Page 38 of Book People

Sadly, I do. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, I was thinking I could offer a memoir-writing workshop. I’ve written my own, as you know, and it was a fantastic learning experience.’

She’s retired, Mrs Marshall. An ex-teacher, though I’m sure no one ever spots that.

I’m jesting, of course. It’s one of the first things you’d spot about her.

‘It’s a readers’ festival,’ I say, with manufactured regret. ‘So, I’m sorry. We’re not offering any writing workshops.’

She frowns. ‘Really? Oh, what a shame.’ She turns abruptly. ‘Aloysius! Come away!’

The dog is behaving suspiciously.

‘Mrs Marshall,’ I begin. ‘Perhaps Aloysius might be more comfortable outside?’

‘Eh? Oh, right you are.’ She goes over to her dog and ushers him away from his potential desecration of a volume on Italian architecture.

As she’s in the process of herding him outside, she asks, ‘Have you got a programme for the festival, then?’

My smile is fixed, thinking of all the marketing I had to pull because of JamesfuckingWyatt. ‘Very soon.’

‘You might want to get cracking with that,’ she points out unnecessarily, not helping my already pissed-off mood. ‘Give people some time to decide what sessions they want to go to.’

‘Yes, I’m waiting on confirmation from a special guest,’ I say, probably unwisely, since we haven’t had confirmation from said special guest, but what the hell.

Instantly Gillian gets a very intent look on her face. She loves gossip more than anything and loves being the first to know even more than that.

‘I shouldn’t tell you since she hasn’t confirmed yet,’ I say casually, which might end up being a mistake: this will all go to hell in a handbasket if Lisa Underwood doesn’t want to come.Then again, I need to gauge interest somehow, and a rumour might very well be the only way.

Gillian couldn’t write an engaging memoir if her life depended on it (yes, I read some of her manuscript, because she asked me to and I couldn’t say no), but she’s truly excellent at inadvertently letting slip secrets. Especially secrets she’s not allowed to tell anyone.

‘Oh, go on,’ she says. ‘You can tell me. I’m the soul of discretion.’

‘Fine. But . . .’ I fix her with a gimlet eye. ‘If you could keep this to yourself, I’d be grateful.’

Her face lights up. ‘Of course, dear boy. You can count on me.’

She will love this news, I know she will, because while she’s got a whole shelf-ful of classics she’s never read, she did readColours. And she loved it. She couldn’t stop raving about it.

‘Well, as I said, we don’t have confirmation yet, but . . .’ I draw the moment out. ‘Word is Lisa Underwood might be interested in coming.’

‘Oh? What?’ She’s looking at me like a child on Christmas morning looks at their presents. ‘Is that really a possibility?’

I give her a solemn nod. I’m not lying. Itisa possibility.

‘Oh, dear boy, that would be amazing,’ she says and I know she truly means it. ‘That would be wonderful. I’ve never met an actual author and to meet her . . .’ She stops and presses her lips together as Aloysius disappears off to bother some other poor shopkeeper. ‘Well, mum’s the word. I’ll be first in line for a ticket, that’s for certain.’

‘I’ll let you know,’ I assure her, and as she disappears through the door after her dog, I can’t decide whether I’ve made a mistake and tempted the gods, or made an excellent marketing decision and tempted a great many of Gillian’s well-heeled friends. The people who pretend they only read the classics, while secretly devouring James Patterson under the blankets.

Feeling more like I’ve dug my own grave than I care to, I get my phone out of my pocket and glance at the screen. There are no more texts from Miss Jones and I can’t stop myself from checking again the one she sent me last night.

You go straight to my head.

I didn’t respond. The satisfaction her message prompted wasn’t something I could allow or indulge. Yet it sweeps over me again as I look at her text and remember the look in her eyes as I pulled away. The grey deepening to charcoal, her cheeks flushed, that pulse at the base of her throat racing.

She’d liked it. She’d liked that kiss.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this. I should be thinking about my great-grandfather’s notes and how Miss Jones also texted that it seems likely my ancestor slipped them into books that he’d then given to this ‘C’. That there was definitely a secret affair happening and that it was something Lisa Underwood would probably be interested in.

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