by Anna Jacobs
She’d heard a rumour that the company was opening another branch there. If that was true, she’d apply for a transfer.
She still had to go out to work, but one day, if her novels sold reasonably well, she hoped to be able to earn her living as a writer. Oh, that would be such bliss! She was so tired of working in noisy, open-plan offices.
Her life would be even more blissful if she lived somewhere sunny. She had never got used to cold winters and grey, lowering skies. Strange how her childhood memories of sunshine and wide blue skies hadn’t faded, still filled her dreams.
It was hard going into work after the weekend. When you’d just had your biggest dream come true, who wanted to concentrate on modifying and creating software programmes to suit specific business needs?
‘Here comes the lucky lady!’ Guy called out as she walked into the office on Monday.
‘Lucky?’ That was what her brother had said and Guy’s remark made her furious all over again. She went across and barred his way. ‘Where’s the luck? Winning that prize was the result of several years’ hard work. I get up at four o’clock most mornings to write. I put in nearly as many hours in front of a computer at home writing stories as I put in at work. So what the hell has my winning a prize got to do with luck?’
And although she loved writing, there had been times when she’d despaired of ever making it into print. She was twenty-eight now. Four full novels she’d written, including the prize-winning one. She’d wept over each rejection.
Guy held both arms wide in a gesture of surrender. ‘Hey, sorry!’
She forced herself to smile and stood aside. ‘No, it’s me who should be sorry, biting your nose off like that.’
‘Well, however you did it, I’m glad you made it.’ He patted her arm before walking away, but she could see him roll his eyes at Ron on the other side of the room.
Two macho idiots, those, who treated women like dirt. They still expected their female colleagues to be grateful for an invitation to the pub ‘with the lads’ after work. They couldn’t even say ‘with the team’.
She sat down in front of her computer and tried to concentrate, but her productivity had never been so low.
Three
Jivan’s new book soared to the top of the bestseller lists and a film option was taken out on it almost immediately.
Money poured in and he had to take time away from writing to do even more publicity.
To his surprise, Louisa phoned him one evening and asked if they could meet and talk, though how she’d got his personal phone number, he couldn’t understand.
‘Why?’
‘We were good together. I really regret our break-up.’
‘We were never really together. You made sure of that. After all your harassment, I have no intention of even meeting you, let alone getting back together.’ He put the phone down. Did she expect him to forget the nasty tricks she’d been playing on him?
During the next few weeks, however, she accosted him several times in public places and pleaded loudly with him to take her back. The press always seemed to be on hand.
What had he ever seen in her?
And what was she after now?
More money probably. She must realise he’d never take her back, so it must be the money.
The dirty tricks started up again. In the end he had to hire a detective to trace a couple of them to her and take out a restraining order before she would leave him alone.
His mother got in touch with him too. She was delighted about his fame and fortune, but at least she didn’t need his money, because she’d done well out of her marriages.
After her wild fling with Jivan’s father, a rich Indian businessman, Amanda had returned to her old social circles, angry because Ranjit refused to marry her.
When Jivan was three, she’d married a man she’d grown up with and had settled down to run a large country house.
Ranjit remained in England and Jivan went to stay with his father every now and then. As he grew old enough to understand, he realised that his mother wouldn’t let him see his father more often, and he heard them quarrel about it.
Amanda’s marriage only lasted a few years, long enough for her to produce twins. But Jivan was at boarding school and didn’t see much of them, and anyway, his half-brothers were several years younger than him so they had little in common.
The twins and their father were pleasant enough when he bumped into them at their mutual grandparents’ gatherings, to which Jivan was still invited, give the Childerings their due. But they weren’t close.
He went to the gatherings because he loved the big old house, had learned about every corner of it on his visits. In fact, he probably knew it better than his mother did, for all she’d grown up there.
He realised she was still speaking on the phone and tried to pay attention.
‘Darling, I’m so proud of you. Just let my relatives try to put you down now! Oh, and your brothers send their congratulations. They’re very good about ringing me up once a month, better than you.’
‘Sorry. I’ll try to remember. I get lost in my writing.’
‘Well, when Chuck and I come over to England you must come out of seclusion and let me give a party for you, to celebrate your success.’
‘We’ll talk about it when you next come over.’ She rarely did. For some reason America seemed to suit her better than England, and Chuck was her richest prize as a husband, happy to load her with presents and take her on luxury holidays.
Jivan wondered occasionally what his biological father thought of his success. He remembered spending time with Ranjit when he was little, had enjoyed listening to stories about Indian gods and goddesses. But he hadn’t seen or heard from his father since he was nine, at which point his father had given in to his family’s pleas and gone back to live in India. Like Amanda, he had married suitably, a bride chosen by his family, but he had stayed married to her. Presumably they now had children.
Ranjit hadn’t got in touch with his son once since he left England. If he couldn’t be bothered to keep in touch, then Jivan wasn’t going to keep track of what his father was doing.
It was hard enough keeping track of his mother.
When the day came for Jessica to attend the presentations in London, it was a relief to get away from all the fuss and teasing at work, not to mention the congratulatory phone calls from her extended family.
Sitting on the train heading south, she picked up her book. Jivan Childering’s latest thriller Shere Magic had come out a month ago and had hit the bestseller charts immediately. She hadn’t been able to resist buying it now that she had actually argued with the author.
It was another gripping tale, but like his last two books, it was very masculine in orientation, with only a few stereotyped female characters: two well-behaved and one very evil. Even more than last time, they seemed to be there to decorate the scenery rather than truly participate in the action.
She frowned and wondered if his personal life was still being reflected in his books. She’d heard about his divorce problems. Hadn’t everyone? The paparazzi had been all over him for a while and his wife had wept publicly about it, blaming him.
Since then, Childering had kept his personal life remarkably quiet, though she’d seen some rather nasty articles about him in magazines.
After a few minutes, Jessica closed the book and sat holding it, thinking in wonderment that one day she too would have her name on the cover of a novel.
When she arrived in London, the late afternoon sun was shining, making everything look its best. She took a taxi to the hotel, enjoying revisiting the capital.
The interior of The Royal Aztec came as a shock, so discreet and tasteful was the foyer. It absolutely shrieked of money, with its pinky-beige marble floors, massive arrangements of flowers and bowls of pot pourri as large as baby baths.
The receptionist welcomed her with as much warmth as if she were a long-lost cousin and Jessica relaxed into the luxury of it all with a
sigh of pure happiness. She had never, in all her life, stayed in a hotel where a polite young man in a smart black suit escorted her upstairs, carrying her battered suitcase as if it were made of gold and ushering her into her room with what could only be described as a flourish.
When he had left, she found she had a whole suite to herself. Goodness! The Meridian people were doing things in real style! Beaming, she explored the small kitchen, lounge, bedroom and the huge bathroom with spa tub. She sniffed the complimentary bottles of hand cream and bath bubbles and turned taps on and off for the sheer hell of it.
When the room phone rang, she jumped in shock, then rushed across to grab it, recognising Anna Stephens’ warm, friendly voice at once.
‘Welcome to London, Jessica. We’re all meeting in the lobby at quarter to seven and then going on to the restaurant together for the presentations.’
Jessica looked at her watch. It was already twenty past six. ‘Oh, goodness, and I haven’t even started to unpack!’
‘Don’t worry! We won’t go without you.’
Jessica changed her clothes quickly and pinned her hair back with hands that were trembling. She was sure her eyeliner was crooked and hoped she’d got her lipstick on correctly. She didn’t usually bother with makeup because she’d been gifted with a naturally good complexion.
When she looked at herself in the full-length mirror, she sighed. A heroine would have blonde or auburn hair and would be sylph-like, not a full-bosomed size 14 – and a heroine would definitely not wear glasses. A real heroine would also have a gorgeous designer dress to show off her elegant figure on an occasion like this, not a simple blue sheath and jacket from a small boutique near the office.
Her eyes seemed larger than usual tonight, though, the blue more vivid. Perhaps it was the excitement. She took a deep breath and wondered for the hundredth time which of the three prizes she had won. Whichever it was, her book was going to be published, and that was what mattered most.
At the mere thought of that she did a little dance round the room, stopping to stand in front of the mirror again.
‘Jessica Lord, the famous writer!’ she said aloud, gesturing with her hand to an imaginary audience.
She spoiled the effect by chuckling at herself, then glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Whoops!’ After squirting on some of the perfume her mother had bought her for Christmas, she inclined her head to the woman in the mirror and marched off to meet her fate.
In the lobby several people were standing around near the entrance, chatting quietly to each other in the polite, restrained way strangers do. As Jessica stood hesitating near the lifts, an elegant grey-haired woman left the group and walked towards her. ‘Jessica?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you must be. I’m Anna. I’m so pleased to meet you at last. How was your journey?’
‘All right – I think. I was too excited to notice.’
Anna smiled, then looked at her watch and frowned. ‘We’re just waiting for Jivan Childering, then we’ll leave for the restaurant.’
‘Jivan Childering!’
‘Yes. He’s going to present the prizes tonight.’
Jessica swallowed hard and tried to smile. ‘Oh! That’s – um, that’s marvellous.’
‘Yes, you’ll be able to chat to him about your writing. He’s one of Meridian’s bestselling authors.’
Somehow, Jessica managed to keep the smile pinned to her face. Childering wouldn’t remember that TV programme, surely? He’d forgotten her name even during the show. And she hadn’t really been rude to him – well, perhaps just a little. Who was she kidding? One newspaper had mentioned her comments and his arrogant reaction to them.
Her stomach felt as if it were full of demented butterflies struggling to get out. Realising Anna was speaking to her again, she forced herself to pay attention.
‘Have you read any of Jivan’s books?’
‘Oh, yes. All of them. He’s one of my favourite authors.’
‘Oh, good! You’ll be able to say something sensible about them, then. He hates people trying to pretend they’ve read his stuff when they haven’t.’
The group around them suddenly fell silent and when Jessica turned to see what had caught their attention, her heart started beating faster.
There he was. Tall, elegant and somehow twice as vivid as the other men. He still seemed like a prince from a fairytale to her, or a hero from a romance novel. In appearance, anyway.
He hesitated for a few seconds by the lifts, then squared his shoulders and began to walk across the foyer.
Jessica was puzzled. For a moment he’d looked nervous, or perhaps anxious was a better word. No, she must have been mistaken. Someone who had been famous for several years couldn’t possibly be nervous about appearing in public.
He came to a halt next to her and Anna, giving the group a vague half-smile. It was her companion whom he addressed. ‘As you can see, Anna, I’m on time tonight.’
His voice was warm, his expression friendly and he bore little resemblance to the arrogant individual with whom she’d argued on television. Jessica felt herself relaxing. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be too bad, after all. He might be an innately shy person underneath that gorgeous exterior, or he might have quarrelled with his wife the night he had appeared on Sally Mennon’s programme. Everyone had their off days, but of course people noticed it more if you were a celebrity.
Anna smiled and allowed him to kiss her cheek. ‘I was determined you wouldn’t be late, Jivan.’
One of his hands remained on her shoulder for a moment as if the two of them knew each other well, and he chuckled, a rich, deep sound. ‘Yes, but three reminder calls were a bit excessive, don’t you think?’ His eyes were alight with laughter and his teeth shone white and even in a generous mouth.
Jessica’s breath caught in her throat. This was the real Childering, surely?
‘Nothing is excessive when it comes to getting you to a function on time!’ Anna retorted. ‘I learned the hard way that when you’re engrossed in a story, you can forget the real world completely. Now, let me introduce you to our clever winners.’
He turned round to be introduced to her and Jessica watched in amazement as his expression changed. The warmth vanished and the cool mask fell back into place. He looked slightly menacing now, his hair shorter than it had been on the show, emphasising the lean planes of his face. He was wearing evening dress and one narrow gold ring gleamed on the third finger of his right hand.
Sam Shere! she thought suddenly. That’s what Sam Shere would look like if he were a real person. Childering has exactly the same impact as his hero does. I wonder if he knows it?
Anna gestured towards her, ‘Jivan, this is Jessica Lord, one of our finalists. She’s just been telling me that she’s read all your books.’
He nodded and paused, frowning. ‘Jessica Lord? The name sounds familiar.’
‘We’ve never met before,’ she said hastily. Well, it was true, even if misleading.
He shook her hand and murmured something which could have been, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He was already turning away as she started to reply.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, too, Mr Ch—’ The words faded on her lips and disappointment surged through her in a bitter tide. Well, this only confirmed her first impression that he was an ego-head. She mustn’t be important enough for him to bother with.
‘Call him Jivan!’ said Anna firmly. ‘We’re not standing on ceremony tonight.’ She gave him no chance to hang back, but took him round the group, introducing him to each person in turn, moving along quickly.
With them all he was cool and polite. There was not the slightest trace of the warmth he had shown to Anna.
Jessica realised that she was still staring across the foyer at him and forced herself to turn away. ‘Are you one of the finalists, too?’ she asked the man next to her. He was plump and middle-aged, with a cheerful expression.
‘Yes. Isn’t it exciting?’
‘I’m still tap-
dancing on the ceiling,’ she confessed, warming instantly to him. ‘I can’t believe it’s real!’
He nodded. ‘It’s taken weeks for it to sink in that I’m really going to get a book published.’
A short time later, Anna marshalled them outside and into four taxis. Jessica was trying so hard to avoid sitting with Jivan that she didn’t watch where she was stepping and tripped up, dropping her handbag. ‘Damn!’
Its contents rolled everywhere. Why had she been born so clumsy? By the time she’d picked everything up, the first three taxis had left and she found herself being ushered into the back of the final taxi.
She bent to get in and froze. The very man she had been trying to avoid was already sitting in the back. And there was no one else with them except the driver. She could hardly refuse to get in, so took a deep breath and sat in the corner, keeping as far away from Childering as she could.
As the taxi drove off, she realised he had said something. ‘Oh! I’m sorry. I was miles away. What did you say?’
‘I asked if you’d been writing for long.’ His tone was completely disinterested and he wasn’t even looking at her.
She usually kept her temper under firm control, having had that lesson dinned into her from early childhood by her mother, but tonight her anger spilled over. ‘You needn’t make polite conversation with me if you’d rather be quiet.’
His indrawn breath was as sharp as her words had been. She sneaked a quick glance sideways, but his face was in shadow and she couldn’t see the expression on it. However, she did notice that he clenched his hands into fists in his lap, then uncurled them slowly.
She turned away, ignoring her supercilious companion. At the thought of the presentations, she couldn’t help wishing again she were not so ordinary. How wonderful it would be to be ravishingly beautiful, the sort of woman who looked like a famous author, someone the press would fall over themselves to photograph. Without realising it, she started smiling at the mere idea.
