Written From the Heart

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Written From the Heart Page 17

by Trisha Ashley


  Sergei had started calling in to see him once or twice a week, and Nathan said he looked deeply gloomy. I said, ‘Well, he’s a Russian, what do you expect?’

  I mean, take their novels. If they aren’t deeply melancholy they don’t seem to have any plot, they’re just aimed at depressing you, although War and Peace is a bit different, and if you miss out the war it’s quite a quick, fun read … So then Nathan said no, Sergei hadn’t always been like that, and he used to have a bit of joie de vivre about him, and I refrained from saying that I used to know all about that.

  Sergei asked Nathan if he’d seen me lately, and if so, how was I doing, and he wanted to be remembered to me, as if I was about to forget about him, which, short of sudden Alzheimer’s, is highly unlikely. Even then, probably my last coherent image, hanging in the air like the Cheshire cat’s grin, would be of Sergei in mid-leap.

  Apparently on Sergei’s last visit he’d fallen into a mood of nostalgia, and said I was the most beautiful woman in the world, small but perfectly formed like a dryad. And he would always love me passionately, but he was afraid he had been discarded for another.

  Nathan had assured him that, as far as he knew, there was no other man in my life – and of course his relationship with me was purely a businesslike one of author and agent, and Sergei then said that Nathan was his good friend and embraced him.

  Well, I thought about that for a minute, and really, Nathan had his head screwed on the right way, even if he was a sucker for the type of women who were going to dump him for something more exciting at the first opportunity!

  Nathan said that Rachel had come in last time Sergei had visited and been introduced, and Sergei had told her she would be quite pretty if she had a bit more meat on her bones, slender yet curvaceous like his beloved Tina, and she should eat more butter and cream, advice that went down like a lead balloon from the sound of it; and even while we were having our little tête-à-tête with the scones, Runaway Rachel rang his mobile twice, probably to check out who or what he was doing.

  Nathan was kind to her in an exasperated way, so if he didn’t watch it I thought he would end up married to her after all (if she didn’t take off with the vicar mid-ceremony), because he was too nice to turn her down.

  He asked me if I missed Sergei as much as he seemed to miss me, and his eyes briefly rested on the photos turned to face the wall like naughty schoolchildren, though draping them in deepest mourning-black underwear might have been more descriptive of my feelings.

  ‘While I will always treasure the recollection of our time together,’ I said sadly (and the diamonds, though of course I didn’t mention those), ‘Sergei totally betrayed my trust.’

  ‘But you and Linny are friends again, it seems?’

  ‘That’s quite a different kettle of fish,’ I told him, and he said, ‘Oh?’

  But clearly there was no point in explaining the nuances of the situation to him because not only is he a man, and therefore wouldn’t understand the language, but how could he understand it when even I didn’t?

  And then I added that Sergei and I had been friends for ages, nothing more, and he can’t have been missing me that much since he certainly hadn’t made a push to gain my forgiveness, apart from a few phone calls, so whatever was making him melancholy it certainly wasn’t our split. Perhaps it was a side effect of Botox?

  Nathan gave me one of those disconcerting looks from his treacle-coloured eyes and said if it had been him, he wouldn’t have looked at any other woman in the first place, but if he had been so mad as to do so, he would by now have been begging me on his knees to forgive him.

  Then he suddenly jumped up and got a book from his briefcase (I was starting to wonder if he took it everywhere with him, like a security blanket) and said he had been entrusted with a gift from Sergei, then handed me an advance copy of Travels Through a Life – and a big, glossy tome it turned out to be, with what looked like wads of photos, which were entirely of Sergei, I’d bet on it.

  But before I had time to open it, Mel turned up and she seemed to totally unnerve him, even though practically everyone under thirty has bright green hair in clumps and rings through everything these days, so he hastily thanked me for the tea, kissed me circumspectly on the cheek, gazed deeply into my eyes again, and left …

  I sighed and said, ‘Is he sexy, or what?’

  Mel said he wasn’t bad, even if he was pretty geriatric.

  ‘Geriatric? He’s only in his thirties!’

  ‘Precisely,’ she said, and picking up Sergei’s book, she began to flick through it with her pointy green fingernails.

  I took it off her and got her to show me my fan site instead, which was quite exciting. There had been lots of what she called ‘hits’ already, so it might augment her student loan a bit, but I did decline the offer of a prototype Dark, Passionate Earth T-shirt, since that seemed a bit too much like self-advertising, even for me.

  When I was alone I finally looked at Sergei’s book, and not only had he signed it personally at the front with a huge flourishing, ‘To Tina, my only love, from her devoted Sergei’, there was an equally effusive dedication to me printed on the very next page, which no one could miss, and it certainly blew any cover I might have had left, since even a moron would be in no doubt just who the ‘T’ in the book was after that.

  I sat staring at the dedication until the light faded and I couldn’t see it any more, thinking about my life and the empty part left by Linny’s absence, now so happily refilled, and the other echoing void occupied for so long by Sergei that he was part of me, with all his strange little ways – and God knows I have enough of my own – but if either of us ever needed an idiosyncrasy donor we would be a near-perfect match. I didn’t think I could ever find anyone else who would suit me like he did, even though Nathan was the stuff that lust was made of, and somehow I reckoned that would never be enough.

  But when it came down to it, if Sergei had really wanted me back, he would have done something melodramatic by then, so clearly he didn’t and this fulsome declaration in print was either a hangover from when he did feel that way, or a thank you and goodbye to all that, and maybe he’d already found someone younger and more nubile?

  I usually gave him a personally signed copy of my latest book, so I wrote a little formal note of thanks for the dedication, signed my name in a copy of Dark, Passionate Earth, and packed the whole thing up to post.

  That seemed to be the end of that.

  I wondered if I could wrest Nathan away from Rachel, train him to my once-a-week no-staying-over ways, and still maintain (a) total secrecy from Sergei so it didn’t affect his and Nathan’s author/client relationship, and (b) my own author/client relationship with Nathan as well as a more personal one.

  Once I’d solved that, maybe I could start on world peace next?

  I’d always wanted to be a successful novelist more than anything in the world, so now that it was almost within my grasp, why didn’t I feel happier?

  The Willows,

  Drover Road,

  Up Wrigley

  Dear Ms Devino,

  I am sending you my latest novel, Pixies of Pilgarrow, a delightful and traditional story of magic and enchantment in the style of Elizabeth Goudge. It is aimed at all age groups, from young adult upwards.

  I have written sixteen novels so far but have met with a total lack of response from publishers who only seem interested in smut and violence. I am certain that there is a vast market of young people out there crying out for something more inspirational! My Guide troop are all enthralled when I read my wholesome work to them as a treat when we are winding down from our more strenuous activities.

  Everyone who has read any of my work has said it is unforgettable and has had an indescribable effect on them. None of my friends can understand why I wasn’t published long ago!

  Perhaps you can tell me where to go from here? I am getting so disheartened I am seriously thinking of taking a desktop publishing course and going it alone as the
Potter-Rubrick Press!

  Do advise me.

  Yours sincerely,

  Pippa Potter-Rubrick (Miss)

  Twenty-Seven

  Overtures

  MEMORIZE THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS AND THEN DESTROY!

  ‘Limpet’, C/O Ben’s News & Sweet Shop, High Street, Brittling-by-the-Sea

  Dear Ms Devino,

  My sources tell me you are able to operate in complete confidentiality. This is hush-hush: you will receive the money separately, in cash by hand, so be prepared!

  My novel is based on my wartime experiences, and since I am still bound by the Official Secrets Act, my name must never be mentioned in connection with it. ‘Limpet’ will be my pen name. Peruse it privately – it is for your eyes only. Do not divulge any of my details to anyone. I will not be available for publicity when the book is published.

  Limpet

  What a difference a few hours can make!

  A strange postman (stranger than my usual one, I mean) rang my bell at the crack of dawn in order to hand me a thick bundle of letters wadded together with elastic bands under a plastic wrapper, and a small registered padded envelope.

  Naturally I opened the package first and found inside a box marked with the name of a very famous jeweller containing one small but perfect pearl. It was pierced for stringing and lay there looking very cultured: urbane, almost.

  Nothing else.

  Well, this profoundly puzzled me, but I put it to one side and reached for the bundle, which had been forwarded from some super post-sorting place. When I took the wrapper off there were dozens of letters from Sergei, with dates going right back to our split and, at a quick glance, running the full gamut of hurt from despair to anger, due to getting no answer whatsoever, apart from having the phone put down on him a few times.

  It was amazingly clever of the Post Office to track me down eventually because, due to Sergei’s habit of writing half his letters back to front and turning all his Ss into Ws, the address was illegible even to me.

  I made a cup of coffee and then settled down to read my way through them in date order, although as evidenced by the address, his handwriting was hard to understand, but I certainly got the gist – especially the last one saying he was going to send me a pearl a day as a symbol of his tears until I forgave him!

  All was now explained, and it was the sort of lavish thing he would do, too, though actually I rather thought he’d shot himself in the foot with this one, since even if I did ever forgive him I was not going to say so until I had enough pearls for a decent-sized string, was I?

  But naturally I felt much happier knowing how Sergei felt about me, and clearly he was missing me … so I could at least phone him and thank him for the pearl, couldn’t I?

  I did, and he seemed absolutely overcome to hear my voice, even though I was not ready yet to talk about forgiveness, but had rung merely to say that I had only just received his letters due to their having gone astray.

  He clearly had been watching the progress of Dark, Passionate Earth because he knew how well it was selling.

  I asked him how he was, and he said that as well as sinking into a deep decline so that he was the despair of his friends, he had this strange pain in his arm, with tingling, and did I think he was going to have a heart attack? And he told me all about the trouble with his feet, and how he thought the poison from the Botox had got into his system and was slowly killing him, so if I ever brought myself to forgive him he could safely promise never to have that done again.

  Other women were as nothing compared to me, he said, and without his Tsarina Tina his life was empty and meaningless, and he would never even look at anyone again if I took him back.

  I said not to press me yet because he had hurt me very deeply and wounds like that took a long time to heal. (But to keep sending the pearls.)

  NOVELTINA LITERARY AND CRITICAL AGENCY

  Mudlark Cottage, The Harbour, Shrimphaven

  Dear Limpet,

  Thank you for your letter and manuscript, and the money that was pushed into my shopping basket in used five-pound notes on Saturday while I was in Waitrose. You will be pleased to know that I didn’t spot the person who did it, and indeed, did not even notice the envelope of money until the girl at the checkout tried to scan it.

  I enclose my full critique, but I am afraid that as it stands your work is more a fictionalization of your wartime experiences than a novel. So even under a pen name it is probably still actionable under the Official Secrets Act. However, it is all a long time ago now, so perhaps if you get in touch with the appropriate authorities they might agree to an edited autobiography in due course? After all, none of it seems to particularly merit secrecy at this stage, although I am not at all trying to belittle the very, very important role you clearly played in winning the war.

  I hope this is all helpful to you. By the way, in view of your desire for absolute secrecy, perhaps I should point out to you that you have inadvertently printed your real name and address in full at the top of every sheet of the manuscript.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tina Devino

  Sergei was back to phoning me up for frequent little chats, just as he used to do, mostly to give me an update on his health, but sometimes also to talk about his book’s progress towards publication in July, and to ask me what I thought about the book itself, which of course I had read instantly.

  Well, there was no doubt in my mind that it would sell like hot cakes for the photos of Sergei alone, and the narrative certainly hotted up as you got towards where I came on the scene, especially that bit in the tropical greenhouse, which I had forgotten about – and there is something terribly primordial and sexy about the smell of hot, damp, steamy plants, isn’t there? Clearly any shreds of cover I might have had had been blown.

  Nathan continued his chatty calls, too – often still at strange times of the day or night, sounding oddly furtive (I must remember to tell him I found his expensive gold fountain pen down the back of my sofa) – but although I enjoyed talking to him he was definitely more flirtatious when he was not within reach, so I couldn’t figure him out at all.

  Also, now I’d got to know him, I simply couldn’t use him as a model for my sexy hero in The Orchid Huntress any more, because he was quite ordinary really, whereas my male protagonists always had a bit of extra something. In fact, a lot of extra something.

  I definitely needed a new hero.

  Linny rang and I was just going to tell her all about the lost letters and talking to Sergei on the phone again when she blurted, fast, ‘Tina, I’ve just done something that was really, really hard, but that I hope will help you and Sergei to heal your rift.’

  ‘Oh God, what have you done now?’ I said ungratefully.

  Linny said she’d just had a meeting with Sergei at a local coffee shop (from the sound of it, both were wearing dark glasses and raincoats and looking suspicious), during which interesting conversation they had agreed that the whole butterfly incident never happened at all, or even if it did, it had nothing to do with them, it was two other people entirely, and therefore none of us need take any notice of it, and we could all meet together in a friendly fashion as before.

  This had a certain mad logic to it, and Linny certainly surprised me with that one, but I pointed out that it wouldn’t be easy, would it, pretending we’d all imagined it?

  She said Sergei had found it perfectly reasonable, and actually when she met him she found it quite easy too; clearly it wasn’t her who had done those things, so now it was just me who would have to rearrange my memories a bit and then we would be all right, wouldn’t we?

  ‘Yes, I suppose we would, but what about the baby?’

  ‘I’m not entirely stupid, you know,’ she said. ‘I’m positive it’s Tershie’s.’

  I hoped she was right.

  After that I brought her up to date on Sergei’s letters going astray, and the daily supply of small but perfect pearls, which she thought very, very romantic. She said I should for
give him because clearly we were made for each other.

  ‘Only don’t do it yet, because you can’t do much with only a few small pearls.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I said. ‘And Nathan’s still ringing me. How come he is so warm and flirty on the phone, but all businesslike when we meet, except for the odd, small lapse, and then he retreats back instantly into agent mode? What do you make of that?’

  ‘Maybe he’s a tease?’ she suggested. ‘Or he fancies you like mad, only he’s a bit scared of you too, so he backs off when he’s actually with you?’

  ‘Linny, pregnancy has addled your brain. How can he be scared of harmless little moi?’

  As I expected, she couldn’t think of a good answer to that one.

  I promised to spend the weekend with her, helping with the final polishing of her rewritten Mills & Boon novel, because she wasn’t quite sure if it was how they wanted it. She was also a bit worried about Tershie, because he was in Colombia on business, but he promised not to leave the hotel even for the airport without an armed guard, since Linny was frightened that he would get kidnapped, which apparently everybody is all the time over there, and he was dropping hints about bringing her Colombian emerald earrings.

  Twenty-Eight

  Pearls Among Women

  NOVELTINA LITERARY AND CRITICAL AGENCY

  Mudlark Cottage, The Harbour, Shrimphaven

  Dear Pippa Potter-Rubrick,

  Thank you for your letter, cheque and manuscript.

  I too was fascinated by Pixies of Pilgarrow, and while I am not saying that it isn’t somewhat in the general style of Elizabeth Goudge, it does have a certain slightly evangelical Christian tone that I don’t remember her novels having.

  Unfortunately, I don’t think this type of novel is sufficiently mainstream to sell to a publisher, who would not perceive it as having a wide enough market to make it worth their while. However, were you to self-publish your books, I could imagine them doing quite well in Christian bookshops all over the place, although you would, of course, have to spend time promoting them yourself.

 

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