by Jill Mansell
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. As she’d so often announced to her adoring public, she simply didn’t do shilly-shally.
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 barrelling 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 got 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 best-selling 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 acknowledgement for having written nine best-selling 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 mum and dad 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 t
hing. 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 afterwards 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 make-up 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 jewellery 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 job 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, marvellous. 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 OK? 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 Tula 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 organise 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 round 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 blondes.’
Ouch.
Not remotely offended, Tula said cheerfully, ‘I know he does! And they go for him too. Look, I think Riley’s brilliant, but I’ve been out with my share of hopeless types … there’s no way I’m ever going to do that again. He’s not hopeless,’ she hastily amended, glimpsing the light of battle in Marguerite’s eye. ‘I’m just saying he’s not the type you’d ever really want to rely on. He’s just … more for fun, kind of thing. Anyway, I need to get back to work before Josh sees me slacking and gives me my P45. Honestly, he’s such a slave-driver!’
When she’d disappeared, Marguerite exhaled and said curtly, ‘Maybe she deserves to be sacked.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ said Sophie.
‘Hmph. Don’t I?’ Marguerite wasn’t the backing-down kind, particularly where defending her nephew was concerned.
‘No.’
‘He’s a good boy. Couldn’t ask for better. She shouldn’t be writing him off.’
Writing him off. As the irony of the choice of phrase struck them both simultaneously, bright spots of colour flared in Marguerite’s cheeks and she turned away abruptly.
‘I’ll email you these photos.’ Sophie felt a rush of sympathy for her.
‘Yes. Thank you. And put a good word in for Riley if you get the chance. But just … you know, be subtle about it.’
Which was a bit like Simon Cowell asking her to let someone down gently and be really careful not to hurt their feelings.
‘OK,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ll try.’
Chapter 39
It was three in the afternoon by the time Marguerite arrived back at Moor Court. The journalist had been apologetic and easily charmed, and the male photographer had taken some good shots of her in and around the hotel. The interview had gone well – talking about herself was never a hardship – and hopefully the piece, when it appeared in the magazine, would result in increased sales for the upcoming hardback.
Letting herself into the house, she found Riley hard at work in the office.
‘How’s it going?’
He sat back and rotated his shoulders to ease the knots from them. ‘Well Chapter Twenty-Eight’s been a bitch; I’ve re-written the last scene four times. But it’s done now. Take a look at it and tell me what you think.’
‘I will. Later.’ Marguerite indicated the curtains pulled across the window. ‘You don’t have to keep those closed any more, by the way. Sophie’s got the shots she was after. And I was right about it being a Cornish chough.’
‘You’re always right.’ Riley half smiled. ‘I don’t know how Lawrence ever dared to disagree with you in the first place.’
Marguerite was used to being revered and looked up to. She’d already spoken to Lawrence on the phone and informed him of his mistake; somewhat to her frustration, he had simply roared with laughter and said, ‘You mean you actually hired a professional photographer to stalk the poor bird and prove me wrong? Priceless! How much did that cost you?’
Which had actually made her feel a tiny bit foolish. She also suspected he wasn’t bothered by his mistake … and that he’d only been teasing her all along when he’d insisted it was a blackbird.
&n
bsp; And what would Sophie charge for her visits? Fifty or sixty pounds, at a guess. Oh well, she’d just have to call it research for business purposes and offset the bill against tax.
‘Anyway,’ said Riley, ‘how did the interview go?’
‘Fine. No problems. One of the questions she asked was how would I cope if I ran out of ideas and could no longer write.’ Marguerite pulled a face.
‘What did you say?’
‘That it was my worst nightmare, but luckily nothing like that would ever happen because I have a million ideas bursting to get out of my head.’
‘Right.’
‘And she said that was a relief, because otherwise my legions of fans would be thrown into a panic.’
‘I’m sure they would be.’ Reaching for the can on the desk, Riley took a gulp of Coke.
‘I had a nice chat with Sophie.’
‘Yeah?’
‘And with Tula.’
If this had been a TV sitcom, Riley would at this point have spluttered and choked on his drink, maybe dropped it on the computer keyboard or somehow managed to fall off his chair and into the waste-paper basket.
Since this wasn’t a sitcom, he didn’t do anything like that, but what did happen was almost more interesting. The changes were subtle, but Marguerite was an expert at detecting micro-expressions. There was the brief pressing-together of his lips, the increased tension around the eyes, the quickening of his breathing.
More significant than anything else, however, was the heightened colour in her nephew’s face. And this was Riley, for goodness’ sake: outrageous, flirtatious and utterly unembarrassable in every way.
She’d never seen him blush before, but it was happening now. This was the effect Tula had on him.
Extraordinary.
Marguerite said, ‘Keen on her, are you?’
