Marguerite waited in the green room, pretending to read texts on her phone to avoid having to make polite conversation with anyone else. Her mouth was dry and her palms were damp. She’d never been one for spur-of-the-moment decisions before, but it was happening now. Less than an hour ago, she’d realized what it was she had to do.
Okay, not had to. But it needed to be done.
Oh yes. Definitely.
“Hi,” said Tony Weston, appearing before her and making her jump. “In case I don’t get a chance to tell you later, my wife’s a huge fan of your books. She wanted you to know how much she loves them.”
“Really? Thank you so much. That’s lovely to hear.” Having done her homework and studied the information Riley had printed out for her, Marguerite knew that Tony Weston had met his wife Martha just four years ago. A strikingly attractive woman of Afro-Caribbean descent, she was a successful artist in her own right. Their first meeting had taken place on Primrose Hill in north London, and as far as Tony was concerned, it had been a case of love at first sight. By all accounts they were idyllically happily married.
Which was lovely in one way, of course, but disappointing in another.
Some people just had it so easy, didn’t they?
And then there’s me, thought Marguerite, at the other end of the scale. Why can’t I have a fraction of their luck?
“Ms. Marshall?” A studio runner wearing the obligatory headset and clutching a clipboard said cheerfully, “Time to take you downstairs. Shall we go?”
“Absolutely.” Now that she’d made up her mind, the fear fell away. It was like waking up and finding yourself miraculously twenty years younger. Rising to her feet, Marguerite smoothed down her skirt and said, “Let’s do this thing.”
Tony Weston’s smile was unintentionally encouraging as she turned to leave the green room. “Have a good one.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Marguerite. “I will.”
The show had begun. The hosts had had their three minutes of playful husband-and-wife banter and were now announcing who would be on the show. The audience, whose job it was to generate maximum enthusiasm, went wild. Listening to them from backstage, Marguerite wondered if this was how it felt to have an out-of-body experience. Her agent would be at home now, watching the show. As would her editor.
As would her fans, those faithful readers all over the country who for years had bought and adored her books.
“Ms. Marshall?” said the runner. “Are you feeling all right? You’re looking a bit pale.”
Was she? Marguerite considered the options. What was the worst that could happen? She could faint onstage, on live TV. Sometimes people lost control of their bladder when they fainted; that would generate a few headlines.
Although maybe not the kind you’d want to read.
Oh, what the hell. She wasn’t the fainting kind.
And as for the headlines… Well, they weren’t exactly going to be flattering anyway.
“Don’t worry.” Marguerite checked her mike pack was secure. “I’m fine.”
“And now please welcome into the studio one of this country’s most successful novelists, with twenty-five million books sold worldwide…the marvelous, magnificent Marguerite Marshall!”
The audience cheered and applauded, and Marguerite made her way onto the set. She exchanged air kisses with Jon and Jackie and took her place on the purple suede sofa. A pocket of extra-enthusiastic cheering in the right-hand section of the audience alerted her to the fact that her fan club was in; thirty or so women who lived and breathed her books and hired minibuses to attend as many of her public appearances as humanly possible. Six of them, she knew, had traveled down from Scotland for this evening’s show.
Who else would be watching from the comfort of their own homes? Lawrence and Dot? Loyal readers who had lined up in the cold and the rain to have her sign books for them? Old friends from years gone by with whom she hadn’t bothered to stay in contact after her career as a bestselling author had taken off?
Okay, this was like drowning and having your whole life flash before you. Time appeared to have slowed to a crawl. Marguerite glanced at the front row and saw Suze, still clapping madly. Because she worked in public relations and it was her job to applaud.
And there, next to her, sat Riley and Tula, the sides of their legs almost but not quite touching. As she looked at them, Riley leaned over and murmured something and Tula tilted her head close to his to hear what he was saying. Then she broke into a smile and gave his knee a playful nudge with hers.
Marguerite, who had spent the day paying very close attention to the way they interacted, knew she was about to do the right thing. The chemistry between them was unmistakable. Tula might be doing her level best to deny it, but to a novelist—a professional observer of body language—the signals were definitely there.
Okay, ex-novelist.
“Wow, Marguerite, that was quite some welcome,” Jon enthused when the applause finally died down. “Not that you’re anywhere near old enough, but that kind of reaction means you’re practically a national treasure!”
“It’s very kind of them.” The blood in her veins was racing around her body at Formula 1 speed. Smiling apologetically at the audience, Marguerite said, “Thank you. I really don’t deserve it.”
Which prompted cries of “Yes you do!” from her adoring fan club.
“Well, I love your books,” Jackie chimed in, as bubbly and effusive as ever. “Once I start reading them, I just can’t stop! I once missed a flight to New York, that’s how engrossed I was!”
“And that was our honeymoon!” Jon quipped. “Now, the new book is published today.” He held up a copy of the hardback for the benefit of camera three. “Unbelievably, it’s your thirty-ninth novel, and this one’s called Tell Me Now.” He paused, twinkly-eyed. “So, Marguerite, tell me now, what’s the secret? How do you keep on doing it?”
If she’d written the script herself, she couldn’t have engineered a better opening line. Okay, here goes. Marguerite fixed her gaze on twinkly-eyed Jon and said, “I don’t. I get someone else to do it.”
Everyone burst out laughing. If a stand-up comedian had said it, it wouldn’t have been funny. But when a noncomedian said something faintly amusing, the response was greater. Like when a tennis player at Wimbledon dropped a ball thrown to him by a ball boy and pulled an oops face, and everyone on Centre Court cracked up.
“No, don’t laugh.” Marguerite shook her head at Jon and Jackie. “I’m not joking. It’s the truth.”
***
The weird thing, Tula couldn’t help noticing, was the way everyone in the audience was laughing except Riley. He’d suddenly become very still. Glancing at his profile, she saw him staring intently at Marguerite on the purple sofa, his high cheekbone accentuated by the overhead lighting. A muscle was twitching in his jaw.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, her own cheek brushing his shoulder.
He nodded without replying.
Up on the stage, Jon was now saying jovially, “You mean if you get a bit stuck every now and again, you have a brainstorming session with your editor?”
Then Tula saw that Marguerite was shaking her head, very firmly indeed.
“No, nothing like that. It’s been bothering me for a while; I’m a very proud woman, if not always an honest one. But it’s time to come clean. I suffered a horrible case of writer’s block and haven’t managed to write a book since. In fact, it’s been six years now…”
Marguerite wavered and paused, raising a hand to signal that she needed a moment to compose herself. Tula wondered what was going on; was Marguerite drunk or having some kind of breakdown? The audience had now fallen silent too.
“Um, so I know this is going to upset my readers and I’m really sorry, but there it is. I can’t write anymore. At all. It just won’t…happen.”
“Well, this is quite an announcement,” Jon said quickly. “I think it’s fair to say we’re all pretty surprised by this news. Can I ask how your publishers feel about it? I mean, presumably they hired a ghostwriter to do the job on your behalf, but did they have any idea you were coming here tonight to reveal the big secret?”
Tula glanced across at Suze, who was looking as frozen now as Riley had earlier. It was safe to say the answer to that question was no.
“My publisher didn’t hire a ghostwriter,” said Marguerite, “because they didn’t know I needed one. They weren’t aware there was any secret to reveal.”
God, this was getting weirder and weirder. It was unbelievable. Tula put her hand on Riley’s forearm and felt the rigidity of the muscles beneath the surface. Leaning in to him, she whispered, “Is this true? Did she tell you about this? Did you know?”
“So, Marguerite.” On the purple sofa, Jackie assumed her professionally mystified face. “In that case, who has been writing your books for you?”
Marguerite turned her head to look out into the audience, and Tula felt the muscles in Riley’s arm tighten to the next level. Then Marguerite raised her left arm and pointed directly at her.
“Right there. See? Sitting in the front row.”
“Oh shit.” Tula gasped as Suze jerked around to stare incredulously at her. “This is mad; it’s not me… She can’t make me pretend I wrote her books!” There might be some situations you could bluff your way through, but this definitely wasn’t one of them.
Then she became aware of a noise like compressed air escaping from a car tire and realized it was coming from Riley’s throat.
As the floor manager frantically gestured for camera two to swivel around and face the audience, Marguerite pointed again and jabbed her finger. “That’s who’s been writing the books. Over there. My nephew, Riley.”