by A. L. Brooks
She hoped.
Part Two
Chapter 15
“Perfect timing,” Maggie said as she opened the door. Her sister shot into the house out of the rain. “Kettle’s just boiled.”
“Hurrah.” Ruth stamped her feet on the mat. “It’s dreadful out there.” She peeled off her coat and hung it on the rack, then slid her boots off. Gizmo, who had come running into the hallway when the doorbell rang, now sniffed at Ruth’s discarded boots with some interest.
Ruth laughed. “Went for a walk in Richmond Park yesterday. I’m sure there’s lots of interesting scents on there, eh, Giz?”
Maggie smiled as her dog paid her sister absolutely no attention, his nose glued to the boots. “Tea or coffee?” she asked over her shoulder as she set off back down the hallway, Ruth following.
“Tea, please. A very large mug of it too.”
“Coming right up.”
The kitchen at the back of the house, an extended room topped with a sloping glass roof, was bright and welcoming in spite of the gloomy weather. Maggie motioned her sister into the snug area that formed the farthest part of the room, near the doors that led to the small courtyard garden. Ruth flopped onto the small leather sofa that faced the garden and sighed.
“You okay?” Maggie asked, reaching for two large mugs from the cupboard.
“Yes, just tired. The girls ran me ragged yesterday, and we had to be up early this morning as Will has some conference thing in Birmingham today.” She sighed again. “I love my family, I really do, but sometimes I wish I could just abandon them for about a month. Do something like that retreat you had back in April.”
Maggie’s hands trembled as she reached for the tin that held the tea bags. She didn’t think of that trip so much these days; it had proved better not to, in the long run. So when something did trigger a reminder, it still surprised her how much it affected her.
She finished making the tea, not trusting her voice just yet, then carried the steaming mugs over to the small table beside the sofa. Sitting next to Ruth, she stretched out her legs and let her feet rub back and forth on the wooden floor. The soothing warmth of the underfloor heating she’d installed a couple of years ago was so worth it on days like this.
“Thanks,” Ruth said, reaching for her mug.
“You’re welcome. So, apart from running you ragged, how are my nieces?”
Ruth chuckled. “They’re good. Really. Just so full of energy I sometimes struggle to keep up. Twins are a handful, believe me.”
“Oh, I do.” Maggie smirked. “If it’s this bad at eight, just imagine what they’ll be like when they’re thirteen.”
Ruth glared at her. “Well, that’s just mean.”
They both laughed, and Ruth shoved Maggie with her elbow.
“So, what’s the latest with you?”
Maggie’s heart thudded hard against her ribs and she sat up a little straighter. While this had been her plan all along, now that the time was here, her nerves and doubts reappeared tenfold.
“Maggie?” Ruth placed her mug back on the table and stared. “Why do you look like you’re about to have some kind of panic attack?”
Maggie snorted, and it helped. “No, it’s not that bad.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I…I’ve made some decisions about some things and I wanted to share them with you. But now that I am sharing, I’m scared of what you’ll think.”
Ruth’s eyes went wide. “You’re not shaving all your hair off and joining some crazy religious sect, are you?”
“What? No, of course not!”
“Then,” Ruth said, patting Maggie’s leg, “whatever you have to tell me can’t possibly be scary. So, spill.”
“You’re bonkers.” Maggie shook her head, but smiled when Ruth grinned. She sucked in a big breath. “Okay, here goes. So, firstly, Jessica Stewart is going to retire.”
Ruth’s mouth dropped open, but she waited a beat before speaking. “Okay.” She dragged the word out. “And this is because…?”
“Because,” Maggie said firmly, “I have no more ideas for that genre, and no appetite for the research anymore. I can’t say it bores me, that’s not really it. I’m just…tired of sitting in dusty libraries and trawling around academic buildings. Of arranging interviews, trying to find reliable sources, and everything else that goes with trying to make a historical romance as authentic as possible.”
Ruth nodded slowly, reaching for her tea again. She took a few sips before saying, “Okay, that makes sense. You have been doing that for quite a while now.”
“I have.” Maggie sighed. “It kind of stopped being fun about three books ago, but I was so wrapped up in bringing out the next bestseller I ignored the little voice inside me that was telling me that.”
“So, I’m sure you know what my next question will be. If you aren’t Jessica Stewart anymore, does that mean you won’t be writing at all?”
And now we come to the big revelation. Yikes.
“Well, there’s something I need to tell you, and I want to apologise up front for not telling you before. I had my reasons, and they seemed right at the time for where I was in my career and life, but now, well, now they don’t.”
“Well, I’m certainly intrigued, Mags. Come on then, hit with me it.” If Ruth was annoyed at her for keeping secrets, she wasn’t showing it. They’d been close their whole lives but not to the point where Maggie had felt the need to share everything, and she was pretty sure that went both ways; she was convinced there were significant things in Ruth’s life that she wasn’t privy to and she was okay with that.
“Okay. So, as well as writing Jessica Stewart books all these years, I’ve actually had another pen name, in an entirely different genre.”
“Wow.” Ruth was staring at her.
“Yeah. I’m also Maddie Jones, writing lesbian fiction.”
“What, dirty stuff?” Ruth actually looked shocked.
Maggie rolled her eyes. “And that is one of the reasons why I never told you or anyone about it. No, not dirty stuff—lesbian fiction is not just erotica, but for some reason that’s the reputation it’s got. Yes, part of the market is erotica, and trust me, some of it is very good. But actually, the bulk of the market is romance in one form or another. And I’ve been writing romances in that genre pretty much the same amount of time I’ve been publishing Jessica Stewart in the mainstream.”
“For the same publisher?” Ruth’s tone made her confusion evident.
“No, not at all. I have a specialised lesbian publisher for those books. They don’t know I’m Jessica Stewart, and vice versa. I’ve kept both identities completely separate. You’re the only person who knows I’m both.”
Ruth slumped back against the sofa, her head shaking and a wicked smile on her face. “My sister, the clandestine lesbian author.” She laughed when Maggie rolled her eyes again. “This is amazing. So, are you as successful writing as Maddie Jones?”
“In terms of being a big name in that genre, yes. In terms of the money I earn, not really. The market is so much smaller. But I don’t care about that. Jessica Stewart has been my bankroll. Maddie Jones writes purely for the love of it.”
“Now I’m even more confused. Why would you give up your bankroll if the money you make from Maddie Jones won’t support you? Of course, I’m assuming you’re telling me all this because it’s as Maddie Jones that you want to continue?”
“Yes and no. I’ll have royalties for years yet from Jessica Stewart, and the earnings from my Maddie Jones writing will just top that up. But I also have plans to write other things too, in other genres. I have no idea if I’ll be any good at it, but I’ve always fancied crime.”
“As a lifestyle or a writing genre?” Ruth asked with a cheeky grin.
“Ha bloody ha.” Maggie downed the rest of her tea. “I needed something to give, something to make way for my brain
to be able to focus on giving other types of writing a go. And when I weighed it all up, I knew I wouldn’t miss being Jessica Stewart nearly as much as I would miss being Maddie Jones. She’s the real me, really, despite the pen name. I mean, what I write as her comes from my heart, and I don’t ever want to give that up. I have to be realistic and know that I won’t necessarily do as well in the future as I have done in the past, but…” She swallowed, knowing she was going to open up a can of worms with her next statement but suddenly feeling a strong need to tell Ruth all of it. “I met someone on that retreat, someone who wasn’t living her true self, and it pained me to see her doing that. It pained me even more when I realised after she left that, in a way, I was doing the same thing. The last two Jessica Stewarts have only been written because the market and my publishing contract demanded them. I didn’t enjoy doing them at all. And I don’t want my writing to be that way. I want to write what I want, what I feel, what makes me want to write.”
Ruth glanced at her watch. “It’s beyond noon,” she said. “Got any wine? I think we need it for my next round of questions.”
Maggie grinned, relief washing over her. Not that she’d seriously doubted Ruth would be there for her, but her level-headed acceptance was soothing, nonetheless.
Maggie served up a platter of bread, cheese, salami, and olives to go with the generous glasses of red wine she plonked on the table in front of them a few minutes later.
“Cheers,” Ruth said, chinking her glass against Maggie’s.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not calling me an idiot. At least, not yet anyway.”
Ruth snorted, then sipped her wine. “I trust your judgement on what will work, both for you in a sense of soul and self, and on the business side. You know your market, your business, far better than I do. If you think the numbers work for you, even if that does mean perhaps an adjustment in lifestyle, then go for it. All I’m ever going to want is my sister to be happy.” She popped an olive into her mouth, her gaze unfocused as she chewed. “And talking of that,” she said after swallowing, “given that, to my knowledge at least, you haven’t had a girlfriend in about four years now, do any of your future plans for a happier life include one of those?”
Maggie sighed. “Maybe one day. I… The woman I met in April, on the retreat, she…we…”
“What?”
“Well, we sort of had a fling.”
Ruth gulped her wine, then leaned across the table. “A fling?”
“Yes. She was in…hiding, shall we say. She’s quite famous, so I won’t give you her name, but she had a need to be off radar for a while. We were the only two people using the cottages on the estate. I knew who she was, of course, but had no idea she was a lesbian. She’s kept herself in the closet her whole life, and it just made me so sad to watch her denying such a fundamental part of herself.”
“And the fling?”
Maggie smiled even as her heart faltered. “It was lovely. Wonderful. Heart-breaking.”
“Oh, no. You wanted more?”
“I did. I would have loved to have seen what we could make of it, even as I knew it would be impossible since she was adamant she needed to stay in the closet. But I genuinely was more upset about what she was denying herself than what she was denying us as a result. She’s so lonely, and yet has such a capacity for love, and warmth, and…passion.”
“I don’t understand—why did you get together with her if you knew it couldn’t have a future?”
“Because, like so many of the love-crazy heroines I write about, I simply couldn’t resist her. I would have much rather had one week with her knowing it was going to end than have nothing at all and always wonder ‘what if.’ And trust me, as much as it hurt when she left, I didn’t regret it.”
“And there’s been no contact since? Nothing at all?”
Maggie shook her head, the sadness she’d kept at bay for so long now swamping her. “No. We didn’t swap phone numbers or emails, and I never even told her my last name. She really has no idea who I am, other than that I write as Jessica Stewart.”
“Okay, so she could technically contact you that way, if she was so inclined.”
“Yes.”
“But she hasn’t?” Ruth’s voice was quiet.
“No.”
“Oh, Maggie. I’m so sorry.”
Maggie shrugged. “It is what it is. I knew that, going into it, and I knew it when I woke up alone the morning she had to leave.”
Ruth topped up their glasses and they drank in silence for long moments.
“So,” Ruth said eventually, “I guess you’re not exactly ready to be with someone else again. It’s obvious you’re still smarting from that ending the way it did.”
“I am. So yes, not looking yet, but being with her also did me a favour because as a result I understand that I need to be with someone who knows themselves and is living authentically. I also know I need to be with someone who understands my life, my work-life balance, and is willing to support me in that. Not like Kate.” Ruth snorted in agreement. “I have to live as me, completely me, and that doesn’t mean I won’t compromise a little—I know all relationships need that. But at my age I’m not going to be giving up all that’s important to me for a partner who can’t accept me and my life. I’d rather be alone.”
“Good for you.” Ruth raised her glass and waited for Maggie to follow suit. “To my marvellous sister, who has always known what she wants but seems to be finally making sure she gets it. I’m very proud of you.”
The lump in her throat prevented Maggie from speaking, but she nodded, tapped her glass against Ruth’s, and swallowed another delicious mouthful of wine.
It seemed rather fitting that the proof copy of Maggie’s latest Maddie Jones novel was delivered the next morning. She and her publisher had worked unbelievably hard to get this one ready for pre-Christmas release, both recognising its potential to top the lesfic charts over the holidays, when book sales peaked.
She had finished it at the cottage. That first day after Tamsyn had left, she’d allowed herself to indulge in a few hours of emotional wallowing, but then channelled all she was feeling into her writing. The result—put together at a rate of five to six thousand words a day, sometimes even ten thousand when she couldn’t seem to stop her fingers flying across the keyboard—was the book she now held in her hands. In the story, unlike the reality that had inspired it, the actress forged herself a new kind of future and she and the writer lived happily ever after.
Flicking through the pages, Maggie experienced that same thrill she always did when holding one of her own books. That feeling never lessened, and she hoped it never would.
Gizmo strolled into the room from the kitchen and hopped onto the sofa next to her, nudging her arm with his head.
“Oh, let me guess. It’s walk time, is it?”
He barked, and she would swear he was grinning.
“Come on then.”
An hour of fresh air, even if it was going to be in the drizzle that hadn’t stopped since she’d first got out of bed, would be the perfect precursor to sitting down with the proof copy. She had no other commitments this week and was relishing her freedom. Gizmo was in for some treats, too—she’d planned a day down at the south coast at the end of the week.
For now, though, they wandered through the almost-deserted landscape of Putney Common. The trees were already mostly stripped of their leaves, and a thick carpet of them squished under her boots. Gizmo was in his element, snuffling around in the undergrowth, chasing squirrels, and rolling in the damp grass.
Maggie trailed after him, lost in her own thoughts. It had been hard talking about her time with Tamsyn, but actually no harder than occasionally seeing her in the newspaper or on TV. Maggie had deliberately not watched anything in which Tamsyn starred, which meant she’d missed a one-off UK drama s
eries that had, of course, won high acclaim. Maybe she’d catch it on repeat sometime next year. Maybe by then she’d be able to cope better with seeing that beautiful face, remembering how that incredible body felt under her hands; her mouth, how easy they’d been with each other, both in and out of bed.
Gizmo had missed her too. He’d wandered around the cottage looking in all the rooms for two days after she’d left, and every time he thought someone was approaching the front door he’d bark excitedly, only to switch to whining when he realised he’d imagined it.
“We both wanted her to stay, didn’t we?” Maggie said, looking down at her dog as he lay on his back in the wet grass, all four paws sticking up in the air, tongue lolling to one side of his mouth. “Gizmo, you’re weird, you know that, right?”
Gizmo barked and rolled to his feet.
“Come on, you. Home time. Mummy needs to get back to work.” If only to halt the flow of memories of a certain famous actress, which would of course be impossible given how much of Tamsyn she’d written into her book. Yeah, maybe not the smartest idea I ever had.
She pulled Gizmo’s lead out of her coat pocket and clipped him in. He gave her face a quick lick while she was bent over, and once again, she wondered if he knew more than should be possible for a dog. His brown eyes stared at her, his head tilted.
“I’m okay, Giz. Promise.”
He whined, but obediently followed her when she tugged on the lead and walked him to the path that led back to the car park.
Chapter 16
“Tamsyn, give us a smile!” “Tamsyn, over here, darling!” Tamsyn!” “Tamsyn, this way!”
Her face ached from the forced smiles, and a myriad of white splotches spun across her eyelids each time she blinked. The press were out in force, which wasn’t unexpected, of course, but her weary reaction was. Tamsyn was sick of this. Sick of putting on a show, dressing to the nines in an admittedly glorious gown, posing for the swarm of photographers. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t have a headache before the end of the showing.