Okay, now Marguerite really had lost it. Either that, or she was playing some kind of bizarre, improbable joke. Except there didn’t appear to be any discernible punchline.
Then Tula looked again at Riley, saw him shake his head in resignation, and heard him say under his breath, “Fuck.”
Not in an it’s-not-true way. More of a cat-out-of-the-bag one.
Tula’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You? You’ve been writing Marguerite’s books?”
The idea of it was on par with a Labrador suddenly breaking into a tap dance.
Then she flinched as the overhead spotlights swiveled, their brightness illuminating the audience. Specifically, the front row. The cameras had swung around too, cables snaking behind them. Up on the stage, Marguerite’s voice broke as she said, “I’m sorry. I’m so ashamed. I’ve felt terrible about it for years. I just didn’t want to disappoint my readers…” She stood up, struggling to disentangle the mike pack from beneath her pink jacket. “We didn’t mean to trick anyone; it was just my own stupid pride. Okay, I can’t do this anymore. I have to go now before I make even more of a fool of myself…”
There were gasps as Marguerite succeeded in separating herself from the mike pack and left the stage, leaving Jon and Jackie staring helplessly after her. There was a moment of stunned silence, then Jackie jumped up and moved quickly over to the audience. Reaching for Riley’s arm, she said, “Well, you can’t leave us guestless! Come on, if you write the books for Marguerite, you can stand in for her on the sofa.”
She must have been stronger than she looked, because Riley didn’t appear to have any choice in the matter. The moment the cameras panned away from the audience, Suze shot out of her seat and disappeared, clutching her phone and looking as if she’d swallowed a hedgehog.
The next few minutes surely ranked among the most surreal of Tula’s life as she sat and listened to Riley explain how the switch had come about. If Jon and Jackie seemed amazed, it couldn’t begin to compete with her own astonishment, since they didn’t know Riley and she did.
Except she hadn’t, had she? Her heart thumping against her ribs, Tula realized she hadn’t known Riley Bryant at all.
Then the interview was over and Jon was wrapping up the segment with, “Well, I have to say, ladies and gentlemen, that wasn’t something I’d planned on happening tonight, but I guess that’s live television for you. Expect the unexpected, eh? Riley, good luck with everything, my friend.” Cheerily he added, “And tell Marguerite we forgive her for pulling the wool over our eyes all these years, even if her publishers don’t!”
The audience broke into jerky applause and Riley left the set, to the accompaniment of stifled sobs and angry mutterings from Marguerite’s fan club, who evidently weren’t taking it well. Someone said in a shocked voice, “All this time she was just lying to us… I can’t bear it.”
And then there was one. Tula wondered what she was meant to do now. Jon and Jackie were already gearing up to introduce the female singer, their next guest on the show. Then someone in the row behind Tula tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, “Psst, he’s over there by the fire exit.”
Tula looked and saw Riley beckoning to her. As she crept out of her seat, the girl who’d given her the tap on the shoulder said enviously, “Is he your boyfriend? You’re so lucky. He’s, like, totally hot.”
The fire exit door closed behind her and Riley said, “Come on, we need to find her.”
He looked serious. And concerned. And gorgeous. The girl sitting behind her had been right; he was totally hot.
Anyway, never mind that now. Together they made their way along corridors and past members of staff who allowed them through security doors when they realized who Riley was. They reached the green room and found Suze pacing up and down, speaking urgently into her phone, her body radiating tension. The female singer’s entourage was clustered around the TV, watching her performance on the show. Marguerite was sitting on a black leather sofa, wiping her eyes with a tissue and talking to a middle-aged Afro-Caribbean woman in a long crimson cotton dress.
Tula said, “Who’s that with Marguerite?”
“Tony Weston’s wife. Her name’s Martha.” As they watched, Martha wrapped motherly arms around Marguerite and drew her into a sympathetic embrace. She murmured words of comfort as Marguerite broke down and sobbed on her shoulder.
“Oh God,” Riley said under his breath.
He’d taken Tula’s hand. She squeezed his in return. Marguerite had always been strong, fearless, super confident, and utterly invincible. Seeing her in tears was all kinds of wrong.
Then Tony Weston crossed the room carrying a brimming, fizzing tumbler.
“Here you go.” He held it out to Marguerite. “Gin and tonic, strong enough to stun a tiger.”
Martha released her hold on Marguerite and rummaged in her bag for fresh tissues. “If my husband’s good for anything, it’s mixing a hefty gin and tonic. There now, sweetie, dry your eyes.” Glancing over at Riley and Tula, she said, “Ah, look. Your boy’s here.”
Your boy. Martha had the warmest, gentlest voice you could imagine. They saw Marguerite mentally gather herself, dab the tissue beneath her heavily mascaraed lashes, and take a huge gulp of her drink. Then she looked up.
Riley said, “I’ve just been interviewed on TV.”
“I know. We saw. Sorry about that.”
“You could have warned me.”
“You were great,” said Marguerite. “You’re a natural.”
Riley paused, shaking his head. “Why did you do it?”
A longer pause. Then Marguerite replied steadily, “You know why.”
Tula, who didn’t know why, gave Riley a nudge and hissed, “Give her a hug.”
Riley ignored her, continuing instead to gaze down at Marguerite. “Talk about risky. What if it doesn’t work out? You’ll have done all of this for nothing.”
“Maybe I have. But I don’t think so.” A glimmer of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I’m pretty good at figuring out what’s going on. Trust me, I used to be a writer.”
“You’re completely mad,” said Riley. Then he let go of Tula’s hand, made his way over to Marguerite, and hugged her tightly. From ten feet away, Tula thought she heard him murmur beneath his breath, “But thanks.”
Honestly, what were they on about? This was a conversation badly in need of subtitles.
“Right!” Switching off her phone, Suze announced efficiently, “I’ve spoken to your editor, the publishing director, and the managing director. They’re all on their way over… They’ll be here in twenty minutes. We’ll have a meeting and decide what to do. Obviously Riley needs to be included—”
“Not me,” Riley interrupted. “Not tonight.”
Suze was visibly alarmed. “Oh, but—”
“Nor me,” Marguerite said firmly.
Suze’s eyes widened in horror; this time she looked as if she might pass out. “Marguerite, they’re on their way now. As we speak. You can’t do this. You have to talk to them!”
“Not if I don’t want to.”
“But—”
“Come on.” Marguerite knocked back her gin and tonic. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Marguerite, please!” Panic-stricken and begging, Suze’s voice rose. “They’ll be here any minute.”
Having kissed Martha and Tony Weston good-bye, Marguerite said briskly, “All the more reason to leave now.”
***
Outside, Riley flagged down a black cab, and the three of them traveled back to the Savoy in silence. Marguerite gazed out of the window, lost in her own thoughts. When they’d reached the hotel and navigated the heavy revolving doors, she said to Riley, “I’m going to my room now. The rest’s up to you. Can you ask them to send up a bottle of something decent and not put through any calls? I don’t want to be disturbed.”
Riley nodded and headed over to the reception desk, leaving Marguerite and Tula together.
“No way.” Tula shook her head. “We’re not leaving you on your own.”
“How sweet you are.” Visibly touched, Marguerite said, “But I’m not planning on killing myself, if that’s what you’re worried about. Truly, not my style at all.”
“Well, good.” And thankfully Marguerite sounded as if she meant it. “But listen,” said Tula, “I know it might not feel like it at the moment, but you’ll be so glad you did this. It’s all out in the open now. No more subterfuge, no more guilty conscience.” Desperate to reassure Marguerite, she added enthusiastically, “Trust me, it’s a good thing and you’re going to feel a million times better. So don’t worry, everything’ll turn out fine.”
“Really? Sure about that?” Marguerite’s expression softened. “After all this palaver, let’s hope so.”