‘I read the manuscript. I know it’s Helen’s, so there’s no need to keep up the charade.’
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s extraordinary. She’s never written anything like it.’
‘How did you know it was hers then?’
‘I was her editor for twenty years.’
I was having afternoon tea with Clarissa Munten at Galvin Demoiselle at Harrods. Her choice. I had never been there before. I can’t remember the last time I joined anyone for afternoon tea. I asked for a glass of champagne. The place suited Clarissa, though. She looked like many of the other ladies enjoying their tea that day.
‘I’m sorry I lied to you. I wanted you to read it and thought you mightn’t if you knew it was Helen’s work.’
‘How did you get hold of it?’
‘I’ve been working with Helen.’
Clarissa’s expression revealed the thought she was too polite to voice. She took a sip of tea.
‘On the other book?’ she said, at last.
‘Yes, and they still haven’t decided on a title.’
‘And you work for M&R?’
‘Yes and no. I worked with Liam Smith on the Jack Cade thrillers. Editor slash ghostwriter slash co-writer. I don’t really need to work for anyone anymore. But I love editing. I like turning books around.’
‘And is that what you’re doing for Helen? Turning her book around?’
‘I thought I was. But I realised I was in way over my head with Helen and Malcolm. M&R are going to publish the original manuscript, the one Helen originally sent you. Probably in March 2017 ahead of Mother’s Day.’
Clarissa cut a minute morsel from her éclair and lifted her fork to her mouth. I watched as she took her time chewing and swallowing. Then she took a delicate sip of her tea, before asking, ‘Why has it taken so long?’
‘Helen lost faith in the book. Largely due to you and Malcolm.’
‘I did nothing to dissuade her from going ahead with the book.’
‘But you refused to work on it.’
‘I just didn’t think it was worthy of her.’
‘And you said as much?’
‘Of course, as her editor.’
‘Do you think of her as a sellout?’
‘The advance they offered was substantial; she would have been a fool to refuse it.’
‘But?’
‘I thought she was above such things, if I’m honest. And I think Malcolm did, too.’
‘Well, she’s been made desperately unhappy by her decision. By way of penance, I think, she’s gone on to write another two brilliant novels. The manuscript you’ve just read is the second of those, which is the more accomplished of the two.’
‘What does Malcolm think of the new work?’
‘He won’t read them. Their relationship has broken down. They don’t talk.’
‘That’s awful. I was always jealous of Helen’s relationship with Malcolm. They seemed the perfect literary match.’
‘He’s miserable too.’
‘And just when he’s been rewarded for all his hard work. The Man Booker shortlisting was long overdue. He’s a brilliant writer.’
‘Not as brilliant as Helen, though.’
‘That’s always been my opinion. And his, come to think of it.’
‘I’ve been living with them for the last few months and I’ve fallen in love with them both. It’s desperately sad to see what’s happening to them. I’m caught in the middle a bit and don’t know how to help. Helen confessed to me that she had tried on a number of occasions to get in contact with you.’
‘I feel terrible about ignoring her. But I just couldn’t face her. I was too disappointed in her. She shook my faith in . . . I don’t know what.’
‘Literature?’
‘No. My faith in her, I suppose. We’d worked together so long – I was a priestess in the church of Helen Owen. Working with her was a privilege and the highlight of my career. I believed in what she was trying to achieve with all my heart. The fact that I couldn’t articulate what that was made it all the more important. She was striving for some intangible other. Something higher than us. My only talent was I could feel when she was close.’
‘And this new book?’
‘Is the reason I’m still talking to you,’ she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out the manuscript, which she placed on the table. She rested her hand on the pages. ‘This is the real Helen Owen. This is the book I’ve been waiting for.’
‘Would you be willing to meet with her?’
‘Ah, that’s a bridge too far, I’m afraid. I’m retired. My husband and I are just about to spend a month at our villa in the south of France. It’s my sixty-fifth birthday next week and we’re expecting the girls and their families to join us for a week. The weather is still lovely down there.’
‘Can you send her an email?’
‘Look, Amy, it was nice to meet you but I have to go.’
She reached into her bag to get her wallet and I waved her away, saying, ‘I’ll get the bill.’
Clarissa stood and then sat back down. ‘Helen broke my heart. Do you know what that feels like?’
I nodded.
‘Then you know how hard it is for me to even talk about her.’
I said nothing. Clarissa stood again.
‘Thank you for sending me the manuscript and tricking me into reading it. It hasn’t healed the wounds but it has dulled the pain a little.’
She moved away but stopped after taking only a few steps. I stood up. She turned. I could see that she was upset, on the verge of tears. I walked to her and touched her arm.
Clarissa looked me in the eye, and said, ‘Don’t let them publish that book. Promise me you’ll try to stop them.’
‘There’s nothing I can do.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second.’