An Offer You Can't Refuse

by Jill Mansell

  ‘Egg,’ said Millie.

  ‘Golden egg,’ Orla corrected her with a faint smile. ‘In fact, a jewel-encrusted solid gold Fabergé egg the size of a sofa. Which is why, when I wanted to change my writing style a couple of years ago, they wouldn’t let me. They sweet-talked me out of it, in case I dented their precious profits. But this time I’m going to do it, I’m going to ditch the bonkbuster trappings, the cliches, the whole Orla Hart format. I’m going to write a proper literary novel, just to prove to all those bloody sneering critics out there that I can!’ As she spoke, she jabbed viciously at the review she had brought downstairs with her. ‘And sod anyone who cares more about the money than they care about me.’ She paused, then added calmly, ‘And that goes for Giles too.’

  Blimey.

  Millie nodded, impressed. Orla was using the opportunity to punish Giles for having had an affair. Maybe it was also her way of testing him. If this change of direction were to fail, Orla wanted to know if he would continue to support her.

  For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.

  ‘You’d have to change all the names,’ Millie warned.

  ‘Darling, I know that. I thought we might call you Gertrude.’

  ‘Still seems a bit drastic.’ Millie gazed reflectively at the unattractive photograph of Christie Carson above his byline. ‘Couldn’t you just phone him up, shout “Wanker!” and tell him he’s got a nose like a Jerusalem artichoke?’

  He didn’t, but Millie never let the facts get in the way of a good insult.

  ‘Nose? Ha, willy more like. And don’t think I haven’t been tempted.’ Orla poured them both some more wine before settling back in her white rattan chair. ‘I hate that man, I really hate him for writing all that horrible stuff about me.’ She paused, then fixed Millie with a look of weary resignation. ‘But what I hate more is having to admit to myself that in some ways he’s right.’

  Before Millie left two hours later, Orla scribbled out a check for five thousand pounds and stuffed it into her hand.

  Oh my giddy aunt. Five thousand pounds.

  ‘Really, you don’t have to,’ Millie protested, not meaning it for a second. How awful if Orla said, ‘No? All right then, I’ll have it back.’

  Happily she didn’t.

  ‘Rubbish.’ Orla was brisk. ‘This is a business arrangement. It’s only fair.’

  It was, Millie decided happily. It was fair. Except…

  ‘I’m a bit embarrassed. What if you end up with a book where the girl spends her whole life watching EastEnders, shaving her legs, and trying to eat chocolate without getting it on her clothes?’

  Despite years of practice, she’d never mastered the art of biting a Cadbury’s Flake without crumbly bits falling down her front.

  ‘Exciting things will happen,’ Orla said soothingly. ‘And if they don’t, we’ll jolly well make them happen.’

  ‘Gosh.’

  ‘All you have to do is report back to me once a week.’

  There was no denying it; this was easy money. Easy peasy.

  ‘And tell you everything?’ asked Millie.

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Do I have to be called Gertrude?’

  Orla patted her arm.

  ‘Darling, we can call you anything you like.’

  ‘Oh well, in that case,’ Millie brightened, ‘could you also make me look like Lily Munster?’

  Available Now

  About the Author

  Jill Mansell lives with her partner and children in Bristol and writes full time. Actually, that’s not true; she watches TV, eats gum drops, admires the rugby players training in the sports field behind her house, and spends hours on the Internet marveling at how many other writers have blogs. Only when she’s completely run out of ways to procrastinate does she write.