The Unexpected Consequences of Love

by Jill Mansell

  If she’d written the script herself, she couldn’t have engineered a better opening line. Okay, 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 noncomedian 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 okay?” 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 anymore. 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 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 around 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 bluff 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 tire and realized it was coming from Riley’s throat.

  As the floor manager frantically gestured for camera two to swivel around 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

  Okay, 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 par with a Labrador suddenly breaking into a tap dance.

  Then she flinched as the overhead spotlights swiveled, their brightness illuminating the audience. Specifically, the front row. The cameras had swung around 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 mike pack from beneath her pink jacket. “We didn’t mean to trick anyone; it was just my own stupid pride. Okay, I can’t do this anymore. 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 mike 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 realized she hadn’t known Riley Bryant at all.

  Then the interview was over and Jon was wrapping up the segment 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.”

  Tula looked and saw Riley beckoning to her. As she crept out of her seat, the girl who’d given her the tap on the shoulder said enviously, “Is he your boyfriend? You’re so lucky. He’s, like, totally hot.”

  The fire exit door closed behind her and Riley said, “Come on, we need to find her.”

  He looked serious. And concerned. And gorgeous. The girl sitting behind her had been right; he was totally hot.

  Anyway, never mind that now. Together they made their way along corridors and past members of staff who allowed them through security doors when they realized who Riley was. They reached the green room and found Suze pacing up and down, speaking urgently into her phone, her body radiating tension. The female singer’s entourage was clustered around the TV, watching her performance on the show. Marguerite was sitting on a black leather sofa, wiping her eyes with a tissue and talking to a middle-aged Afro-Caribbean woma
n in a long crimson cotton dress.

  Tula said, “Who’s that with Marguerite?”

  “Tony Weston’s wife. Her name’s Martha.” As they watched, Martha wrapped motherly arms around Marguerite and drew her into a sympathetic embrace. She murmured words of comfort as Marguerite broke down and sobbed on her shoulder.

  “Oh God,” Riley said under his breath.

  He’d taken Tula’s hand. She squeezed his in return. Marguerite had always been strong, fearless, super confident, and utterly invincible. Seeing her in tears was all kinds of wrong.

  Then Tony Weston crossed the room carrying a brimming, fizzing tumbler.

  “Here you go.” He held it out to Marguerite. “Gin and tonic, strong enough to stun a tiger.”

  Martha released her hold on Marguerite and rummaged in her bag for fresh tissues. “If my husband’s good for anything, it’s mixing a hefty gin and tonic. There now, sweetie, dry your eyes.” Glancing over at Riley and Tula, she said, “Ah, look. Your boy’s here.”

  Your boy. Martha had the warmest, gentlest voice you could imagine. They saw Marguerite mentally gather herself, dab the tissue beneath her heavily mascaraed lashes, and take a huge gulp of her drink. Then she looked up.

  Riley said, “I’ve just been interviewed on TV.”

  “I know. We saw. Sorry about that.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  “You were great,” said Marguerite. “You’re a natural.”

  Riley paused, shaking his head. “Why did you do it?”

  A longer pause. Then Marguerite replied steadily, “You know why.”

  Tula, who didn’t know why, gave Riley a nudge and hissed, “Give her a hug.”

  Riley ignored her, continuing instead to gaze down at Marguerite. “Talk about risky. What if it doesn’t work out? You’ll have done all of this for nothing.”

  “Maybe I have. But I don’t think so.” A glimmer of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I’m pretty good at figuring out what’s going on. Trust me, I used to be a writer.”

  “You’re completely mad,” said Riley. Then he let go of Tula’s hand, made his way over to Marguerite, and hugged her tightly. From ten feet away, Tula thought she heard him murmur beneath his breath, “But thanks.”

  Honestly, what were they on about? This was a conversation badly in need of subtitles.

  “Right!” Switching off her phone, Suze announced efficiently, “I’ve spoken to your editor, the publishing director, and the managing director. They’re all on their way over… They’ll be here in twenty minutes. We’ll have a meeting and decide what to do. Obviously Riley needs to be included—”

  “Not me,” Riley interrupted. “Not tonight.”

  Suze was visibly alarmed. “Oh, but—”

  “Nor me,” Marguerite said firmly.

  Suze’s eyes widened in horror; this time she looked as if she might pass out. “Marguerite, they’re on their way now. As we speak. You can’t do this. You have to talk to them!”

  “Not if I don’t want to.”

  “But—”

  “Come on.” Marguerite knocked back her gin and tonic. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Marguerite, please!” Panic-stricken and begging, Suze’s voice rose. “They’ll be here any minute.”

  Having kissed Martha and Tony Weston good-bye, Marguerite said briskly, “All the more reason to leave now.”

  ***

  Outside, Riley flagged down a black cab, and the three of them traveled back to the Savoy in silence. Marguerite gazed out of the window, lost in her own thoughts. When they’d reached the hotel and navigated the heavy revolving doors, she said to Riley, “I’m going to my room now. The rest’s up to you. Can you ask them to send up a bottle of something decent and not put through any calls? I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Riley nodded and headed over to the reception desk, leaving Marguerite and Tula together.

  “No way.” Tula shook her head. “We’re not leaving you on your own.”

  “How sweet you are.” Visibly touched, Marguerite said, “But I’m not planning on killing myself, if that’s what you’re worried about. Truly, not my style at all.”

  “Well, good.” And thankfully Marguerite sounded as if she meant it. “But listen,” said Tula, “I know it might not feel like it at the moment, but you’ll be so glad you did this. It’s all out in the open now. No more subterfuge, no more guilty conscience.” Desperate to reassure Marguerite, she added enthusiastically, “Trust me, it’s a good thing and you’re going to feel a million times better. So don’t worry, everything’ll turn out fine.”

  “Really? Sure about that?” Marguerite’s expression softened. “After all this palaver, let’s hope so.”

  Chapter 53

  “Shouldn’t we stay with her?” Tula asked when the lift had closed, whisking Marguerite up to her room on the third floor. “Will she be okay?”

  Riley nodded and indicated his phone. “She’s fine. I’ll check on her later.”

  “Good.”

  “Shall we get out of here?” He gave her a nudge in the direction of the revolving doors. “Come on, let’s go.”

  They left the hotel and headed along the Strand, then turned down a narrow street and reached Victoria Embankment Gardens. Tula paused, the Thames glittering before her, the ripples in the water reflecting the setting sun.

  At her side, Riley said, “What are you thinking about?”

  Tula shook her head. “I just can’t believe it. Any of it. I mean, I know it has to be true because Marguerite said it was. But is it really true?”

  “Yes.”

  “You actually write the books?”

  He nodded. “I actually write the books.”

  “I mean, not being funny…but it’s kind of like me saying Stephen Hawking’s been having trouble with his latest thesis on black holes so I’ve been helping him out with the tricky bits.”

  Riley shrugged. “I know. It is like that.”

  “It’s like Darcey Bussell twisting her ankle just before the start of Swan Lake and me going on instead.”

  “Well, Darcey Bussell’s retired now, but—”

  “Or Beyoncé getting stage fright and not being able to sing at the Super Bowl, so I have to jump up on the stage and—”

  “Okay, I get the message,” said Riley. “It’s pretty unlikely. But it’s the truth.”

  “And Marguerite’s always gone on about how hard she works, how many words she’s written.”

  “That’s the way she always used to be. She just carried on saying it. Otherwise people would have wondered why she’d stopped.”

  “And all this time you’ve been doing her job for her.” Tula paused, the implications beginning to fully sink in. Up until now, her concerns had been for poor, guilt-ridden Marguerite. “I had no idea.” She experienced a jolt in her chest. “You should have told me.”

  Oh, you really should…

  “I couldn’t tell anyone,” Riley said simply. “It had to be a secret.”

  “You could have told me.”

  “You don’t like having to keep secrets, remember?”

  “I don’t like having to keep them. But I would have.” She raised her arm, lifting her hair away from the suddenly overheated nape of her neck.

  “You told me you always end up accidentally letting things slip,” said Riley.

  “What? Well, I don’t know why I’d have said that, because it’s just not true,” Tula said indignantly. “I’m brilliant at keeping secrets if they’re important enough.”

  “And if I had told you, what kind of difference would it have made?”

  It was a rhetorical question, surely; he knew perfectly well how she felt. A lump sprang into her throat as a whoosh of emotion surged up. Out of nowhere, Tula was suddenly terrified she might burst into tear
s.

  “Well?” Riley was watching and waiting for her reply.

  “It would have made all the difference in the world,” she blurted out. “You know it would. And it’s nothing to do with money either. The way I felt about you… God, didn’t I tell you enough times? There you were, perfect in every way except one. I couldn’t handle the fact that you were a lazy bum with no ambition, too idle to even be interested in holding down a job…like all the men who wrecked my mum’s life.”

  His gaze was unwavering. “And now?”

  “And now…” Tula took a deep breath. “Well, it turns out you aren’t a lazy bum after all.” Adrenaline was zapping around her body. All this time she’d worked so hard to ignore her attraction to him, had refused to allow herself to weaken because he was so incontrovertibly off limits.

  “Right.” Riley nodded. “Well, just so you know, I used to be.” He shrugged. “And I might have carried on being a lazy bum—playing around, having fun, and not worrying about the future—if the thing with Marguerite hadn’t happened. But it did. And I suppose that’s when I grew up.”

  Tula remembered something else he’d said to Jon and Jackie on the show. “And you do most of your writing at night. How many hours?”

  “Between eight and twelve. It varies.”

  “Every night?”

  “Pretty much.” He raised an eyebrow. “So it makes a difference then, does it? To my prospects?”

  He was attempting to make a joke of it, but Tula sensed the tension beneath the surface. The handsome, hopeless case she’d tried so hard not to fall in love with was a hopeless case no more. She didn’t have to hold back anymore; the reason she’d held back no longer existed.

  Oh God. He was perfect.

  “It could make a difference.” She nodded fractionally in agreement.

  “You don’t have to be polite. Only say it if you mean it.”