by Jill Mansell
‘We are.’ Riley nodded. ‘Two rooms.’
‘Well that’s no problem. She can share yours.’
Riley was visibly mortified, shaking his head. ‘No, don’t say that. It’s just embarrassing.’
While Tula fleetingly imagined what it would be like to share a room – and a bed – with Riley. In the Savoy.
‘Well she certainly isn’t sharing with me,’ Marguerite retorted.
‘Honestly, don’t worry,’ Tula blurted out, distracted by the unexpected mental image of Riley without any clothes on – God, where had that sprung from? ‘I’ll sort out my own bed for the night.’
Which she had. But the urge to see their beds had been irresistible. And the two adjacent rooms were, as she’d known they would be, classy and immaculate in every way.
‘Not bad, eh?’ Marguerite joined her at the window as Tula gazed out at the view of the city skyline. The London Eye turned lazily on the South Bank, boats slid through the green-grey water of the Thames and sunlight bounced off the windscreens of the cars and lorries making their way across Westminster Bridge.
‘It’s amazing.’ Tula pointed. ‘Look, there’s the Houses of Parliament! This is like being in a film!’
‘I know. It’s why I always stay here when I’m in London. The heart of the capital city,’ Marguerite announced dramatically. ‘The best view in the world.’
‘Not quite,’ said Tula. ‘Not as good as the view of St Carys beach from the Mariscombe House Hotel.’
Marguerite smiled. ‘You like it there?’
‘Love it. More than anything.’
‘So you’re planning to stick around.’
‘Why would anyone want to leave?’
‘I know. I feel the same way. There’s no place like home.’ After a moment, Marguerite added drily, ‘Even if things sometimes don’t turn out according to plan.’
Tula instinctively knew what she was talking about; she gave the older woman’s arm an impulsive squeeze. Lawrence and Dot were back together, a couple once more, and on the surface Marguerite had taken Lawrence’s defection admirably well. But Tula sensed her feelings had been hurt rather more deeply than she’d let on.
‘Anyway, I’m going to head off now.’ Tula picked up the pink overnight bag that was looking so out of place in its plush surroundings.
‘This is crazy. You don’t have to go.’ Marguerite gave it one last try. ‘You can stay in Riley’s room.’
Sharing a bed with Riley … their bodies accidentally touching in the night … ripples of desire she might not have the strength of will to control …
‘It’s fine, honestly. And my room’s all booked. Forty-three pounds.’ Tula said it with pride, having haggled the price down from fifty-five. ‘Bargain!’
Marguerite suppressed a shudder of distaste. ‘How ghastly. I can’t imagine anything worse.’
‘This is soooo exciting.’ Tula whispered the words into Riley’s ear so no one else in the studio audience could hear. She didn’t want to sound like a complete dork.
Oh, but there was such a buzz of anticipation in the air. The cameramen were manoeuvring their cameras around the studio floor like Daleks; the presenters, Jon and Jackie, were making last-minute adjustments to their scripts and a make-up girl was busy dusting mattifying powder on Jon’s forehead. In three minutes the show was set to start and they’d be live on air. The atmosphere was electric.
‘Calm down,’ Riley murmured back. ‘You aren’t actually going to be on TV yourself.’
‘I know.’ He’d found it amusing earlier that she’d changed into a nice dress and put on make-up. ‘But I could be, that’s the thing. Look at us, right here in the front row. If the show started and I suddenly jumped up and ran up there, they couldn’t stop me. I could rip off my clothes and streak across the stage … by the time they realised what was going on … pah, it’d be too late.’
‘All the same, probably better if you don’t do it.’ Riley seized her hand, his warm fingers closing around hers. ‘In fact I’m going to keep hold of you, just to be on the safe side. Apart from anything else, Marguerite wouldn’t be too thrilled if you stole her thunder.’
‘True.’ Tula settled back in her seat; it wasn’t as if she was actually planning on doing a streak across the studio on live TV. But having her hand held by Riley was nice, and easier to cope with than those vivid mental images of being naked in bed with him … Uh oh, whoops, and now it’s happening again …
‘Sorry, can I squeeze in?’ Suze, who worked in the publicity department of Marguerite’s publishers and had been waiting backstage with her, made her way past them and settled into the empty seat on Riley’s other side. She glanced at their entwined hands and switched off her phone before dropping it into her bag.
‘How is she?’ said Riley. ‘OK?’
‘Quite nervous, actually. More than usual.’ Suze shrugged, not particularly concerned. ‘Probably because she’s on with Tony Weston. I think she finds him rather attractive.’ Her eyes danced. ‘Sadly, Tony has his lovely wife with him … Ooh, here we go now, show’s about to start.’
Chapter 51
Marguerite waited in the green room, pretending to read texts on her phone in order to avoid having to make polite conversation with anyone else. Her mouth was dry and her palms were damp. She’d never been one for spur-of-the-moment decisions before, but it was happening now. Less than an hour ago, she’d realised what it was she had to do.
OK, not had to. But it needed to be done.
Oh yes. Definitely.
‘Hi,’ said Tony Weston, appearing before her and making her jump. ‘In case I don’t get a chance to tell you later, my wife’s a huge fan of your books. She wanted you to know how much she loves them.’
‘Really? Thank you so much. That’s lovely to hear.’ Having done her homework and studied the information Riley had printed out for her, Marguerite knew that Tony Weston had met his wife Martha just four years ago. A strikingly attractive woman of Afro-Caribbean descent, she was a successful artist in her own right. Their first meeting had taken place on Primrose Hill in north London, and as far as Tony was concerned, it had been a case of love at first sight. By all accounts they were idyllically happily married.
Which was lovely in one way, of course, but disappointing in another.
Some people just had it so easy, didn’t they?
And then there’s me, thought Marguerite, at the other end of the scale. Why can’t I have a fraction of their luck?
‘Ms Marshall?’ A studio runner wearing the obligatory headset and clutching a clipboard, said cheerfully, ‘Time to take you downstairs. Shall we go?’
‘Absolutely.’ Now that she’d made up her mind, the fear fell away. It was like waking up and finding yourself miraculously twenty years younger. Rising to her feet, Marguerite smoothed down her skirt and said, ‘Let’s do this thing.’
Tony Weston’s smile was unintentionally encouraging as she turned to leave the green room. ‘Have a good one.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Marguerite. ‘I will.’
The show had begun. The hosts had had their three minutes of playful husband-and-wife banter and were now announcing who would be on the show tonight. The audience, whose job it was to generate maximum enthusiasm, went wild. Listening to them from backstage, Marguerite wondered if this was how it felt to have an out-of-body experience. Her agent would be at home now, watching the show. As would her editor.
As would her fans, those faithful readers all over the country who for years had bought and adored her books.
‘Ms Marshall?’ said the runner. ‘Are you feeling all right? You’re looking a bit pale.’
Was she? Marguerite considered the options. What was the worst that could happen? She could faint on stage, on live TV. Sometimes people lost control of their bladder when they fainted; that would generate a few headlines.
Although maybe not the kind you’d want to read.
Oh what the hell, she wasn’t the fainting kind.
And as for the headlines … well, they weren’t exactly going to be flattering anyway.
‘Don’t worry.’ Marguerite checked her mic pack was secure. ‘I’m fine.’
‘… And now please welcome into the studio one of this country’s most successful novelists, with twenty-five million books sold worldwide … the marvellous, magnificent Marguerite Marshall!’
The audience cheered and applauded and Marguerite made her way on to the set. She exchanged air kisses with Jon and Jackie and took her place on the purple suede sofa. A pocket of extra-enthusiastic cheering in the right-hand section of the audience alerted her to the fact that her fan club was in; thirty or so women who lived and breathed her books and hired minibuses to attend as many of her public appearances as humanly possible. Six of them, she knew, had travelled down from Scotland for this evening’s show.
Who else would be watching from the comfort of their own homes? Lawrence and Dot? Loyal readers who had queued in the cold and the rain to have her sign books for them? Old friends from years gone by with whom she hadn’t bothered to stay in contact after her career as a best-selling author had taken off?
OK, this was like drowning and having your whole life flash before you. Time appeared to have slowed to a crawl. Marguerite glanced at the front row and saw Suze, still clapping madly. Because she worked in public relations and it was her job to applaud.
And there, next to her, sat Riley and Tula, the sides of their legs almost but not quite touching. As she looked at them, Riley leaned over and murmured something and Tula tilted her head close to his in order to hear what he was saying. Then she broke into a smile and gave his knee a playful nudge with hers.
Marguerite, who had spent the day paying very close attention to the way they interacted, knew she was about to do the right thing. The chemistry between them was unmistakable. Tula might be doing her level best to deny it, but to a novelist – a professional observer of body language – the signals were definitely there.
OK, ex-novelist.
‘Wow, Marguerite, that was quite some welcome,’ Jon enthused when the applause finally died down. ‘Not that you’re anywhere near old enough, but that kind of reaction means you’re practically a national treasure!’
‘It’s very kind of them.’ The blood in her veins was racing around her body at Formula 1 speed. Smiling apologetically at the audience, Marguerite said, ‘Thank you. I really don’t deserve it.’
Which prompted cries of ‘Yes you do!’ from her adoring fan club.
‘Well I love your books,’ Jackie chimed in, as bubbly and effusive as ever. ‘Once I start reading them I just can’t stop! I once missed a flight to New York, that’s how engrossed I was!’
‘And that was our honeymoon!’ Jon quipped. ‘Now, the new book is published today.’ He held up a copy of the hardback for the benefit of camera three. ‘Unbelievably, it’s your thirty-ninth novel, and this one’s called Tell Me Now.’ He paused, twinkly-eyed. ‘So, Marguerite, tell me now, what’s the secret? How do you keep on doing it?’
If she’d written the script herself, she couldn’t have engineered a better opening line. OK, here goes. Marguerite fixed her gaze on twinkly-eyed Jon and said, ‘I don’t. I get someone else to do it.’
Everyone burst out laughing. If a stand-up comedian had said it, it wouldn’t have been funny. But when a non-comedian said something faintly amusing, the response was greater. Like when a tennis player at Wimbledon dropped a ball thrown to him by a ball boy and pulled an oops face, and everyone on Centre Court cracked up.
‘No, don’t laugh.’ Marguerite shook her head at Jon and Jackie. ‘I’m not joking. It’s the truth.’
The weird thing, Tula couldn’t help noticing, was the way everyone in the audience was laughing except Riley. He’d suddenly become very still. Glancing at his profile, she saw him staring intently at Marguerite on the purple sofa, his high cheekbone accentuated by the overhead lighting. A muscle was twitching in his jaw.
‘Are you OK?’ she whispered, her own cheek brushing his shoulder.
He nodded without replying.
Up on the stage, Jon was now saying jovially, ‘You mean if you get a bit stuck every now and again, you have a brainstorming session with your editor?’
Then Tula saw that Marguerite was shaking her head, very firmly indeed.
‘No, nothing like that. It’s been bothering me for a while; I’m a very proud woman, if not always an honest one. But it’s time to come clean. I suffered a horrible case of writer’s block and haven’t managed to write a book since. In fact it’s been six years now …’
Marguerite wavered and paused, raising a hand to signal that she needed a moment to compose herself. Tula wondered what was going on; was Marguerite drunk, or having some kind of breakdown? The audience had now fallen silent too.
‘Um, so I know this is going to upset my readers and I’m really sorry, but there it is. I can’t write any more. At all. It just won’t … happen.’
‘Well, this is quite an announcement,’ Jon said quickly. ‘I think it’s fair to say we’re all pretty surprised by this news. Can I ask how your publishers feel about it? I mean, presumably they hired a ghostwriter to do the job on your behalf, but did they have any idea you were coming here tonight to reveal the big secret?’
Tula glanced across at Suze, who was looking as frozen now as Riley had done earlier. It was safe to say the answer to that question was no.
‘My publisher didn’t hire a ghostwriter,’ said Marguerite, ‘because they didn’t know I needed one. They weren’t aware there was any secret to reveal.’
God, this was getting weirder and weirder. It was unbelievable. Tula put her hand on Riley’s forearm and felt the rigidity of the muscles beneath the surface. Leaning in to him, she whispered, ‘Is this true? Did she tell you about this? Did you know?’
‘So, Marguerite.’ On the purple sofa, Jackie assumed her professionally mystified face. ‘In that case, who has been writing your books for you?’
Marguerite turned her head to look out into the audience, and Tula felt the muscles in Riley’s arm tighten to the next level. Then Marguerite raised her left arm and pointed directly at her.
‘Right there. See? Sitting in the front row.’
‘Oh shit.’ Tula gasped as Suze jerked round to stare incredulously at her. ‘This is mad, it’s not me … She can’t make me pretend I wrote her books!’ There might be some situations you could blag your way through, but this definitely wasn’t one of them.
Then she became aware of a noise like compressed air escaping from a car tyre and realised it was coming from Riley’s throat.
As the floor manager frantically gestured for camera two to swivel round and face the audience, Marguerite pointed again and jabbed her finger. ‘That’s who’s been writing the books. Over there. My nephew, Riley.’
Chapter 52
OK, now Marguerite really had lost it. Either that, or she was playing some kind of bizarre, improbable joke. Except there didn’t appear to be any discernible punchline.
Then Tula looked again at Riley, saw him shake his head in resignation and heard him say under his breath, ‘Fuck.’
Not in an it’s-not-true way. More of a cat-out-of-the-bag one.
Tula’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You? You’ve been writing Marguerite’s books?’
The idea of it was on a par with a Labrador suddenly breaking into a tap dance.
Then she flinched as the overhead spotlights swivelled, their brightness illuminating the audience. Specifically, the front row. The cameras had swung round too, cables snaking behind them. Up on the stage, Marguerite’s voice broke as she said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so ashamed, I’ve felt terrible about it for years. I just didn’t want to disappoint my readers …’ She stood up, struggling to disentangle the mic pack from beneath her pink jacket. ‘We didn’t mean to trick anyone; it was just my own stupid pride. OK, I can’t do this any more, I have to go now before I make even more of a fool of
myself …’
There were gasps as Marguerite succeeded in separating herself from the mic pack and left the stage, leaving Jon and Jackie staring helplessly after her. There was a moment of stunned silence, then Jackie jumped up and moved quickly over to the audience. Reaching for Riley’s arm, she said, ‘Well you can’t leave us guestless! Come on, if you write the books for Marguerite, you can stand in for her on the sofa.’
She must have been stronger than she looked, because Riley didn’t appear to have any choice in the matter. The moment the cameras panned away from the audience, Suze shot out of her seat and disappeared, clutching her phone and looking as if she’d swallowed a hedgehog.
The next few minutes surely ranked among the most surreal of Tula’s life as she sat and listened to Riley explain how the switch had come about. If Jon and Jackie seemed amazed, it couldn’t begin to compete with her own astonishment, since they didn’t know Riley and she did.
Except she hadn’t, had she? Her heart thumping against her ribs, Tula realised she hadn’t known Riley Bryant at all.
Then the interview was over and Jon was wrapping up this segment of the show with, ‘Well, I have to say, ladies and gentlemen, that wasn’t something I’d planned on happening tonight, but I guess that’s live television for you. Expect the unexpected, eh? Riley, good luck with everything, my friend.’ Cheerily he added, ‘And tell Marguerite we forgive her for pulling the wool over our eyes all these years, even if her publishers don’t!’
The audience broke into jerky applause and Riley left the set, to the accompaniment of stifled sobs and angry mutterings from Marguerite’s fan club, who evidently weren’t taking it well. Someone said in a shocked voice, ‘All this time she was just lying to us … I can’t bear it.’
And then there was one. Tula wondered what she was meant to do now. Jon and Jackie were already gearing up to introduce the female singer, their next guest on the show. Then someone in the row behind Tula tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, ‘Psst, he’s over there by the fire exit.’
