From
‘So you see?’ said Orla when she had finished outlining her plan. ‘All you’d have to do is be yourself.’
‘I don’t get it.’ If she did, Millie thought it was the weirdest idea ever. ‘You want your next book to be the story of all the things that happen to me in the next… how long? Six weeks? Six months? Year?’
‘No time limit. Just as long as it takes before we reach some kind of happy ending.’
Mad. Seriously mad.
‘So that would make it like my autobiography?’
‘Biography,’ Orla corrected her. ‘And no, I’d be writing a novel. The whole thing would be fictionalized. But I’d be paying you to provide the plot.’
‘What if I can’t?’ Millie started to laugh, because the prospect was so ridiculous. ‘I mean, it is quite likely, you know. I’ve no boyfriend, I’ve sworn to steer clear of men for the rest of the summer and I have about as much social life as your average Pot Noodle. I hate to say this, but your novel wouldn’t be exactly action-packed.’
Orla wasn’t laughing. She shrugged and jutted out her lower lip.
‘Maybe not, but at least no one would be able to call it fanciful and far-fetched and ridiculously over the top.’
Millie blinked.
‘You’re prepared to do all this because of one bad review.’
‘Actually, I’m doing it for all sorts of reasons. First of all, I think you’d be great material,’ said Orla. She held her glass of Frascati up to the light, admiring the way the sun glinted off it. ‘Think how we met, for a start. Then there’s your gorgeous wallet story… and losing your job… and getting another job working for the handsome guy your best friend has a mad crush on—’
‘Okay, okay,’ Millie said hurriedly. She wouldn’t have called her wallet story gorgeous.
‘Secondly, I’d be getting out of the planning rut. I wouldn’t know what was going to happen next, simply because it won’t have happened yet! So no need to agonize over the plot,’ Orla said joyfully. ‘And you have no idea how great that would feel. I’d be free!’
Orla was right; Millie had absolutely no idea how great that would feel—the last piece of fiction she’d written had begun, ‘Dear Great Aunt Edna, Thank you so much for the lovely pair of shorts you knitted me…’
‘Go on,’ she urged Orla. ‘What else?’
Orla flew into the sitting room, returning moments later with a copy of her latest paperback. Holding it face-out, so Millie could see the instantly recognizable cover, she said, ‘See this? It’s an Orla Hart blockbuster. Actually, it’s the thirteenth Orla Hart blockbuster, and so far we’ve sold one and a half million copies. Which is fantastic, of course, for both me and my publishers. Because as far as they’re concerned, I’m their star battery chicken. Every year they take it for granted that I’ll just churn out another book.’
‘Egg,’ said Millie.
‘Golden egg,’ Orla corrected her with a faint smile. ‘In fact, a jewel-encrusted solid gold Fabergé egg the size of a sofa. Which is why, when I wanted to change my writing style a couple of years ago, they wouldn’t let me. They sweet-talked me out of it, in case I dented their precious profits. But this time I’m going to do it, I’m going to ditch the bonkbuster trappings, the cliches, the whole Orla Hart format. I’m going to write a proper literary novel, just to prove to all those bloody sneering critics out there that I can!’ As she spoke, she jabbed viciously at the review she had brought downstairs with her. ‘And sod anyone who cares more about the money than they care about me.’ She paused, then added calmly, ‘And that goes for Giles too.’
Blimey.
Millie nodded, impressed. Orla was using the opportunity to punish Giles for having had an affair. Maybe it was also her way of testing him. If this change of direction were to fail, Orla wanted to know if he would continue to support her.
For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.
‘You’d have to change all the names,’ Millie warned.
‘Darling, I know that. I thought we might call you Gertrude.’
‘Still seems a bit drastic.’ Millie gazed reflectively at the unattractive photograph of Christie Carson above his byline. ‘Couldn’t you just phone him up, shout “Wanker!” and tell him he’s got a nose like a Jerusalem artichoke?’
He didn’t, but Millie never let the facts get in the way of a good insult.
‘Nose? Ha, willy more like. And don’t think I haven’t been tempted.’ Orla poured them both some more wine before settling back in her white rattan chair. ‘I hate that man, I really hate him for writing all that horrible stuff about me.’ She paused, then fixed Millie with a look of weary resignation. ‘But what I hate more is having to admit to myself that in some ways he’s right.’
Before Millie left two hours later, Orla scribbled out a check for five thousand pounds and stuffed it into her hand.
Oh my giddy aunt. Five thousand pounds.
‘Really, you don’t have to,’ Millie protested, not meaning it for a second. How awful if Orla said, ‘No? All right then, I’ll have it back.’
Happily she didn’t.
‘Rubbish.’ Orla was brisk. ‘This is a business arrangement. It’s only fair.’
It was, Millie decided happily. It was fair. Except…
‘I’m a bit embarrassed. What if you end up with a book where the girl spends her whole life watching EastEnders, shaving her legs, and trying to eat chocolate without getting it on her clothes?’
Despite years of practice, she’d never mastered the art of biting a Cadbury’s Flake without crumbly bits falling down her front.
‘Exciting things will happen,’ Orla said soothingly. ‘And if they don’t, we’ll jolly well make them happen.’
‘Gosh.’
‘All you have to do is report back to me once a week.’
There was no denying it; this was easy money. Easy peasy.
‘And tell you everything?’ asked Millie.
‘Everything.’
‘Do I have to be called Gertrude?’
Orla patted her arm.
‘Darling, we can call you anything you like.’
‘Oh well, in that case,’ Millie brightened, ‘could you also make me look like Lily Munster?’
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