Chapter 7

My eyes slide over the words on the page, losing focus. The warmth of the afternoon, along with the soft hubbub of the street below my hotel room, are more effective than any lullaby. I put down the book, take off my glasses, and settle back in my chair. Maybe a few minutes’ rest wouldn’t be a bad idea. The late nights of the last few days, drinking and talking at the bar, add to my torpid state. I drift off into the pleasant haze between sleep and being awake. The unfamiliarity of the city has had a calming effect on my mind. There are no memories or triggers of anything that brought me here. I can simply exist. I can just be.

The shrill ring of the hotel room telephone cuts through the muted air, jolting me out of my reverie. I frown at it, as if the inanimate object is personally responsible for disturbing me. I’m also not sure who could be getting in touch with me. The ringing doesn’t subside, so with a grimace, I rise and walk the few steps across the room and pick it up.

“Rafe! Thank god. I thought something had happened to you.” I groan inwardly. Helen, my agent.

“I’m fine,” I grunt.

“You haven’t been answering my calls, my messages, my emails . . .”

No, I haven’t. I didn’t feel like I could cope with the upbeat, pull yourself together, motivational speech she’s bound to deliver to me. And I don’t want it now.

“Are you going to tell me it’s time I came home and got back on the horse?”

“No, I . . .well, yes. It’s true, though. You can’t hide out there forever.”

Why not? It’s been working so far.

“What exactly is there for me to come back to?” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but fail. I no longer have a publishing contract, my family would only be too happy to see me have to take an honest job, and Loretta, well, I don’t quite know how I feel about her at the moment. All I know is that a few weeks ago, I had my future all mapped out. By now, I should be a married man with a six-book contract ready to work on. But it all got knocked off its axis and I’m not sure what to do next.

“You won’t find the answers in Spain,” Helen replies. Maybe I don’t want any answers.

“Have you managed to get any interest elsewhere in the Blackwater series?” I deflect her comment and hear her slightly exasperated sigh down the line.

“Not yet. Too many of the big houses are asking why Deatons dropped it. I’m sorry, Rafe. You’re not known as a gritty crime writer. It’s not going to be easy to sell it and I might need to go to the smaller publishers.” My heart sinks. I feared this might happen. Whilst Deatons isn’t one of the big six, it’s head and shoulders above the small publishing houses and I’d felt so proud when they’d offered me a contract eight years ago. It hasn’t all been easy, and I’m in no way a household name, but I make a decent living. The new contract for the six-book Blackwater series—and the possibility of film or TV rights—had made me feel like I might make it to the big time. Those had been the rumblings. I was an ascending star a few weeks ago. Now, if no one else wants the series, it feels like I’ll be starting all over again. The problem is that I spent a year creating the series, outlining it, pitching it—everything short of actually writing it. But now the motivation has gone and I can’t find the words. The muse has left me.

“I still can’t see any reason to return yet, then,” I sigh.

“Being present and over here will show people you’re serious about your career. I might be able to get you some interviews.”

“TV? Radio?” I ask.

“Probably not.” I thought so. “You know they only happen for new releases. Maybe some magazines or newspapers.”

Maybe not. I could tell by her voice she wasn’t convincing herself any more than me. What was the real reason she wanted me back? True, if I didn’t make money, neither did she, but I wasn’t the only author she was an agent for. She probably made more than me anyway, with the authors on her roster.

“Tell them to email me the questions, or ask them to call me if you do manage to get an interview.” I grit my teeth, feeling petty and irritable.

“Will you answer the phone to them?” she replies archly. I don’t always get on with my agent—she can be pushy and I’m naturally resistant to that—and we’ve had a few arguments in the past. At those times, she often sounds exasperated at best, and at worst, disappointed with me. But she did get me my first break, so I feel I owe her some loyalty.

“Maybe,” I answer since I can’t shrug down the phone .

“Look, Rafe.” Her tone softens and I hear her release a deep breath. “There’s something else.”

Helen only ever sounds like that if she needs to deliver bad news. So I don’t answer, but I brace myself for whatever it is.

“It’s Loretta.”

Oh. Somehow I hadn’t been expecting that. All other thoughts drain out of my head.

“She’s been seen with Sloan Thorpe.”

“Seen?” I croak out, my voice dry.

“Dinner... a club. She was also present at his latest book launch a couple of days ago.”

Sloan Thorpe.

Tall. Blond. Chisel-jawed Sloan Thorpe, who also happens to be a bloody good author.

Sloan fucking Thorpe.

Well, shit.

I bet he’s not “boring.”

I sink onto the hotel bed, my legs no longer able to hold me up.

“Rafe? Are you okay?” Helen’s concern sounds far away.

“Yeah.” Even my own voice sounds alien to me.

“If you need anything . . .” she begins.

I need to forget it all. Forgetting was what I’d been doing all along, quite successfully, and now it’s all vividly brought back to me. I realise she’s still talking.

“And so that’s why I think you need to come back as soon as possible.”

“No.” It’s the only word I can summon right now. I don’t wait for an answer but ring off, slowly placing the receiver down.

Distance, both in space and communication, had been an effective sticking plaster for my problems, one I was happy to continue using. But at some point, the plaster has to come off, it’s just a pity it isn’t at a time of my choosing.

A myriad of emotions rush through me—hurt, anger, disappointment, defeat, humiliation, and jealousy—all bombarding me at once, their barbs making fresh holes on top of old ones.

Did she leave me for Sloan Thorpe? No, that can’t be. She’d called off the wedding, said she didn’t want to get tied down, though the wedding had been her idea in the first place. On that last day she’d called me uninteresting, unexciting, and tedious. Well, I bet Sloan Thorpe isn’t mundane and boring. I know he isn’t, actually. I’ve met him. He’s all charm and charisma. I knew I disliked him.

I’d felt lucky when I met Loretta two years ago, though I’d known of her long before then. She was beautiful, she was rich, and she was way out of my league. As the daughter of Grant Deaton, founder and CEO of Deatons Publishers, I’d seen her both in the office or at functions, but I hadn’t spoken to her before. That was until the launch of my fourth book, On A Turning Tide . It had got a lot of early reviews, and it was—and remains—my most well-known book to date. After she’d spoken to me at the launch, we’d fallen into chatting whenever I saw her in the office. It took me six months to pluck up the courage to ask her out, and I was amazed when she agreed. One thing I learned early on was that she was used to getting her own way. She decided what she wanted and went for it. I found myself swept up in being her boyfriend, then her fiancé. My book was selling well, so there were signings and functions as well as panels and interviews. I was living my dream, never examining whether I was happy or not. I was happy, wasn’t I? It was perfect. Surely, what everyone would want. A beautiful wife and a successful career. I had it all . . . until I had nothing. Until a couple of weeks ago, when Helen had told me the contract that had been set up for the new series had fallen through, hours before I was due to sign it. I’d been crushed. I’d worked so hard on it. I’d turned to Loretta, seeking solace and support, only to find her packing her things, saying she was leaving me and couldn’t marry me. She was in tears, and I comforted her, supporting her as she said she wasn’t ready for commitment. I believed her until she delivered her final blow and her parting words about how uninteresting I was. I moved through the next few days in a numb haze, dealing with cancelling all the wedding arrangements, the invitations, the wedding list, and the disappointed relatives. My wedding day came and went, and I stayed at home. The next day, I couldn’t take any more, and I boarded the flight that should have been taking us on our honeymoon. I’ve been here ever since.

Now, the distance in space and time, as well as this new information, has given me a fresh perspective. I’d been na?ve, and I’d been played.

The hurt still burns through my body, the anger matching it pace for pace. I feel stupid that I was so caught up in the dream I didn’t see it for the illusion it was.

But Sloan Thorpe. Damn, that cuts deep. I might have been an ascending star, but he was always going to rise higher and burn brighter than I ever would.

I pour a drink. Anything to numb the pain and humiliation, to make the feelings go away. But haven’t I pushed them aside for too long? I’ve barely existed for the last few weeks, instead just allowing myself to be lulled into thinking everything is all right. The only time I’ve felt anything like normal has been when I’ve been in the company of Florencio and Constantin. I glance at my watch. I hadn’t noticed it was so late. I don’t have much time to get ready. Tonight, we’ve been invited to dinner with Florencio’s aunt, Estrella. I’ve been looking forward to meeting her and the thought of seeing them again lifts the heaviness in my chest that settled in there when Helen mentioned Loretta. I want to make the most of my remaining time in Spain. I might have told Helen I didn’t want to go home, but the truth is I’m due to fly back next week. I leave the drink untouched, not wanting its effects, and take a hot shower instead.