The woman sitting opposite Max in The Ivy brings to mind a hound. She has a long nose and longer chin and her bush of blonde hair, which swirls across her shoulders, calls forth images of recently shorn wool. He widens his smile to dispel the picture and inclines his head.
‘Are we drinking, Romilly?’
‘I thought champagne would be appropriate?’
‘Wonderful. You know,’ Max says, after the waiter has taken the order and retreated discreetly, ‘I was so delighted to get your call. With all the recent attention Hazel has had, and the way the press has leapt on the story, it’s been a tad overwhelming. When you called, it was like manna from heaven.’ He raises the crystal flute he is handed and chinks it delicately against Romilly’s. ‘Cheers.’
‘This is where I’m at my most useful,’ she says, her eyes trained on Max above the rim of her glass. ‘In the eye of the storm, it’s easy to lose your bearings. You need a compass, someone to direct you and present the different options. That’s how Harris Associates earn our money. We can quieten the racket, pick out the good options, and help you focus on the aspects that will have the best outcome. Oh, just the chef’s salad,’ she says, without turning her head to the waiter who has deftly reappeared at their table. ‘No dressing.’
‘The duck,’ Max says, pushing the menu towards the table’s edge and lifting his glass again. ‘Thank you.’
‘For example,’ Romilly continues, ‘this week alone, I’ve had producers from Netflix wanting to discuss a feature-length documentary on the Flower Girls – obviously focusing on Hazel. Did you see the Amanda Knox one? Propelled her massively in public opinion ratings. I mean, I still think she did it but that’s irrelevant. It’s what the public think that counts. If Hazel could get just half such a positive response, then we’re looking at film deals. Before any of that, of course, we’ve got the auction of the book proposal. And then once you’ve written the book – which will need to be done immediately, by the way – there’s the submission to media groups for serialisation rights.’
‘Which I’m hugely excited by,’ Max says.
‘Yes, it’s great news.’ Romilly smiles again. ‘These really are happy days.’
Conversation pauses as the food arrives.
‘And Hazel,’ Romilly says, studying her salad in the manner of a pest-control expert appraising a rat’s den. ‘How is she coping with it all? With the attention? Is she strong enough to deal with it, do you think?’
Max nods. ‘Hazel’s fine. I’m sorry she hasn’t come along today. She’s just got engaged. A little bit swept off her feet, I think.’ He takes a sip of champagne. ‘One thing I will say about her, though: she looks vulnerable but underneath she’s tough as anything. And she has Jonny to support her too.’
‘Sure, but we’re going to have to move quickly, Max. Once the court judgment is out, all of this will be in the public domain. We have Hazel for the moment. But we need her to sign a contract. Because she’s vital. Without her, frankly, we’ll have nothing other than the stuff that is out there already. You’re positive you have her on board?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Max says, bristling slightly, feeling a prickly flush creep up the back of his neck. ‘Hazel depends on me to advise her. She’s vulnerable. I don’t think she really understands how to handle it all so that’s where I come in. Where we come in, Romilly. Don’t you worry about her.’
The table vibrates with the buzzing of Romilly’s phone. She holds up a hand in apology as she takes the call.
‘OK, thanks. I’ll be right there.’
Ending the brief conversation, she smiles at Max, bringing her handbag onto her lap. ‘I’m so sorry but I’m going to have to dash. Something’s cropped up back at the office.’ She stands and waves at the table. ‘Do let me get this. It’s been so lovely to meet.’
Max rises, his napkin in his hand. ‘Thank you so, so much, Romilly. It has indeed been a delight. And listen,’ he continues as she exits from behind the table and makes to leave. ‘Please don’t worry overly about getting the contract signed.’ He kisses her on both cheeks, his hands on her shoulders. ‘There’s no cause for concern at all. Hazel and I are as thick as thieves.’
He meets her later that afternoon in a bookshop just off Piccadilly Circus. She arrives hand in hand with Jonny and they retreat to a café at the top of the building. Hazel’s eyes rove around, taking in the hushed whispers of the other customers as they notice one of the Flower Girls sitting down with her back to them, her collar turned up high.
‘Let’s order cake,’ Max says. ‘We’re celebrating.’
‘Are we? What for?’ Jonny answers, glancing around.
‘For fame, glory and all of its spoils. Harris Associates are desperate to take you on. Take us on. The whole shebang. They’ve got producers interested. Netflix, Amazon. They want to do a documentary. Hollywood beckons! We’ll get Reese Witherspoon buying the film rights before you can say Gone Girl.’
Hazel is quiet, a look of concern on her face.
‘What is it?’
She glances across at Jonny, who puts his arm round her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. It’s all going so fast. I feel a little bit out of my depth, I suppose.’
‘You mustn’t worry,’ Max says firmly. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? And Jonny? It’s what I’ve always said, it’s all about perception. People don’t know what they believe until they’re told what to believe. If the accepted line is that you’re totally innocent, people will get it.’
‘I am totally innocent.’ Hazel’s tone is sharp.
The memory of the cassette tape burns like a hot poker across Max’s skull. With an effort he pushes it away. This is his chance. His chance to make something of his life.
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ He swallows, lowering his voice a little. He has had too much champagne at lunch and his gullet feels as though it’s on fire. He needs to focus. ‘But I’m talking about what’s represented in the media. Look, if you had every paper globally telling you that the world was flat – every article, every expert, every TV show – eventually you’d start to believe it, wouldn’t you? If all the photos of the world as round were removed so you had nothing to counter the arguments? People can’t hold onto an idea if there’s no foundation to it.
‘What we’re going to do with the book is start sowing the seeds of you as a charming, beautiful, vulnerable woman. Then we bolster that with more and more information, until all the search engines, all the available information, is about that, not you being associated with your sister.’ Max shrugs, looks down at the empty table in front of them. ‘It’s just how things work.’
Jonny nods and squeezes Hazel’s shoulder and she visibly relaxes, takes a look over Max’s head to the counter full of cakes and muffins. ‘I’m going to visit Laurel on Wednesday by the way.’
‘What?’ Max exclaims too loudly. An elderly woman at the table next to them stares over crossly. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’
‘I need to end things once and for all. I need to say goodbye.’
‘I think it’s a terrible idea,’ Max forces himself to speak in a quieter tone. ‘Before, I would have been all for it, positively encouraged it. But now . . . since the court case . . . she hates you for what you said about her in court. She must do. She won’t get out now. I’m surprised she’s even agreed to see you, if I’m honest.’
Hazel’s lips tighten a fraction. ‘Oh, she’ll see me.’ She puts her head on one side. ‘Do you really think I shouldn’t go?’
‘I’m just looking out for you, Hazel.’ Max lifts his head to meet her eyes. ‘Look, shall we get some water? I’m feeling a tad warm.’
‘Well, let’s see,’ Hazel says, and puts her elbows on the table and gives a little smile. She forms her hands into tight fists, the knuckles white.
‘What are you doing?’ Max stares at her, his head beginning to throb.
‘It’s a game Hazel used to play,’ Jonny says. ‘Back when she was younger.’
‘Yes?’ Max says, watching her, his mouth dry.
‘I used to play it with my mum and my sister,’ Hazel says. ‘When one of us didn’t want to do something that Mummy had asked us to do, we’d play it. Scissors, paper, stone. You know it? You bounce your hand down three times like this,’ she says, moving her fist through the air above the table. ‘Scissors beat paper, paper beats rock and rock beats scissors. Shall we do it?’
Max’s laugh is nervous. ‘What for, for God’s sake?’
‘No, you’re right.’ Hazel frowns in a strange way. ‘It’s a stupid idea. Sorry.’ She looks up at him, her eyes big and round. ‘I always used to lose the game anyway.’
Jonny laughs softly. ‘How about that cake then?’
‘Wait,’ Hazel says, placing her hand on his. ‘We need to tell him.’
‘Tell him what?’ Max says, his eyes flitting from Hazel to Jonny.
He is beginning to feel sick. The bookshop is too hot, too quiet. He watches her smiling at him, watches the way she takes him in, as if she knows him absolutely, is drinking in his deepest fears, his deepest insecurities. There is something so nauseating about it that, for the first time in her company, Max feels a delicate shiver move slowly down his spine.
‘Romilly Harris,’ Hazel says. ‘Harris Associates.’
He knows what she is going to say before she says it. He sees then with a terrible clarity how he has been played and how he has let his greed and ambition lead him here, to become a person he doesn’t recognise.
‘I just spoke to her. Well . . .’ she smiles at him and Jonny leans back, crossing his knee over his thigh ‘. . . we saw her actually, at her office.’
‘You signed the contract.’ Max’s voice is practically a whisper. There is something wrong with his throat, he cannot seem to get enough air.
‘We do want to thank you, Max. For everything you’ve done for us. But, well, I need an agent myself, really. What with everything that’s happening for me right now. You’re just a writer, aren’t you? Romilly . . . she’s the person who holds the key to everything. I’m sorry, I know you thought we’d do this together . . .’ Hazel’s voice trails off, her eyes dipping low.
‘Romilly says you’ll definitely still be paid for the proposal you did. And that you might be chosen,’ Jonny says brightly. ‘You know, to be the ghostwriter.’
Hazel nods. ‘I’m sure they’ll give you an acknowledgement inside the book,’ she says. ‘But I know that’s not important to you. I know that you did all of this in my best interests. That’s what you’ve always said, isn’t it? That’s why we’re so grateful to you. Honestly, we are.’
Max has turned pale. He can feel a tightness in his chest, it’s hard for him to breathe.
‘Are you OK, Max?’
Hazel’s voice is very far away all of a sudden.
‘The tape . . .’ he says. ‘I heard the tape. Someone sent it to me.’
‘What’s that, Max? I can’t hear you. What tape?’
And then the bookshop disappears, and the last thing Max sees is Hazel’s face above him before everything turns dark.