‘Hah!’ Lexy laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you get on a pole and give me a twirl! I mean your writing, Ghost Mouse! Can you write sexy?’
‘Oh!’ Caroline let out a sigh of relief. Was bated breath the same as holding it? If so, hers was unbated now. ‘Yes,’ she said confidently, careful not to repeat the word ‘sexy’ so that her colleagues didn’t realize this wasn’t a work call. ‘Yes, I can definitely do that. You don’t need to worry.’
‘Okay, but I can’t just take your word for it,’ Lexy pointed out.
‘I’ve already written, um, quite a lot of material in that area,’ Caroline said, glancing around at her co-workers to make sure they didn’t notice anything unusual in this conversation.
‘Great! You got something I can read?’
‘Yes. I could email it—’
‘Nah. Bring it along this afternoon,’ Lexy said briskly. ‘The Bloomsbury Square Hotel, three o’clock, in the lobby bar. Print it out, yeah? My editor says it’s better to read stuff on paper than screen. Fuck knows why.’
And without bothering to say goodbye, Lexy had hung up, leaving Caroline impaled on the horns of a dilemma. If she ducked out of work that early, her boss would be livid; the day she had taken off to go to Sandbanks last week was still being held against her because of the lack of notice. And walking out in the middle of the day was even more extreme.
Caroline would have to plead a family emergency – after she’d surreptitiously printed off a sex scene for Lexy, of course, a sackable offence in itself to use office equipment for private purposes – but she was dreading how this would be received. She was quite right to be worried. Her boss threw a massive wobbly: to placate her, Caroline had to promise to come in an hour early for the rest of the week and stay an hour late, effectively tripling the time she would be taking off this afternoon.
It wasn’t fair. But no one in their twenties expected the job market to be fair. You didn’t go to HR to complain, you didn’t point out that you had holiday days or sick days coming against which you could set this afternoon. You were desperate to keep your job, pathetic and low-paid and prospect-free though it was. So you kept your mouth shut and apologized and agreed to anything your boss demanded, then grabbed your cheap plastic knockoff handbag from under your desk and slunk out with your head hanging, pantomiming guilt, mumbling a string of sorrys to the colleague who was going to have to finish your proofing work as well as her own . . .
And having to meet Lexy while dressed in ugly work clothes was an extra punishment. Caroline had been staring miserably at her handbag on the tube, mortified at the state of it. Threads were coming off the stitching all round the handle, and when she tried pulling at one to break it off, it just kept coming till she got scared it would all pull free. She ended up wrapping the thread clumsily around the base, trying to knot it as best she could so it wouldn’t keep working itself loose. The bag, bought from a market stall a couple of years ago, was in a terrible state. She had known it was very bashed up, but it was only now, sitting with it on her lap, that she took in how badly the plastic was cracked and curling away from the corners, the threads on the side seams fraying as well.
She had strategically pulled out the book extract for Lexy before entering the hotel, bunching the handbag up under her arm and then dropping it onto the armchair, practically sitting on it to conceal its decrepitude. The waiter brought Lexy her second glass of Pinot Grigio, this time with not only a slice of lemon in it but a decorative curl of peel perched on the rim, and she nodded at him in thanks as he set it down.
‘So what’s with the gay stuff?’ Lexy asked Caroline, picking up the glass. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I like gay porn as much as the next girl! The only thing better than one naked hot guy is two or three naked hot guys, right?’
Having lived her adult life under the glare of TV cameras, Lexy was entirely nonchalant about making sexual or revealing comments in front of staff. The waiter’s ears were bright red as he withdrew to the bar once more, and Caroline, much shyer, waited until he was out of earshot before she answered.
‘I wrote a novel last year,’ she said. ‘That’s an extract from it. It’s about a blacksmith who falls in love with the son of an earl. In the end they run off to be pirates together on the South Seas—’
‘Cool, but why the gay stuff?’ Lexy was inexorable. ‘Why not girls and boys?’
Because I don’t feel sexually confident enough to write straight sex scenes, Caroline thought. Because describing women’s bodies that are way better than mine – women who don’t have any problems getting on top of a guy because their tummies are flat, or doing reverse cowgirl because their bums are smooth and not spotty or pocked with cellulite – makes me feel incredibly sad about my own really boring sex life. I’m too embarrassed to try anything but missionary. Or doggy, but only in the dark.
I bet that’s why women write male gay porn novels, she thought suddenly. I bet it’s because it doesn’t make them depressed at the contrast between the perfect figures they’re describing and the state of their own belly fat. If you’re creating hot guys with washboard abs and bulging biceps and bums like twin peaches, guys who would never look at you in real life, it’s much easier to have them fancy each other. That way you don’t have to deal with the cold hard truth that you’ll never, ever, shag a man that hot and sexy . . .
‘Lots of women write this kind of thing,’ she told Lexy. ‘They use their initials, or men’s names, otherwise the gay guys wouldn’t buy it. Or the women readers, I suppose – the fantasy is that it’s a sexy man telling the story. There isn’t loads of money in it, though, because only gay guys and some women buy them, which doesn’t add up to a huge amount of people.’
‘I didn’t even know there were books like this!’ Lexy said. ‘I’d definitely give this one a go, though! Hot gay porn! And I don’t even read books much.’
She glanced at the pages spread out on the table, nodding approvingly.
‘I didn’t understand some of the words, honestly, but that doesn’t matter, ’cause you can totally work out what’s going on,’ she commented. ‘It makes you sound really clever. Plus it makes the reader feel clever too, reading a dirty sex scene with long words and all that posh history stuff in it, Lord Byron and that. It’s much classier than . . . I dunno, those porn novels with the black and white photos on the cover.’
‘Thanks!’
Caroline went pink at this praise. The part about making the reader feel clever was the best part of all.
‘Could you do something that was sexy like this? In the same sort of style as that bit you sent me about me getting my bum bleached?’ Lexy asked. ‘Ugh, Frank wasn’t joking about liking me more natural, by the way. He hasn’t gone near my arse since. I even googled “how long does it take anal bleaching to fade?” but couldn’t get an answer.’
‘You should try Reddit,’ Caroline suggested.
As Lexy had already learned, Caroline was swift at repartee, and she was a fast learner, aware now that when Lexy said something outrageous, the best response was not to become embarrassed but to assume a poker face and a dry retort.
‘What’s that, then?’
Lexy was almost through her second glass of wine, but she didn’t sound remotely affected by it.
‘It’s online,’ Caroline explained. ‘People ask questions and everyone chimes in to help and answer them. It can be really funny. Celebrities do it too, for interviews in real time. It’s called an AMA – Ask Me Anything. Seriously, you should definitely do it when you’ve got something to promote – you’re good at banter and thinking on your feet.’
‘So are you, eh?’ Lexy said, setting down her now-empty glass. ‘You don’t look it, but you are.’
She surveyed Caroline, who cringed, knowing what was coming.
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Lexy began, ‘but what you’re wearing is fucking criminal. You look like you work behind the counter at a bank. Do you work at a bank?’
‘No, I write and copy-
edit press releases for a media company,’ Caroline said, noticing with pleasure that Lexy was folding the A4 sheets of her book extract and dropping them into her extremely expensive-looking leather bag, covered in buckles and studs and unnecessary hardware. ‘We do publicity for trade organizations and—’
But Lexy was calling for the bill, pulling out her wallet, ignoring Caroline’s answer.
‘Come on, then!’ she said, standing up. ‘We’ve got a meeting at four. I’m not promising anything, yeah? But you might as well come along. It’s just round the corner.’
‘What is?’
Caroline’s heartbeat juddered irregularly as she waited for the answer.
‘My publishers, of course!’ Lexy said impatiently.
Her eyes widened as she saw Caroline stand up and fish out her bag from the armchair.
‘Fuck me,’ she said. ‘What is that thing? Looks like you nicked it off a skip on the way over here!’
Chapter Five
‘What a fun read! Sizzling hot!’ carolled Lexy’s editor Gareth, refolding the pages of Caroline’s Regency bondage gay porn extract and looking at her with twinkling eyes. ‘You’ve got quite the imagination, babes!’
Caroline knew she was unprettily red in the face. She was both excited and mortified by the fact that a gay man had, for the first time ever, read one of these sex scenes – and an editor, to boot! It was embarrassing to acknowledge, but she had no close gay friends, something she attributed to her lack of chicness and sophistication, together with her boring job. Neither gave her opportunities to meet the kind of gay men she would love to befriend.
Caroline wasn’t completely unconfident; she knew that her quick wit was something gay men would appreciate. Lexy and her gay entourage were deliberately, knowingly camp for the TV cameras, but when that scene with the anal bleaching had finished shooting, they had visibly relaxed into a more natural friendship, teasing each other in a way that was more intimate than any coos of mutual support could possibly have been.
Caroline had envied her so much for that. In so many ways, Lexy had exactly what Caroline wanted. It was quite unexpected: before meeting her, Lexy would not even have been on Caroline’s top ten list of women in whose shoes she would love to walk. Yet having seen Lexy’s house, her lifestyle, her genuine beauty, her children – Caroline wasn’t that keen on children, but obviously planned to have them one day – and most of all, her gorgeous and devoted and surprisingly sexy husband . . . yes, it was very hard not to picture herself at the centre of that world, a famous novelist, like Jackie Collins, doing interviews in slinky jersey dresses that showed off her fantastic figure, advised on her hairstyle and make-up by a cabal of witty, wise gay men.
Ones like Gareth. It was the most enormous relief that he had called her sex scene ‘sizzling hot’. Caroline had based it entirely on gay porn and other ‘man on man’ novels, probably, as she had explained to Lexy, written by women like her. She’d never even had anal sex, mortifying though that was to acknowledge.
‘But, that said, obviously this isn’t the kind of thing that’ll work for Lexy,’ Gareth continued, handing the pages to Lexy’s agent Miranda, who had been texting while he read. She put down her phone and started to peruse them in turn. ‘We can’t expect her audience to believe that she’s been secretly writing historical homo smut all this time.’
Lexy sniggered. ‘But Gazza,’ she observed teasingly, ‘my fan base is women who like sexy stuff, plus gay guys – it’s on brand, you know? And the writing’s really classy! Full of big words!’
Gareth shot a speaking glance at Lexy’s agent, a very slim, chic woman dressed entirely in expensive fitted black. Gratifyingly, this was exactly how Caroline had imagined a literary agent to look. Miranda turned to Lexy, leaning a little forward in her seat, and said:
‘Fun idea, Lexy, but we really need to—’
‘I was joking!’ Lexy looked from Gareth to Miranda, flashing her beautiful smile. ‘You lot don’t know me that well, do you? Come on! I want to make a ton of money off these books, yeah? Of course I’m taking the piss!’
Miranda visibly relaxed. Gareth made a show of wiping his brow theatrically.
‘Well, that’s a relief!’ he commented. ‘We were panicking there for a moment! We want you to make a ton of money too. Don’t worry about that, babes. I’m thinking what we talked about in the initial meeting – something closely based on your wild, fabulous existence. You’re having a fantastic life shagging around, you fall pregnant and have to deal with the fact that the father is never going to be around for you and the baby – so relatable! – heartbreak, etc. etc. – you’re a sexy, brave, battling TV star who’s a single mum. Like so many women, just a lot more glam! Then you find true love to cap it all off!’
‘That sounds very commercial,’ Miranda said approvingly.
‘And because we want all the goss on all your guys,’ Gareth said, eyes gleaming, ‘if there’s stuff you could get sued for – drugs, threesomes, perviness – we’ll create fictional characters instead. We can drop clues so the readers will guess who they are, but change some details so the guys can’t start dialling their lawyers. Roman à clef, they call it in France. Nice to see my degree was good for something!’
Lexy nodded. ‘Sounds just right,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And I think Caroline’s the one to do it.’
They were sitting in a small conference room at Bailey and Hart, Lexy’s publishers, which was located in a large 1970s block off Russell Square. It was much more modern than Caroline had imagined; she had had a vague idea that publishers’ offices were located in creaky old townhouses, with stacks of papers piled everywhere. Instead, the decor was the office version of an All Bar One – light wood, bright lighting, glass panels instead of walls.
The staff, however – slim, youngish women in bright fashionable dresses, called Emma and Katie and Lucy and Helena – sounded like they belonged more in a Fulham gastropub full of young men in stripy shirts and bright cord trousers. The ones to whom Caroline had been introduced had all greeted her in friendly tones as clear and bright as the lighting, shaking her hand politely, but she had been very conscious of how dowdy her clothes were compared to theirs.
Lexy had insisted they stop at the first shop they passed that sold handbags, and forced Caroline to buy a basic leather tote into which she dumped the contents of her previous bag; Lexy herself had bundled that up and thrown it into the shop bin with superb contempt. But Caroline’s outfit was still cheap polyester, her accent notably unrefined compared to those of the Emmas and Katies.
Oh well, Caroline had reflected for consolation, a posh girl wouldn’t be able to ghostwrite for Lexy. She couldn’t write how Lexy talks. Plus, Lexy would think she was patronizing her.
Gareth had been initially bemused by Caroline’s presence; Miranda, who strode in shortly afterwards in a whirl of expensive perfume and the glitter of diamond stud earrings, had been more direct, giving Caroline a swift, deeply unimpressed glance and asking Gareth in a tone of barely veiled incredulity if she was his new assistant. Lexy had said cheerfully that no, Caroline had actually been sent to her by Miranda’s agency as a possible ghostwriter, and Miranda’s double take had been so unintentionally comical that everyone had pretended it didn’t happen.
After all, what are writers supposed to look like? Caroline wondered tetchily. You’d think that not being glamorous would be a good thing for a ghostwriter, wouldn’t you? Self-effacing, willing to bury their own personality so that they can tell someone else’s story – surely that sounds like the ideal candidate for the job?
Now, however, as every head in the room turned to look at Caroline, this argument seemed much less convincing. She felt, instead, exactly like what Lexy had said she resembled: someone who worked behind the counter of a bank, her hair the colour of a muddy river, pulled inexpertly back with a cheap plastic clip, her skin muddy too and bumpy with acne and roseacea to boot.
She wanted to sag in her chair to avoid the looks of frank
concern on Miranda and Gareth’s faces, the amused grin on Lexy’s. Lexy was obviously not going to say anything else; she was waiting for Caroline to step up, show that she had the nerve to push for what she wanted.
And in desperation, feeling that everyone’s eyes on her might as well have been the barrels of three shotguns, a question popped into Caroline’s head.
What would Lexy do?
This was the first time that, prompted by panic and desperation, Caroline heard those four words challenge her for an answer. It would by no means be the last.
And the answer was simple.
Lexy would not flinch. Lexy would sit up straight in her chair, delighted that the attention was on her. Lexy would smile confidently, set her shoulders back and launch into her pitch to be taken seriously in whatever it was she wanted to achieve. After all, what had she done after her unexpected lightning strike of success on Who’s My Date? She had taken meetings with TV executives and managed to convince them that she could parlay a single TV appearance into a whole series, to be carried entirely by her charm and quick wit.
Lexy couldn’t possibly have known then that she could pull that off; she just assumed that she could. Just as Caroline should assume that she could most definitely write the Romana Claytype book that Gareth wanted to commission. She’d have to look that term up somehow – she had the feeling that roman à clef wasn’t spelled quite like that . . .
‘I’m really excited to tell Lexy’s story,’ Caroline said, happy to hear that her voice was strong and confident. ‘I think we’ll work very well together. It’s been very successful so far – we have a good rapport and she liked my writing style.’
‘Right! You read her bit about me getting my bumhole waxed? It’s really funny!’ Lexy said enthusiastically.
Caroline was sure that Lexy was testing Miranda and Gareth to see if they would flinch at the word ‘bumhole’. If so, she was disappointed. Caroline was later to find out that the pair of them represented and published many reality stars’ biographies and ‘novels’ and that Lexy, compared to some of their other clients, was a model of articulacy and sophistication.
Killer Affair Page 5
