Where shall we start? I need new publicity shots for my Dutch publisher. I thought we could have some taken with me standing beside this window, move on to the office, where I’ll sit at my desk, then head outside for some garden shots.’
‘Sounds good.’ There was never any point in trying to tell Marguerite where to sit or stand; she always knew best.
‘And look, I’ve chosen my outfit to match the cover of the new book.’ Holding it up and pointing to the glossy green and pink artwork, Marguerite struck the kind of pose last seen on an old episode of The Price is Right. ‘You see, darling, attention to detail is key. So important. It’s what marks out the true professionals from the amateurs.’
‘It does.’ Sophie nodded in peaceable agreement; she would let Marguerite run through her repertoire of poses, then casually take some of her in more relaxed mode. This way, the publishing company could choose which ones to go with.
‘I was talking to my US editor on the phone the other day. She was just telling me how she wished more authors could be like me. Because I give my fans what they want, you see – I just instinctively know how to reach out and create a connection between us.’ Holding the book close to the side of her face, Marguerite smouldered into an imaginary camera lens in order to demonstrate just how to make that connection. And the thing was, you could laugh all you liked at her towering confidence and self-belief, but the fact remained that her millions of readers weren’t laughing; they were too busy buying and devouring her books. They flat-out adored her and believed every boast she made. Some even fainted with excitement when they met her in the flesh.
This was Marguerite’s take on it, anyway. To be fair, she’d been in Australia at the time, and her fans had been forced to queue for too long outside the bookstore in a swelteri
ng ninety degrees of heat.
Not for nothing did Riley teasingly call his aunt the Queen of Spin.
For the next twenty minutes Sophie took a hundred or so shots. Then they stopped for a coffee and a break, during which time Marguerite closely scrutinised the photos and insisted on deleting most of them.
After that, it was time for a change of scene. Marguerite arranged herself on the leather swivel chair in front of the computer in her impressive book-lined office. Copies of the Dutch edition of her latest novel were strategically placed on the desk beside a huge crystal vase of stargazer lilies, chosen to continue the pink-and-green theme. Beautifully decorated leather notebooks were piled up next to the computer, alongside a box of fountain pens. Marguerite was famous for taking a notebook with her everywhere she went.
‘This is what I’ve written so far this morning.’ She pointed with pride to the text on the computer screen. ‘Started at seven o’clock. Because I have the work ethic, you see. And I know my fans are out there, waiting with bated breath for my next book.’
Since Sophie already knew it would be at least a year before the book came out, their breath was going to have to be seriously bated. She took another eighty or so photos of Marguerite tip-tapping away at her computer, then pretending to read her own book in Dutch and finally pretending to admire the vase of lilies on her desk.
Another two hours and a couple more outfit changes later, and the photo shoot was done. Sophie packed away her camera and Marguerite signed a copy of her latest book and presented it to her. ‘There you go, something to keep you awake at night! Once you start reading, you won’t be able to put it down, guaranteed!’
‘Gosh, thanks.’ Sophie lived in fear of being interrogated about the plots of the four books she’d already had pressed upon her; she wouldn’t put it past Marguerite to test her and make sure she’d devoured every page. And while the books were undoubtedly popular, they weren’t her own personal choice of reading matter.
‘And how are you fixed for Friday evening?’
‘Um, let me think.’ Sophie mentally double-checked her calendar and nodded. ‘Yes, I’m free.’
‘Excellent. The thing is, a local charity is holding a fund-raising dinner at Mariscombe House and they’ve asked me to be their guest speaker. I did it for them a couple of years ago and they’re terribly sweet but a bit clueless … the photos they took of me last time were just abysmal. I almost died when I saw they’d printed them in their newsletter and posted them online. So if you could pop along and do the honours, I’d be grateful. Just for an hour or two. Say, turn up at nine?’
‘No problem,’ said Sophie. ‘I can do that.’
‘Thank goodness. No more ghastly blink-shots and unflattering angles.’ Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Perfect!’
Tula’s little blue Renault, old and pretty decrepit at the best of times, was suffering badly. For the second time in three days it had been forced to make the gruelling journey down to Cornwall and was now crawling into the home straight like an unfit marathon runner in the final stages of exhaustion.
Coaxing it into the pay-and-display car park, Tula dragged her cases out of the boot and skedaddled before the car had a chance to embarrass her publicly by bursting into flames. Loaded down like a pack mule, she made it down the hill to Sophie’s flat and rang the bell.
No reply. No car in sight either. And – looking again at her phone – still no reply to this morning’s texts and emails.
Bum. And her first appointment was in … she checked the time … thirty minutes.
By the time she’d lugged the cases back to the car park, Tula’s hair was sticking to her neck. The heat and the journey hadn’t done her clothes any favours either – she looked as if she’d slept in them for a week.
Thinking fast, she unzipped one of the suitcases and took out a clean white shirt and red skirt. Then, having hauled both cases back into the boot, she climbed into the passenger seat of the car and proceeded to change out of one set of clothes and into another.
OK, not ideal, but no big deal either. Besides, what other choice was there? When people stared as they made their way past, Tula determinedly ignored them. It wasn’t as if she was naked, for heaven’s sake. She still had her bra and knickers on. If she were down on the beach wearing a bikini it’d be perfectly fine and unremarkable.
Which just made it all the more annoying that a group of teenage boys on bikes, having decided to stop to the left of the car, were currently cracking up laughing at her state of undress.
And in her haste to get the shirt on, she’d managed to jam her arm into an inside-out sleeve.
‘Waaahh!’ She jumped out of her skin as someone rapped on the car window on the driver’s side. The unexpectedness of it was what caused her to honk like a startled goose. Which was attractive. Shit, if it was more bloody kids …
Grinning at her through the glass, Riley did the winding-down-the-window signal. Tula rolled her eyes and finished shovelling her arms into the sleeves of her shirt. When she was properly decent again, she jumped out of the car.
‘Don’t stop. I was enjoying that.’
‘Of course you were. I needed to change in a hurry.’ At least his arrival had seen the teenage boys off. Wryly Tula said, ‘Fancy bumping into you here.’
‘Your fault for parking next to me.’ He jangled his keys and she realised the sporty red Mercedes was his. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d gone home to Birmingham.’
‘I did, yesterday. And now I’m back again.’ She shrugged; there was no time to go into that unfortunate sequence of events now. ‘Stuff … happened.’
‘Ah.’ Riley nodded sagely. ‘Stuff.’
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of Sophie, but she isn’t at home and her phone’s switched off.’ Checking her watch again, Tula said, ‘Oh God, and I’ve got a job interview in twenty minutes.’
‘She’s working with my aunt, that’s why. And I’m impressed,’ said Riley. ‘You don’t hang around, do you? What kind of job?’
‘Just bar work.’ She’d trawled the job listings websites last night and called the relevant numbers first thing this morning; luckily in the hospitality industry there tended to be a regular turnover of staff. ‘At the Melnor Hotel.’
‘The Melnor?’ Riley grimaced. ‘No way. Seriously, you don’t want to work there.’
Which was exactly what you wanted to hear when you’d just driven over two hundred miles for an interview.
‘Why not?’ said Tula. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Run by Melvyn and Noreen. Lots of noise, underage drinking, drug-taking and gang fights. It’s the worst hotel in Cornwall, trust me. And the reason they’re always needing new staff is because they scare the bejeezus out of the old ones.’
‘Oh.’ Oh God.
‘Plus, you don’t have nearly enough tattoos.’
‘Right.’
‘And are you carrying any deadly weapons about your person? No? You see, you just wouldn’t fit in there at all.’
‘But I need to work. Maybe it won’t be so bad once I get there.’
‘Sweetheart, it’ll be worse. Where else have you applied?’
‘To the Coldborough Hotel, but I’m not seeing them until four o’clock. It’s got a website,’ Tula said defensively. ‘It looks OK.’
‘I’m sure it’s great,’ said Riley. ‘If you’re ninety-six years old. And into biscuits. And beige.’
‘Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.’ At least she liked biscuits.
‘Hang on, someone mentioned something yesterday …’ Whipping out his phone, he pressed a couple of buttons and said, ‘Hi, yes … good, thanks. Listen, did I hear Lisa’s leaving? She is? So you’re going to need someone to replace her? Because I’ve got a friend here who could be just what you need … No, not that kind of friend. You’d like her. And she’s keen to get sorted, job-wise. If you wanted to meet her, snap her up before anyone else does, I could bring her along now.’
Chapter 9
/> When strangers saw Dot and Lawrence Strachan together and learned that they were husband and wife, they invariably assumed that their marriage was wonderful and their lives were filled with love and joy. Why wouldn’t they be? They were a striking couple, the connection between them was immediately apparent and their easy camaraderie and laughter indicated how happy they were in each other’s company.
Which just went to show, you actually could fool all of the people all of the time if you set your mind to it.
Not that it was any secret that they were no longer a couple; it was just what others imagined when they first met them. And they had been gloriously happy together for very many years. They had met as teenagers and married at the age of twenty-one, which seemed crazy now but had been more usual all those decades ago. They had been the perfect couple, everyone said so. All their friends envied them. Dot and Lawrence had appreciated their own good fortune and tried not to be sickening about it, but they’d both known how lucky they were to have found each other and stayed so happy together for so long.
Forty years …
Until the day Lawrence Strachan had been taking a misty morning stroll along Mariscombe Beach and had seen two huge boisterous dogs racing across the sand, so involved in chasing each other that they failed to notice the woman ahead of them and sent her flying in spectacular fashion.
The woman let out a stifled shriek of dismay and landed awkwardly on one side in the cold, wet sand. The teenage owner of the dogs, in a panic, bellowed at them and legged it, never to be seen on the beach again.
Which left only Lawrence to hurry over and help the damsel in distress. But who wouldn’t have done the same? The woman was lying facing away from him, gasping with shock and pain, her fine blond hair spread across the sand, her blue sweatshirt and jeans already soaking up water. Then, of course, the lacy edge of a wave slid up the beach, its icy coldness making her gasp again.
‘What hurts?’ said Lawrence, bending over her.
‘Arm. Elbow. Ow …’
