Edward nodded. He was being dismissed so that Finlay could speak to his new client alone. “I’ll have Mrs. Jesmond bring you some coffee.”
“Good boy.” Finlay placed his hand on Edward’s shoulder, the gesture light, a casual, barely noticeable familiarity. “We can have a drink later. Turning towards the study, he said “After you, Ms. Meriwether.”
“Andy…” Edward pulled him aside. “You’ll look after Willow—?”
“Ned.” Finlay raised his hand. “I assure you that once Ms. Meriwether is my client, then her interests are all I’ll be looking after. You know that.”
“Yes, sorry.”
“Now I have one question for you.” Finlay’s grey eyes narrowed under the unruly upsweep of his brows. “Is there any chance that Ms. Meriwether’s interests will run counter to yours?”
“Mine? No, of course not.”
“Because once I accept her as a client, it’s her interests and only hers that I can consider.”
“Good. This has nothing to do with me, Andy.”
“And this?” Finlay moved his gaze to the stitches on Edward’s face.
Edward wondered how much his old guardian already knew. “Not related, Andy. I presume I disturbed a burglary.”
“Hmmm.” Finlay did not seem convinced. “You are aware, aren’t you, Ned, that if I represent Ms. Meriwether, I may not be able to represent you should the need arise?”
“It won’t. The need won’t arise.”
Finlay sighed. “Very well.” He turned abruptly back towards the study, humming “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
***
Edward put his hand up against the brightness of the studio lights.
“Sorry about that, Ned. I’ll adjust it in just a tick.” Jason Henry fiddled with the angle of the lamp. “Leith wants me to make sure we can see the stitches clearly.”
“Where is she?”
“Making tea, seeing as you no longer have staff.”
Jason was Leith Henry’s husband, a filmmaker of some acclaim in the world of art-house films. Slim, wiry, his every movement spoke of energy, he dressed like a modern beatnik, though he looked like he’d slept in his clothes. He was here to conduct his biannual interview with Edward McGinnity. The idea was some mad notion of Leith’s—an archive of candid temporal interviews which would be the basis of a biographical film once Edward became renowned enough for anyone to care about what mattered to him when he was still unknown. Edward thought the idea ludicrous, but it was easier to subject himself to an on-camera interview twice a year than to say no to Leith. He was reasonably confident that the footage would never see the light of day.
“Cup of tea, pet?” Leith chirped, coming in with a tray.
“That’d be nice, love,” Jason replied.
“Coming up, pet.”
“You’re a keeper, love.”
Edward said nothing initially, choosing not to interrupt the exchange of endearments which had never ceased to amuse the Henries. They had petted and loved each other through ten years and three children…clearly the words had some magic. He was willing to wait, within reason.
But then reason became stretched.
“I try my best, pet—”
“Would you just pour the flaming tea?” Edward snarled. “Pet or love or whoever you are…”
Leith beamed at him. “Of course, pet. Extra sugar for you!”
The incidents of the last few days had not persuaded Leith to postpone the latest instalment of filming. Indeed, she was particularly eager to “capture” the drama. “A physical skirmish makes a change from your more esoteric struggles,” she’d said when he questioned it. “Perhaps we should put your arm in a sling for the interview.”
“No.”
“Don’t worry, I can put it in with the editing software.” Jason hunched over the camera in his fashion, as if he intended to devour the image. “We could put a cast on his leg, too, if you want.”
Edward assumed quite hopefully that he was kidding.
“So, Ned, tell us about this bloke who was murdered.”
“Geoffrey Vogel. He was a critic.”
“An art critic.”
“No. I believe he was happy to pass judgement on just about anything. He wrote a column for the Herald.”
“How’d he die, then?”
“Broke his neck falling down the fire stairs.”
“Bad business.”
“For him, I guess. I don’t think it’s a great loss.”
“We might need to edit that out.” Leith tapped her husband. “It makes him sound a bit unfeeling.”
“You’re filming?” Edward pulled up, alarmed.
It occurred to Madeleine then that the footage could be used against Edward. Perhaps that’s what she’d been setting up. Her mind didn’t always tell her what it was planning. She put the idea away for later.
Knowing now that the camera was recording, Edward became more circumspect. Jason peppered him with questions for more than an hour, interrogating him about the assault, and all that led up to it and of course his writing. Edward responded honestly, but often quite flippantly. Leith watched on with her arms folded.
“Okay,” Jason said finally. “I think I’ve got enough. By the time I’m finished, writing books will sound like an extreme sport!”
“Fabulous!” Leith rewarded him with another cup of tea. “You do your magic and I’ll get it to the media guys.”
“Media guys?” Edward frowned. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve had some media interest in you, Ned. It could help build you a platform.”
“A platform? What are you talking about?”
“Limelight wants to do a piece on you.”
Edward groaned. He’d watched Limelight. The show purported to do biographical pieces, documentaries about the lives of celebrities. But though its production values were excellent and its following massive, Limelight did have a tabloid quality to it. “You can’t be serious, Leith…”
She sat down next to him, and delivered a prepared placation. “We’ve just shot the interview, Ned. It’s the only reason I’m considering it. We have editorial control. It’ll be excellent publicity.”
“I’m not that kind of writer, Leith.”
“You mean the kind that sells books?”
“No, it’s—”
“A wonderful opportunity. Barn Owl has great hopes for Sentience. We have to do our bit.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Edward stood, suddenly needing to get out of shot.
“Look, Ned, Limelight was going to do a story on you, anyway. Our cooperation means we can frame the angle, rather than leaving it to some scandal-hungry journalist.”
“Why? Why do they suddenly want to do a story on me?”
Leith shrugged. “The producer of Limelight is related to the fiction editor at Barn Owl. I expect your name came up at some family dinner. It’s how it works—where are you going?”
“I need a drink.”
“Ned, trust me. It’ll be fine.”
Madeleine murmured sympathetically as she wrote. She’d been so flattered and excited when the media first showed interest. Her own publicist had arranged for her to appear on A Word in the Hand, a kind of televised book club. It seemed so glamorous then. Hair, makeup, autographs. Of course she’d since come to understand the reluctance Edward felt. It was difficult for a writer to succeed in the public eye. To those who hated your work, you were an undeserving hack; to those who loved it, you rarely lived up. Good writers were not as interesting as their characters. That probably wasn’t surprising.
But Leith was quite determined. She tried guilt. “You’re asking people for the privilege of entering their heads, of guiding their imaginations for a time. It’s only natural they want to know who you are.”
“My books ar
en’t about me, Leith.”
“Of course they are…all books are about the writer. Look, Ned, what’s amazing about your work is the intimacy you establish with your reader. They hear your voice, they trust it, they allow you to break their hearts and make them anew. The very least you owe them is the occasional interview.”
“Give in, mate,” Jason Henry advised. “Don’t make her hurt you. She will, if she has to.”
Edward sighed, turning back towards his agent. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with the three men who—?”
“Edward McGinnity, how could you suggest such a thing?” Leith’s hands went to her hips and her nostrils flared. “I wouldn’t have let them touch your face…Barn Owl wants new author photos.” She frowned as she assessed the situation. “You’re going to look like you write crime.”
***
Madeleine considered ignoring the knock but she suspected that she’d been seen. That was quickly confirmed.
“Maddie, I know you’re in there! Answer the door—it’s only me.”
Madeleine saved her work and closed the laptop. Lillian wouldn’t leave in a hurry. There was no point pretending she’d get back to the manuscript that morning.
“I’m not going away!”
Madeleine opened the door and smiled at the strong-bodied woman who stood on her threshold. Lillian’s stance was wide and immovable, braced as though she expected Madeleine to try and push her off the step.
“Hello, Lil, what are you doing here?”
“Making sure you don’t turn into a complete hermit. Get dressed—we’re going shopping.”
“I was working.” Madeleine could hear the whine in her own voice.
“Don’t care. You’ve been doing nothing but working for ages.” She glanced disdainfully at the blue cloud print pyjamas. “You need some new clothes…you’re letting yourself go, girl.”
“I’m a writer. Nobody cares what I look like.”
“You have a husband.” Lillian followed Madeleine into the house. “And, personally, I’m over this boudoir chic look of yours. Come on, we’ll go into Hampton, buy clothes, drink decent coffee, make sure the bookshops have the latest Madeleine d’Leon novel.”
“I really wanted to finish—”
“For God’s sake, Maddie, you’re too old to spend all your time with imaginary friends. I’m sure Veronica Killwilly can spare you for a few hours.”
Madeleine groaned defeat. “Okay, give me a second to get dressed.” She didn’t mention that she was not working on another Veronica Killwilly novel. She wasn’t sure why. Usually she loved talking about her work, testing ideas, telling the story. In some ways she needed to tell before she could write. But not this time. Now she was aware only of a vague need to satisfy Lillian as quickly as possible so she could get back to Edward.
Madeleine pulled a shirt over her head, reproaching herself for her reluctance. It was disloyal. Lillian was her friend, a good friend. She helped her prepare query letters for dozens of agents when her first manuscript was newborn. She brought champagne and ice cream to celebrate when Leith Henry had replied—they’d mixed them together and toasted literature with frothy cocktails. And she’d been to every one of Madeleine’s book launches, dressed up as Veronica Killwilly like some deranged fan.
Madeleine grabbed her bag and joined Lillian in the hallway. At the last moment she remembered the documents granting Hugh her power of attorney in the event of incapacity, which were still awaiting execution. She had Lillian witness her signature and left the legal papers on the dining room table, pleased that she’d managed to complete at least one of the chores of real life which were so often neglected when she wrote. “Right, then, let’s shop. Actually, I could use some new pyjamas.”
Lillian shoved her. “Honey, you do realise that you’ve started dressing like you live in a nursing home? It’s not normal, dude.”
“I’ve become pyjama-shaped, Lil.”
Lillian studied her. “Perhaps we can stop the rot before it goes too far.”
Edward studied Madeleine too. He couldn’t see any rot at all. There was a softness about her figure, but he didn’t think that a bad thing by any means. She was not a literary writer after all.
Hampton was about a ninety-minutes’ drive from Ashwood. A major centre for a number of smaller towns, it boasted a central business district which served several times its own population, and included specialist outlets and department stores. Once upon a time, before she began writing, Madeleine had shopped there once a week. She’d loved wandering, stopping for coffee, taking in the occasional movie. But now those old pleasures were compromised by a restlessness to return to other worlds.
Still, Lillian’s company was a tonic. At the heart of their relationship was the fact that they could make each other laugh, the kind of hysterical giggling laughter that left them stumbling and intoxicated, that fed on itself so that everything was suddenly funny. It was like a blast that put the tension and strain of the past days into sharp relief.
Lillian dragged her into fashion boutiques and insisted she try on real clothes.
“I don’t really wear skirts anymore,” Madeleine protested as Lillian handed her a dress.
“What about work?”
“I have enough suits. Board meetings are only once a month.”
“No, I meant for your writer stuff. Don’t you have a festival in a couple of weeks?”
Madeleine grimaced. “I never wear skirts on panels.”
“Whyever not? This one’s really pretty.”
Madeleine sighed. “I just can’t talk intelligently and sit like a lady at the same time…it’s safer to wear jeans.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Sadly not…I’ve never been able to cross my legs without tipping over.”
Lillian was giggling again. “We might need to sign you up for some yoga classes.”
“Or I could just wear jeans.”
“I can’t believe writers worry about stuff like that.”
“We don’t worry…we just wear jeans.”
“Come on.” Lillian checked her watch. “Coffee stop.”
They found a table at Scribbles, so called for the butchers’-paper tablecloths and crayons on every table. The work of the students at the Hampton School of Art was displayed on its walls for sale as well as inspiration. Lillian took the red crayon and began to draw what looked like a hamburger.
“So,” she said, “suppose you tell me what’s made you so unavailable lately. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were having an affair.”
Madeleine laughed.
“So what gives then?”
“I’m just working, Lil. I’ve only got a couple of months to finish this book.”
“You need to be more assertive, Maddie. Tell them they’ll get the next Veronica Killwilly when you finish writing it and if that takes a year, well they’ll just have to wait!”
“I can’t see that going well, I’m afraid.” Madeleine did not correct Lillian’s assumption that she was writing another Veronica Killwilly.
“Don’t you have an agent? Can’t you get her to tell them to back off?”
“It’s not really the publishers, Lil, it’s me. I like writing. I want to finish…” Madeleine trailed off, jarred by her own words. She didn’t want to finish the book at all. The very thought of finishing with Edward McGinnity made her feel panicked, and bereft. “I want to write.”
“All the time?”
“A lot of it. I’m sorry. I know it sounds mad. I just get—”
“Obsessed?”
“Focussed.”
Lillian smiled, though there was a sharpness in it, a flash of something—hurt, or perhaps irritation.
“I suppose that’s what it takes to be a writer. You’ve got to be willing to make the sacrifices. I’ve always cared too much about my
family and friends.”
“I do care. I don’t know how to explain it. I just have to write. It’s like I’m only completely me when I’m writing.”
“You didn’t always write. Were you not you then?”
“Not completely.”
Lillian laughed. But scorn was cut into the mirth like some bitter essence folded into whipped cream. “Who was it that married Hugh, then? Some kind of half-you? You’re being ridiculous, Maddie.”
The words cut, and for a moment Madeleine simply bled. “I didn’t mean—”
“You know, Maddie, perhaps you should occasionally take stock of how good you have it. There are dozens of women who’d give anything to be married to Hugh Lamond.”
Madeleine wasn’t sure how to respond. The censure seemed to come from nowhere, and she’d been unprepared. How had this become about her and Hugh? “Has Hugh said something?”
Lillian took a deep breath. “No. Of course not. I just think you should be fair.”
“Hugh works as hard as I do, Lil.”
“Yes, but he’s a doctor. He actually earns real money and he’s saving lives. I love your books, Maddie, I do, but they’re just stories. No one’s going to live or die.”
Madeleine said nothing, sealing in the rage behind tightly pressed lips. Inside, a jumbled spitting fury was contained, though the flash was visible in her eyes. Her own words were being used against her and she had no defence. How often had she derided the self-importance of literature?
Edward watched, nodding unconsciously, as he felt the outrage in Madeleine’s breast, the professional pride she was so fond of denying. It was time for her to stop hiding behind a determination not to take herself too seriously. Risk came with taking yourself seriously and her best work would come out of that vulnerability.
Evidence
Madeleine shut the door behind her, leaning back against it as she listened for Lillian’s car pulling out. The ride back from Hampton had been an exhausting journey of forced congeniality, tinny laughter that died in her throat and a frost that settled like a shroud over a friendship that had just that morning been warm and vibrant. She was still too livid to grieve the demise.
Crossing the Lines Page 9
