by Karen Swan
‘Ooh, how gorgeous to see you,’ Kate squealed, betraying her drunkenness all at once. James grinned at her, his eyebrows raised in amusement.
He looked over at Tor, the smile remaining on his face but his eyes searching hers for an indication as to her emotions. She betrayed nothing. Amelia Abingdon wasn’t the only actress in the room.
‘Hello, James,’ she said politely, nodding her head but not leaning in to kiss.
‘Amelia, may I introduce you to Kate Marfleet, an old family friend ––’
‘Hey! Less of the old!’ Kate interrupted
‘And Victoria Summershill.’
Amelia smiled graciously at them both. God, she was other-worldly. She looked younger than she did on screen, with teeth that seemed unnaturally white. A waiter came over with a tray of edamame beans and stood by their little group. Amelia daintily picked a couple. Tor did the same.
‘These are super. Do you know Rick?’ Amelia inquired.
‘Mmm, not so much,’ Kate slurred a bit.
Amelia looked at Tor. She had learnt to carry the conversation until people relaxed and forgot ‘who she was’.
‘Liar. We don’t know him at all,’ Tor said, embarrassed. ‘We’re just here for the free food.’
Amelia laughed, liking Tor’s candour. ‘Me too. What do you do?’
Tor was just about to reply that she was a housewife when she stopped herself. She wasn’t anyone’s wife any more.
‘Tor’s an interior designer,’ Kate said proudly before Tor could say, ‘Stay-at-home mother.’ Tor had mooted Hen’s proposal about setting up her own company over lunch and Kate had gone wild for the idea, instantly commissioning Tor to do up The Twittens. Tor had tried to protest. She had wanted to negotiate doing up the house in lieu of rent, at least until she had some money coming in and she could find somewhere of their own to move into. But Kate wouldn’t hear of it. Said she and Monty were far too busy with work to be up before next summer and that she couldn’t possibly cope with the house in the state it was in. Tor would be doing her an enormous favour if she’d accept the commission.
There had been no moving her. Kate was absolutely set on the idea, and so, just that day, Summershill Interiors had been born.
‘Oh really?’ Amelia said. ‘What’s your signature look?’
‘Um, well, I . . . gosh, I don’t know how to sum it up. Am I going to need a catchphrase?’ Tor asked, looking at Kate for reassurance, but Kate’s gaze was glassy. She’d have to bluff this on her own.
‘Well, I guess I’m more interested in giving rooms, houses, a feeling than a look. I want them to look like homes, not show homes.’
Kate kicked her in the ankle. ‘Say about your rules,’ she said bossily.
Tor looked at her. ‘My rules?’
Kate looked dead ahead.
‘Uh, yes. Well, I . . . uh, always try to have a . . . um, little bit of black somewhere – be it a trim on a lampshade, or a cushion on the sofa; it’s great for adding definition and focus.’ She looked to Kate for reassurance – or ideas. No use.
‘And I’m a greater believer in – um, defying scale. There’s nothing wrong with putting big pieces in a small space. It’s more a question of editing clutter.’
‘You forgot something,’ Kate drawled.
‘I did? What’s that?’ Tor asked, panic-stricken.
‘No china figurines. You hate those,’ Kate said.
‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ Tor burst out laughing. ‘No excuse for them, ever.’
‘Oh yes, me too. Aren’t they ghastly?’ Amelia joined in, so relieved to have people relaxed with her.
James watched them. Tor looked beautiful – dressed casually in just jeans and a jacket, she made everyone else look overdressed and tarty by comparison. Even Amelia, whose aubergine Vivienne Westwood dress had looked drop-dead glamorous in front of the paparazzi, now looked rather de trop.
Tor had put on a little bit of weight since the tennis and her hair suited her so light. She had a light tan that made her eyes dance and her giant freckles were adorable, as though she’d dotted herself with a brown felt tip.
‘Tor’s really very good,’ he chipped in, to Amelia. ‘You’d love what she does.’
He felt the weight of Tor and Kate’s scrutiny, both of them knowing full well he had no idea how good she was. But he was just so glad to hear Tor was setting up her own business and moving on. He’d been desperately worried about her after learning from Cress that Hugh didn’t have life insurance. If he could get Amelia to commission her, it would be a flying start for Tor’s business.
‘Really? Because obviously I’ll be needing . . .’ Amelia looked back at Tor. ‘I’d love to see your work. Do you have a website?’
‘Not yet,’ Kate interjected, her antennae alert again to Tor telling the truth. ‘It’s being rejigged. It kept crashing, it was just getting too many hits.’
‘Really?’ Amelia asked, impressed. ‘Well, that’s great. Are you taking on any new commissions at the moment?’
‘Hmm, well,’ Kate shook her head gravely, every inch Tor’s manager. ‘She’s got a couple of projects to do here, and then you’re doing up Harry Hunter’s place in LA, aren’t you?’ Kate asked rhetorically, eager to namedrop.
‘Harry Hunter? Really?’ James asked, looking agitated.
Tor shifted from side to side, embarrassed that Kate was being so indiscreet. ‘Well, yes.’
‘You sound busy for the foreseeable, then,’ Amelia said.
‘Well, there’s a bit of a deadline on the LA job, isn’t there, Tor?’ Kate said. ‘But after that you’re freer.’
‘Oh?’ Amelia had an eyebrow raised.
‘He wants it done by February,’ Tor explained.
‘Oscar time. Does he know something we don’t?’ Amelia smiled.
Tor shrugged, not remotely au fait with Hollywood’s award season.
‘You’ll need to watch yourself with him,’ Amelia said, smiling, in a confiding tone. ‘He’s quite the Lothario.’
‘You’re telling me!’ Kate screeched. ‘Honestly, the things I’ve had to squash.’ She leant in to Amelia. ‘I’m his lawyer. Owwww!’
Tor had kicked her ankle, this time. Kate couldn’t afford to be so indiscreet, even in Norfolk. It was time to shut up.
‘Are you?’ James asked, frowning. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Oh yes,’ Kate said, feeling terribly important.
‘It looks like we’ve all got stories to tell about him,’ Amelia smiled. ‘Maybe you will too, Tor.’
‘Well,’ James said, quickly. ‘I really don’t think Tor is going to be distracted by a womanizer like ––’
‘Man-whore,’ Kate interrupted.
James looked at her, utterly perplexed and losing his train of thought.
‘A man-whore? Where do you get these words?’ he asked Kate, as Amelia snorted with laughter. She was having a great time.
‘Well, I’d love to meet up with you at a later date and go over some ideas,’ she said, when she’d recovered. ‘I’ve just bought a place in Pimlico but I don’t really know where to begin with it. And being away on location such a lot makes it difficult to get started. I need someone who can run the project while I’m gone. Would you be interested in having a look?’
Tor shrugged, not sure whether to be overjoyed that her fledgling business had just been commissioned by Amelia Abingdon, or whether to be dejected over having to work with James’s new lover. Her pride wanted her to reject Amelia’s request and keep well away from both of them, but she knew there was no way she could turn down an opportunity like this. She hadn’t even picked up her spade and she’d struck gold.
‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Do you have a card?’ Amelia inquired.
‘Um, no. Not on me,’ Tor bluffed. ‘I wasn’t expecting to get any commissions tonight.’ At least that bit was true.
‘That’s OK. I’m away filming in Cairo for the next few months, but James can give you my number when I’m bac
k next in the UK.’
‘Sure,’ Tor said, looking at him, and wondering why, even with a girlfriend like Amelia Abingdon, his eyes always seemed to scorch her.
Chapter Twenty-two
‘Rosie! Is there another bloody postal strike?’ Cress hollered through from her office.
‘No!’ Rosie hollered back.
‘And you’re quite sure we’re getting all our post?’ Cress hollered again.
‘Yes!’ Rosie sighed and looked around her. How could you doubt it? Four sackloads of manuscripts were coming through every day and were stacked in piles around her ankles, ready to sort through and send out to the editors. If only they could lose some; everyone was snowed under.
‘Can you just check with everyone again – Oh, you’re there.’ Cress lowered her voice and looked at Rosie, standing in the doorway. ‘I just don’t understand why we haven’t heard anything. It’s been two weeks. That reply has to be somewhere. You’ve checked everyone’s voicemail?’
‘Everyone’s,’ Rosie said solemnly. That had not gone down well with the staff.
‘And no one’s had a rejection letter? No “Thanks, I’m so flattered but regrettably have decided to sign with”. . . blah, blah, blah?’
‘Nope.’ Rosie shook her mousy brown ringlets. Those letters were very few and far between. And anyway, no one would have dared overlook it. Cress had called a staff meeting the morning after first reading the manuscript, pulling all the most senior staff off their projects – getting the chief sub working on the copy, the art director designing the jacket. All the editors had put in calls to trusted agents, putting out feelers to try to establish whether anyone recognized the plot or any of the characters – anything that might yield a name. Cress had – hugely prematurely – even spoken to a scout in Hollywood, sketching out the preliminary details, and although she hadn’t yet released the manuscript to him (though God only knows, she was sorely tempted) he was already excited about the big screen prospects and raring to go.
All the wheels were in motion, all the hard stuff done. She just needed one thing: the sodding author. Someone to come and shake her hand, sign on the dotted line, and drink some fizz. Hell, that was usually the easy part. So what was going on? Why the silence? There was no rejection letter. No acceptance call. Nothing. It was all very odd.
Cress twiddled with the silver Mont Blanc on her desk. There had to be a logical explanation for it. Why send in a masterpiece and then disappear? Maybe he was on holiday? Or had moved? Or what if – what if he had never received Cress’s letter at all? She could always write another letter but . . . bloody hell, she didn’t have time for another two weeks of waiting. She had taken a huge gamble, stalling all her other projects to give this the green light. Time was money. She couldn’t afford to lose weeks chasing this, only for the author to remain stubbornly unknown and unfound.
Cress stood up and started pacing, her heels stabbing the parquet flooring. What a bloody farce. She needed to track this author down.
‘Rosie!’ Cress hollered again. ‘How do PO box numbers work?’
There was a pause as Rosie scuttled back in.
‘Um. You pay for the PO box number and it gets directed to your actual address. I think. Shall I check?’
‘Would you? I need to know whether it goes to an actual address, or whether it gets delivered to a little mail drop place and it gets picked up there.’
‘OK, I’ll find out. And do you want some tea?’
‘You’re a star.’
Cress had cleared four emails when Rosie came back into the room, carrying a mug of tea and an armful of paperwork. ‘Just got this from the mail room,’ she said, carefully placing the mug on Cress’s desk before handing over a pamphlet. ‘I was wrong. Royal Mail hold it at your local delivery office and you pick it up from there.’
‘Shit, that’s not very helpful,’ Cress muttered. ‘What have I got to do? A stakeout? What’s the postcode?’
‘SW6 2PR.’ Rosie knew it off by heart.
‘Fulham,’ Cress said to herself. ‘And I don’t suppose anyone in the mail room has contacts with anyone in Fulham’s sorting office?’
‘It’s not likely,’ Rosie shrugged, ‘But I’ll ask. You never know.’
‘Yes, do. Thanks, Rosie. Tell them there’ll be a bonus for them if they come up trumps,’ Cress said distractedly.
‘OK. And the first edit’s been done on this now,’ Rosie added, placing a thick manuscript on the desk. ‘There’s a few consistency questions for the author, but overall, Harriet says she barely had to touch it. She’s got it in at four hundred and sixty-four pages, which marketing say they can cost at twelve ninety-nine.’
Cress picked up the weighty tome, running a manicured finger over the bold black lettering, as though it had been die-stamped on milled paper.
‘The Wrong Prince.’
Anonymous.
She smiled. Nobody else in the building realized the extent to which the words within these pages translated into treasure: securing their jobs and guaranteeing her lifelong financial security. With Harry Hunter and this author on her list, the venture capitalists would start banging down her door and she’d have done it.
Her gamble would have worked. So she hadn’t ‘done the right thing’ – as asked – but it would have been worth hanging on to him. He who dares wins, and all that.
‘Thanks. I’ll get my notes back to you.’
She put down the title page. Rosie was almost at the door when she felt ice in the air.
‘What the fuck is this?’ Cress’s tone was stony.
Rosie faltered and looked back. Cress was holding up page two.
‘Er, well, that’s the dedication page.’
‘I know that! Where did you get it from?’
‘It was in with the original manuscript. Why? Is something wrong?’
Cress looked down at the bold black print. How could she have missed it?
It read: ‘For Brendan Hillier.’
Yes, something was definitely wrong.
Chapter Twenty-three
The letter, printed on ivory and embellished with an ornate crest, lay on the bed, floating up with each of Harry’s jubilant thrusts, fluttering back down beneath Emily’s ecstatic sighs, before finally slipping to the floor as the bed trembled with their mutual climax.
‘You are one fine filly, Miss Brookner,’ he said, rolling off her and jumping up. Emily watched him snatch a towel off the back of the chair and march into the shower.
She stretched out silkily on the sheets, feeling them smooth away beneath her. Her eyes ran around the room, clocking the Cartier carriage clock, the Asprey crystal schooner that he used as a paperweight, that strange Buddha’s head thing. Everything was familiar to her now. It was becoming home. She’d slept here with him every night since their reunion dinner, although he was exasperated by her refusal to accompany him to public events or go out to restaurants or clubs with him.
‘Why?’ he kept asking. ‘I want to show you off to the world.’
‘I’m not ready,’ she kept telling him. The round-the-clock presence of the paparazzi meant she’d be exposed within a day. ‘My parents would recognize you, and I haven’t told them – how can I? Anyway, people from school might ask questions, or remember things and put two and two together,’ she’d warn. So they kept things under wraps. ‘Only for a while,’ Harry kept saying. But she made sure he always came home to her every night. She knew better than to let a man like him out of her sights for too long.
She heard the water turn off. He sauntered back in, naked and lightly towelling his hair, before shaking out his curls like a golden retriever after a long, muddy walk.
‘Why exactly is this invitation so special?’ Emily asked, bemused, as she extended a balletic leg into the air. ‘You get invited to speak at events all the time. And you never accept any of them. What’s so great about this?’
‘Are you kidding? It’s the Oxford Union. No one turns them down. It’s the ultimate accolade. T
he stamp of credibility, babe.’
His eyes ran down the length of her leg.
‘I think the world knows you’ve made it, Harry,’ she smiled.
‘The critics would disagree with you,’ he said, his eyes darkening. ‘They’ve mauled the last two books. They treat me like some kind of one-trick wonder. It fucking pisses me off.’
Emily brought up her other leg so that both were in the air, then she slowly opened them wide and looked straight at him, between them.
‘Well, as long as your fans adore you,’ she purred. ‘That’s all that matters.’
He dropped his towel and crossed the room. Standing between her legs, with an impressive hard-on between his, he grabbed her ankles.
‘Come with me,’ he said, his voice thick.
Emily shook her head.
‘What? To listen to you lecture a load of spotty teenagers? I don’t think so. That’s not what I call showing a girl a good time.’
‘I always show you a good time,’ he said, rubbing his thumbs around her ankle bones, his voice fading as he dropped his head and took a perfectly unmanicured toe in his mouth.
Her eyes closed with heady pleasure as he sucked on it, before running the tip of his tongue along the arch of her foot and down her calf, to the weak spot behind her knee. Her leg bent involuntarily and he dropped to his knees, moving oh-so-slowly, nibbling and teasing her inner thigh with fleeting kisses which were so close to where she wanted them to be, and yet not quite close enough.
He let her luxuriate in the exquisite agony of not having what she desired.
‘Are you having a good time now?’ he murmured.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said, her fists clenching, barely able to speak.
‘And you’ll come with me?’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll come,’ she panted, grabbing his curls.
And sure enough, three minutes later, she did.
Twenty minutes after that – and another cold shower – he was whizzing over Chelsea Bridge in his favourite car, the blue Maserati, the one Kate had said she liked. He liked taunting her with it.