Happily Never After, page 9
‘Fair enough,’ Lynette replies. ‘What about you ladies, can I offer you a top up while I’m at the table?’
‘No, thank you,’ Gina huffs. From the look on her face, you’d think Lynette had just offered to stab her in the eye, and my curiosity is piqued. I may not like Gina, but I can see that’s nothing compared to the hatred that Gina feels for Lynette. Before I get an opportunity to probe any further, however, Tess approaches me.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ she says. ‘I’m Tess, the retreat coordinator.’
‘Laura,’ I tell her, shaking her proffered hand.
‘Laura writes crime,’ Gina adds, sounding as if I were something she’d stepped in.
‘Really? I love a good crime story,’ Tess tells me. ‘I’ve edited a number of crime writers in my time. It’s such a complex art, isn’t it? The constant misdirection so the reader is surprised by the outcome. Very clever. Did Hugh and Cara explain how I work? Basically, I’m here if you want to chat anything through at any time, although it’s a good idea to give me a synopsis of your story beforehand so I have some chance of understanding what you’re talking about. If you’d rather just crack on by yourself though, that’s absolutely fine.’
‘Tess is brilliant,’ Lynette enthuses as she brings her a cup of tea. ‘I’ve just spent half an hour with her and she’s worked miracles on my blowjob.’
My eye is instantly drawn back to Gina, who looks like she might be about to have a seizure. Lynette, on the other hand, is smiling mischievously and I notice that even Tess is struggling not to laugh. I may not like Gina, but I suspect that Lynette and I might get on very well indeed. Maybe this retreat won’t be so awful after all.
11
‘I should perhaps explain that Lynette writes spicy romance,’ Tess tells me with a smile, once the three of us are ensconced at a table out of earshot of Gina and her acolytes. ‘Much as I’d like to claim the credit for transforming her sex life, we were actually discussing a scene in her latest novel.’
‘I hope I didn’t startle you,’ Lynette adds. ‘I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about those three that just makes me want to shout words like blowjob. One day, I reckon I’m going to find the right sexual trigger word, and Gina’s just going to melt, like the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz.’
Tess laughs softly. ‘You’re very bad, Lynette.’
‘Oh, you know I don’t mean her any harm really,’ Lynette clarifies. ‘Well, maybe a little bit, but you have to admit that she is spectacularly irritating.’
‘You’re certainly very different,’ Tess replies before turning to me. ‘Tell me more about you, Laura. Are you published?’
‘Under a pen name, yes,’ I tell her carefully.
‘And are you going to tell me who you write as?’
This is the question I’ve been dreading. I’m not ashamed of Larry Spalding, whatever Gina and her ilk might think of my writing. But flying under the radar is like a safety net; it sounds stupid, but it kind of allows me to distance myself from him if it all crashes and burns. So, admitting that I’m actually Larry feels as uncomfortable as stepping out onto a spotlit stage completely naked. Also, while I think Tess would probably understand my desire for anonymity and be discreet, I don’t know Lynette at all, and I don’t want her blabbing my identity to everyone.
‘Do you mind if I don’t, just yet?’ I say to Tess eventually.
Tess studies me for a moment. ‘Interesting,’ she observes.
‘Oh, I’m not sure it is,’ I counter, but she’s still looking at me slightly strangely.
‘It definitely is. You see, I’ve been in this industry for a long time, and I know most of the mainstream British crime writers. Hell, I’ve probably edited over half of them at one time or another. So, either you’re not mainstream, in which case why conceal your pen name because it probably won’t mean anything to me, or you are mainstream but nobody knows who you really are. There’s only one mainstream British crime writer I can think of like that, and that’s Larry Spalding.’
Shit.
‘Are you Larry Spalding?’ Lynette asks, eyes wide.
‘Look, please don’t say anything to the others,’ I stammer eventually.
To my surprise, Lynette bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, your secret’s safe with me,’ she tells me when she’s got herself vaguely back under control. ‘But that is just the funniest fucking thing ever.’
‘Why?’ Whatever I’d been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that.
‘Because Gina…’ is as far as she gets before she loses control of herself again. I glance across the garden, worried that her outburst might attract the attention of Gina and her friends, but they appear to be engaged in a debate of their own, thankfully.
‘Oh, shit. I think I may have wet myself a little bit,’ Lynette breathes eventually. ‘Totally worth it though. Laura, you’ve made my day. Actually, you’ve made my retreat and we’ve still got two weeks to go.’
‘Are you going to explain what’s so funny?’ I ask her. I’m not offended, at least I don’t think I am. But I’m definitely not used to people reacting to me revealing who I am in quite this way.
‘OK.’ Lynette leans forward and tries to look serious, before breaking off into another fit of giggles. ‘Sorry, Laura. Tess. You tell her.’
‘Oh, no,’ Tess says firmly. ‘This is not my story to tell.’
‘Fine.’ Lynette makes another concerted attempt to compose herself. ‘What do you know about Gina?’
‘Not much,’ I admit. ‘She’s written a Tudor saga, according to Suzie. She thinks crime fiction is sordid and obviously doesn’t think much of spicy romance either, if her reaction to you is anything to go by. Oh, and she’s just signed with a publisher.’
Lynette’s mouth drops open. ‘Did she say that?’
‘No. Suzie did. Why?’
Lynette grins. ‘Oh, Gina. You naughty, naughty girl,’ she murmurs.
I must look as baffled as Tess, so Lynette continues.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Gina’s magnum opus is a book called The Lion and the Snake. She’s been hawking it around publishers and agents for the last two years, with no success. The only people surprised by this are her, Suzie and Grace, who believe it’s the pinnacle of twenty-first century highbrow fiction because that’s what she’s told them. There’s just one, tiny problem standing between her, a publishing deal worth millions and the inevitability of the Booker Prize landing in her lap.’
‘Which is?’
‘Gina is very secretive about it, but I managed to get a glimpse of the manuscript once, when she left it out by mistake. The Lion and the Snake is basically one hundred and fifty thousand words of totally impenetrable bollocks.’
‘You’re being a bit harsh, Lynette,’ Tess chides her. ‘I’ve seen the synopsis and there are some strong themes in it.’
‘If you can find them under the mountain of hyperbole and clunky metaphors,’ Lynette says defiantly. ‘Anyway, the point is that this pile of literary manure is the pinnacle of human achievement, according to Gina. I’ve even known her to refer to herself in the third person when she talks about it, that’s how self-important she is.’
‘But she’s sold it to a publisher,’ I repeat.
‘No. That’s what’s so funny. Well, it’s one of the things that are so funny. Have you heard of a publisher called Florianus?’
‘No.’
‘You wouldn’t have, but that’s who’s publishing Gina’s book. Now, who do you think the directors of Florianus are, hm? I’ll tell you. Only one John and Gina Atkinson. So, she hasn’t sold anything to anyone. What she’s done is forced her poor, long-suffering husband to help her set up her own imprint to publish her book.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ Tess says. ‘Lots of successful authors are self-published. I work with quite a few of them.’
‘Of course there’s nothing wrong with being self-published. It’s what I am, after all. But telling people you’ve signed with a publisher when it’s actually your own company is a little misleading, isn’t it? God, I bet Suzie and Grace absolutely lapped that up. And then, for the icing on the cake, there’s you, Laura.’
‘What about me?’
‘I saw how she was being with you, all hoity-toity. If she only knew who you really were. God, I’d pay good money to be a fly on the wall for that.’
‘Laura’s asked us to keep her identity confidential,’ Tess reminds her.
‘I know that. But the irony is going to keep me laughing all fortnight. A real, live, bestselling author right under Gina’s nose, only that nose is too far up her arse to spot it. Sorry. That’s probably a mangled metaphor, but you know what I mean. Right, I’d better go and assess the damage all this hilarity has caused. I love my children to bits, but they haven’t half fucked up my plumbing.’
‘There isn’t much love lost there, I take it,’ I say to Tess as Lynette heads for the house.
She smiles softly. ‘Not a lot, no. But the funny thing is that I don’t think they’d actually survive without each other. Did you notice anything about the two of them?’
‘Apart from the fact that they hate each other, no.’
‘Hm. Maybe that’s not my story to tell either. Let me put it this way. They absolutely hate each other’s guts, but there’s also a strong bond between them. How easy would it be for them to book retreats at different times, for example? But no. Every year they rock up on the same ones, regular as clockwork. Gina makes no bones about the fact that she thinks what Lynette writes is basically porn and, as you’ll have noticed, Lynette isn’t much more polite about Gina’s stuff. So what does that tell you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘OK, well, as I said, it’s not my story to tell, so I’ll have to leave you to work it out yourself.’
‘I’m supposed to be here to concentrate on my book, not whatever’s going on between my fellow guests.’
‘Yes, but you know what they say about all work and no play, don’t you? Plus, it’s good for your detective skills. Now, I’d better go and talk to the others for a bit. I’ll see you at dinner.’
‘I’ve been thinking about you. How is it?’ Liv asks when I call her that evening. I’ve helped myself to a glass of wine from the bar and I’m sitting on a lounger, enjoying the cool of the evening. I’m not sure what’s for dinner, but if the smells coming from the kitchen are anything to go by, it’s going to be delicious.
‘Interesting,’ I tell her.
‘Interesting good or interesting bad?’
‘A bit of both. The house is amazing, even better than I’d hoped, and Hugh and Cara are lovely.’
‘What about the other writers?’ she says impatiently.
‘Yeah, a mixed bunch. It’s probably too early to tell, although there’s one who’s definitely taken against me.’ I fill her in on my conversation with Gina.
‘She sounds vile. Did you tell her you’re a bestselling author?’
‘No. I’m keeping that under my hat, although the retreat leader rumbled me pretty much straight away.’
‘I thought you were steering clear of the mentor. Analysis paralysis and all that.’
‘Yeah, but she came to find me at teatime and we ended up having a bit of a chat. She’s nice, actually.’
‘OK, so you’ve got a snotty author and a nice mentor. Who else?’
‘The snotty author has a snotty entourage, but I don’t know anything about them yet. We’ve got one person still to arrive, apparently, and then there’s Lynette, who writes spicy romance. She’s very funny, but there’s something about her and Gina. They hate each other, but still come on every retreat together. What’s that about?’
‘Ex-lovers, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Hm. Maybe one stole the other’s boyfriend. Oh, hang on. Someone wants to see you. Meggie, who’s Auntie Liv talking to?’
She turns the camera and, for a few moments, I’m treated to a close-up of Meg’s nose as she sniffs the phone, evidently trying to work out if it’s edible. As soon as she realises it isn’t, she wanders off and jumps up on the sofa.
‘Donna says she settled really well today,’ Liv tells me. ‘There’s a cocker spaniel called Bubbles that she’s apparently formed a friendship with, and they went on a long walk together.’
‘Every inch the proud dog-parent,’ I say with a laugh. ‘How was it, dropping her off?’
‘I felt surprisingly guilty and tearful, but she trotted in quite happily without so much as a backward glance.’
I laugh. ‘You could be describing your child’s first day at school, you know that?’
‘I just wanted you to know that I’m taking good care of your baby, that’s all.’
‘Thank you. And how was Donna today?’
‘Chatty, but I can’t work out whether that’s because she wanted to reassure me about leaving Meg with her, or whether she’s just friendly, or whether there’s something potentially more.’
‘Remember what I said about not frightening her off.’
‘Relax. I know what I’m doing. Tell me more about the retreat. I want all the details.’
By the time I’ve filled her in on everything including the traumatic car journey, which she found predictably hilarious, darkness has fallen and Cara is calling us to dinner.
‘For your starter tonight, I’ve made a Soupe au Pistou,’ she tells us as she sets bowls of steaming broth in front of us. ‘It’s a traditional dish in the South of France and you’ll actually find markets selling the ingredients pre-mixed at this time of year. Bon Appetit!’
After my experiences this afternoon, I’ve been vaguely dreading the whole group coming together to eat but, to my relief, hostilities seemed to be paused as everyone tucks in. I note with vague amusement that Gina offers the basket of warm crusty bread to Lynette without either of them resorting to name-calling. Tess’s words are rattling around in my head though, and I can’t help studying their interactions, looking for clues. They’re so different in every possible way that I can’t see them having the same taste in men, which blows Liv’s theory out of the water, so what is the connection between them?
12
Even though the bed is every inch as comfortable as it looked, I’m awake early the next morning. I do make a couple of half-hearted attempts to get back to sleep before giving it up as a bad job and heading for the shower. The sun is already high in the sky when I step outside, but the air is still cool and fresh, so I decide to walk in the direction of Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val to build up an appetite for breakfast. If last night’s dinner was anything to go by, I’m going to be extremely well fed while I’m here, so I need to pace myself.
I’m trying to concentrate on the upcoming plot points of my story as I walk, but I’m sidetracked by the beauty of the scenery around me. The town, when I reach it, is still pretty much shuttered and deserted. A few shopkeepers are setting up ready for the day ahead, and I exchange a cheery Bonjour with them as I pass. When I reach the river, I stand on the bridge just watching the water slide beneath me for a while. I did see most of this yesterday, but I was busy fighting with the satnav and the directions, so I didn’t get the opportunity to appreciate it. It really is lovely here. Hugh and Cara couldn’t have chosen a better location if they’d tried. I pull out my phone and take a few pictures to send to Liv before turning back towards the house and breakfast. However, I’ve only travelled a couple of yards before I hear a car pulling up alongside me.
‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. Habitez-vous ici?’ a male voice says. It’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it. It’s only when I turn to address him that the penny drops along with my mood.
‘Hello, Finn. What are you doing here?’ I ask suspiciously. It would be just my luck to discover that the man who was so helpful at the airport is actually some kind of stalker.
‘Hi, Laura. What a surprise! I’m actually looking for a place called L’Ancien Presbytère. You haven’t come across it, have you?’
I study him for a moment while part of my brain frantically tries to remember if I mentioned where I was staying during our brief conversation at the airport. If he’s followed me, then that’s creepy as hell and his intentions can’t be good. I glance around furtively, trying not to raise his suspicions while scanning to see if there’s anyone who would come to my aid if I shouted. The other part of my brain is trying to remember what ‘help!’ is in French. Au secours, I think.
I’m sure I didn’t tell him where I was staying.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask.
‘Sorry?’ He looks genuinely confused. ‘I wasn’t looking for you. As I said, I’m booked into a place called L’Ancien Presbytère, which is somewhere round here. I think this is the fourth time I’ve driven over this bridge so far this morning and, pretty though this town is, I’d like to get to my destination before I die of old age. So I stopped the first person I saw to ask for directions, and that happened to be you.’ His face falls. ‘You didn’t think…’
Oh, God. He looks absolutely crestfallen now as the reason for my questions has evidently dawned on him.
‘You’ve got to admit, it is a hell of a coincidence that you should pitch up here,’ I say.
‘Shit. I haven’t followed you, I swear. I didn’t even know you were going to be here. I’m doing a two-week retreat here, that’s all.’
‘At L’Ancien Presbytère.’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of retreat?’ He seems increasingly legitimate, but I can’t help testing him further. If he gets this wrong, I’m out of here.
‘It’s a writers’ retreat,’ he tells me. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, no reason,’ I tell him. ‘It’s just that I’m staying at L’Ancien Presbytère as well, and the chances of that being a coincidence are infinitesimally small, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘So you know where it is then?’ His face has lit up with hope.
‘I do.’
