2

ALICE

I’m hogging the only full-length mirror in Karen Millen, pressing a lavender dress against me. It’s Mum’s birthday in a few weeks and I want to buy her something she’ll love, something that will make her fling her arms around my neck, exclaiming, ‘Oh Alice, you’re the best daughter in the whole wide world!’ The birds will sing, rainbows will fill the sky . . . you get the idea. We’re about the same build and we’ve got the same colouring; she actually calls me her ‘Mini-me’. If it looks OK on me, it’ll look OK on Mum. Problem is, it doesn’t look OK on me. It drains my skin and emphasizes my veins.

I catch the shop assistant’s eye and she smiles. I look away. I can tell she’s thinking I’m a vain cow. That I’m so narcissistic, I may as well gaze into a river until I die. Well, maybe Narcissus was insecure. Maybe Narcissus was thinking how badly his eyebrows needed waxing. Maybe he died longing not for himself, but for a pair of tweezers.

I wander to the till, feeling a little lost. This is the fourth shop I’ve tried, and I’m yet to find that perfect rainbow-summoning dress. Defeated, I slop it on the counter and offer the assistant my card and a half-arsed smile.

While I’m paying, my phone rings. It’s Violet. ‘Alice, where are you? Timothy is expecting us in ten minutes.’

I glance at my watch. ‘Shit. Sorry, I’ll be there in a sec. Tell him I’ve got my period or something, you know, make him blush so bad he can’t get pissed. Hang on a mo.’ I grab the shopping bag and mumble my thanks to the shop assistant. ‘OK, I’m just leaving the shops.’ I weave my way around the autumn collection and step into the air-conditioned dome of the shopping centre.

‘You’re shopping?’ Violet hisses.

‘Maybe. Just a bit. But I’m literally minutes away.

See you soon, love you.’ I slip my phone into my bag.

I pass a group of lads on the escalator. They’re practically drooling, but thankfully, they don’t say anything. I’m so over the whole man thing. Something about Comaville changed me. Since puberty, I’ve been defined by my relationship with boys. If I slept with them, I was a slag. If I didn’t, I was a prick tease. If I was single, I was fair game. If I was in a couple, I was Alice and *insert name*.

I think I forgot how to be just Alice.

As promised, I arrive at Timothy’s office ten minutes later, bang on time. I’ve already rammed the lavender dress into my handbag so Violet doesn’t give me that look. She’s my bestie and I love her, but sometimes she can sit on the judgey side of sanctimonious.

She sees me and grins, visibly relieved at not having to see Timothy alone. I suddenly feel way less bothered about my inability to find a mother-pleasing dress.

‘Good morning,’ I say to the sour-faced receptionist.

She offers me a stiff smile. ‘Good morning. Timothy is ready to see you.’

Timothy’s oak-panelled office always reminds me of the inside of a coffin. A grand, luxurious coffin, but a coffin all the same. A shiver creeps up my spine even though it’s so hot I could fry an egg on his desk.

He sees us and beams. ‘Darlings,’ he says, embracing us each in turn. He pretends he’s late twenties, but me and Violet reckon he’s closer to forty. There’s a full-on dad bod hidden beneath that designer shirt, and Violet said she once made out the beginnings of a comb-over.

‘It’s so wonderful to see you both, please, do sit.’ He gestures to a cluster of leather chairs in the corner of his office, right next to the ceiling-tall bookshelves. One of the shelves is a reconditioned grand piano, tipped on to its side, strings and hammers replaced with rows upon rows of books. It looks like the kind of pretentious crap my parents would buy.

A tray of coffee and bourbons has been laid out in anticipation of our visit. I sit beside Violet, recline in my chair and push my sunglasses on to my head. The key with Timothy is to act cool, to never show your weaknesses. Masks matter, that’s what Dad always says. The impression you give the world defines you, and once you let that mask slip, there’s no going back.

Timothy sits opposite us. ‘Alice, you look amazing.’ His smile is so bleached I consider replacing my shades. ‘When The Gallows Song is turned into a film we must see that you’re an extra, a Gem, obviously. It will drum up some lovely publicity for you.’

I smile politely. We all know the offer is futile; Violet and I have barely left the house in a year and now we’re starting university degrees.

He looks at Violet. ‘And Violet, my sweet Parma Violet, how’s that brother of yours?’

‘No change,’ she says.

I squeeze her hand. Mostly for her benefit, but also for mine. I miss Nate so much, it makes my stomach ache.

Timothy’s smile melts into an expression of sympathy. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, really, I am.’

The puppy-dog eyes vanish and he switches to business mode so seamlessly it’s a little unnerving. ‘So . . . I asked you here to discuss something very important, something I didn’t want to put in an email.’ He picks up the coffee pot, ready to pour, but stops just at the crucial moment. ‘Your next book,’ he says.

Excitement fizzes in my stomach. ‘Oh yes. Violet and I have had a few ideas. One of our mates plays the cello and we thought an orchestra might be a good backdrop—’

He laughs. ‘No, no. The next book in The Gallows Dance trilogy.’

Violet and I stare at each other. An expression crosses her features which I can’t quite place. Book three is a sore point for her. I’ve never worked out why, but with Nate in a coma and her parents close to a meltdown, I haven’t pushed it.

I wait for her response, aware that this is her battle, but when she freezes, I step in. ‘It isn’t a trilogy.’

He hands me a cup of coffee. It’s really bloody hot, but I’ll be damned if I let him see how bad it burns.

He watches me. ‘Come now, Alice. This is dystopia. Bad things happen in threes.’

Violet finds her voice, even though it shakes slightly. ‘There isn’t going to be a third book. It was written as the last part of a duology, you know that. It’s why we called it The Gallows Song, because it sounded a bit like swansong. Alice and I left the characters in a world they’d want to live in. A world Nate would want to live in. I know it sounds crazy.’

Timothy widens his eyes like he’s dying to shout: Hell yes, crazy lady.

‘There’s nothing crazy about wanting a happy ending,’ I say.

Violet throws me a grateful smile.

‘At least hear me out,’ Timothy says, clapping his hands together. ‘The Gallows Song has only been out a couple of months, but it’s already an international success. You turned a dystopia into a utopia. But there’s one small problem.’ He sips his coffee, giving him the excuse to leave a dramatic pause. ‘Utopias suck.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Violet says. She sometimes does that when she’s taken aback, ages fifty years and sounds like my gran.

‘It’s a fact,’ he says. ‘I take it you saw that review yesterday. I mean, the Daily Dystopia is one of our biggest platforms, we need to take heed.’

‘Review is just another word for opinion,’ Violet says, channelling Katie’s fight.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘But they’ve got a point. The world is a scary place, our futures are full of uncertainty. Sales of 1984 and The Handmaid’s Tale are through the roof for a reason. Readers don’t want an unattainable, fairy-tale ending which can never be achieved, they want a book which explores their fears, reflects their concerns, captures the current milieu.’ He picks up a plate and shoves it in front of Violet’s face. ‘Biscuit?’

‘Uh, no thanks,’ she says.

I take the plate from his hand and place it back on the table. Nobody force-feeds my bestie. ‘Did you rehearse that speech in front of the mirror, Timothy?’ I ask, my tone clipped.

‘Several times. Was it that obvious, my darlings?’ He always does this. Wraps up bad news in charm, like little shit parcels. You undo the big red bow, carefully fold back the tissue paper, only to discover a turd. ‘Our researchers have been tracking your Fandom carefully online, trawling through chatrooms, fanfic, bloggers and vloggers and so on. Everything points to the exact same thing.’ He stands and walks to the piano-shelf. I can make out the dark hairs shaved close against his chin. ‘The Fandom is hungry. And when something is hungry, what’s the obvious thing to do?’

‘Feed it,’ I say.

He nods. ‘And this Fandom seems to want a healthy portion of conflict.’

Violet speaks out. ‘OK, so the world’s scary, but surely that means the readers want something good to hold on to. That’s why fairy tales were so popular in difficult times, they promised a better life filled with love and friendship and comfort. They gave people hope.’

He begins to pull books from the shelf. ‘You’re talking about stories written for infants, Violet. Your Fandom is predominantly young adult.’ He places the books on the table, fanning them out with one smooth motion so I can read the covers. Divergent. A Clockwork Orange. The Handmaid’s Tale. 1984. The Hunger Games. ‘Young adults want paranoia, because Big Brother is watching them. They want violence and retribution, because that’s what they see in the media every day. They want sex, because their bodies are overflowing with urges and hormones.’ Finally, he pulls out The Gallows Dance by Sally King and places it on the top of the pile, triumphant. ‘They want this. Tragedy, passion, loss . . . that’s why the Daily Dystopian changed their rating, my darlings; they were feeding the beast. And you need to do the same.’

‘But we told you,’ Violet says, her voice a little shrill. ‘We told you right from the start we would only write one book. You promised us that would be it.’ All of the colour has drained from her face. Why does this matter to her so much? I need to find out, but now is not the time; she looks like she’s about to puke.

Timothy breathes out, long and slow. ‘Look, why don’t you come to Comic-Con on Saturday. I’m doing a panel with Russell Jones, the actor who plays Willow.’

‘We know who Russell Jones is,’ I snap.

Timothy ignores me. ‘Come and meet your Fandom, sign some books . . . think about what that third book would mean to your readers. Comic-Con is, well . . . it’s where the Fandom is at its strongest.’

Just the thought of going back to Comic-Con makes my heart race and my head spin. It makes me think of earth tremors and waking up in hospital one week later. It makes me think of Nate still sleeping. And it makes me think of . . . of . . . things I can’t even begin to make sense of. Things which gnaw at the edges of my dreams and bring tears to my eyes from the sheer effort of NOT thinking about them.

No. I can never go back to Comic-Con.

I put my shades back on, just in case I’m tearing up, and stand from my chair. Then, pushing back my shoulders and summoning my best ‘screw-you’ voice, I say, ‘Look, Timothy, Comic-Con is absolutely out of the question. And if you need to ask either of us why, then frankly, you are not entitled to call yourself a human being.’ I’d planned a dramatic exit, head held high, Violet beside me mentally giving him the finger. But the desk blocks my way.

He takes the opportunity to clasp my palm in his dry, steady hands. ‘Please do think about it, my darlings.’ And just before we leave, he drops a final, parting shit-bomb on us from a great height. ‘You’re both so talented and I would hate to have to ask another of my authors to write it.’