Chapter Eighteen

My attempt to sneak back down to the cottage without being spotted was doomed from the start. I hadn't even made it past the kitchen window when two sharp raps on the glass made me jump, followed by the sound of the catch opening and my mother's voice.

‘You asked me for my opinion and my opinion is you look like a dick.'

Why hadn't I tried crawling under the window again?

‘Sophie,' Dad said, my back still turned to whatever was going on in there. ‘Come in the kitchen, we need your opinion.'

I didn't want to go in the kitchen. I'd spent the entire walk back home trying to decide if I even wanted to go back home at all. I was a mess. Ideally, I wanted to find a nice cave, preferably with internet access so I could still watch TV, and spend the rest of my life as a hermit. They got a bad rap, hermits. You never heard it from their side, it wasn't like they could go around on a speaking tour extolling the values of hermitism otherwise they wouldn't be hermits after all but when I walked into the kitchen, I could really see the appeal.

My mother was standing in front of the fridge, bleeding exasperation, while my dad was, for reasons I was sure were about to be explained, dressed as a clown. Baggy trousers hooped at the waist, striped shirt, yellow tie, rainbow ruff and a big, bold, bright red nose.

‘I don't want to know,' I told them both, holding up a hand to shield my eyes. ‘What you do in private is up to you.'

‘Your father,' Mum replied, ignoring my request as usual. ‘Has decided this is how he wants to dress for his party tonight.'

‘Because it goes with the theme.' He pulled on his suspenders until a flap on the back of his trousers flopped down to reveal polka dot bloomers. ‘Think about it, publishing is a circus, isn't it? And we're all clowns.'

‘Speak for yourself.' Mum pressed her forefingers into her temples. ‘This is why you wanted a bouncy castle? And the marquee?'

Dad scraped one huge clown shoe back and forth across the slate tiles. ‘It's more of a stripy tent.'

She stared at him with a glare so fierce, it was a wonder he was still standing. ‘Hugh, have you hired a circus tent?'

‘The proper terminology is a big top.'

He turned to face me and I could see his hand pumping away at something in his pocket but whatever was supposed to be happening, wasn't. ‘Bugger,' he muttered, pulling out a long clear tube with a blue pump on the end. ‘Water is supposed to shoot out of the daisy. I'll have to look at it.'

‘There's a reason you've only pulled this out on the day of the party and that's because you knew what I would say,' Mum stated. ‘You are not wearing that to your party. Hugh, I have invited Jonathan Franzen.'

‘He's a great laugh is Jonathan,' Dad mumbled, still preoccupied with his failed water pump. ‘You need to see it with the wig. It doesn't work without the wig.'

‘Morning, everybody, how are we, and Dad, what in the utter fuck are you doing?'

My brother stood in the kitchen doorway, a look of abject horror on his face. Behind him was Sanjit, Sanjit's mother and Sanjit's father, all three of whom looked even more appalled than William which was no mean feat.

‘Come to think of it, I don't want to know,' he said, holding up his hands before anyone could speak. ‘Sanj, go and wait in the car, we won't be stopping for a cup of tea after all. I need to go home and wash out my eyeballs.'

‘Pandora, Hugh,' Sanjit raised his hand in a hello-slash-goodbye as he hurried his parents out the house as quickly as they'd walked in. ‘Can't wait for the party.'

‘It's themed!' Dad shouted and Sanjit raised a thumbs up over his head without stopping.

‘I only came to drop off the serviettes.' William dumped a square-shaped cardboard box on the kitchen table. ‘They say "Happy Sixtieth Hugh" but I think there's still enough time to alter them to "Dad's lost his mind, help yourself to canapés".'

‘See?' Mum stood triumphant. ‘What did I say?'

‘None of you understand the vision,' Dad grumbled as he took himself off upstairs in a huff. ‘I'm disappointed in you, Sophie!'

‘What did I do?' I asked, as my brother and mother stood around the kitchen table shaking their heads at me.

‘He's not wearing it. It'll finish Jeffrey Archer off and that won't help the property value,' Mum said before taking herself off into the conservatory, still muttering away.

‘William, can I have a word?' I leapt in front of the open front door and my brother before he could escape.

‘Have two, treat yourself,' William replied, holding up one hand to Sanjit in the car. ‘What has got into Dad? Do you think he's had a funny turn?'

‘There is nothing funny about that outfit. Jeffrey Archer nothing, if Dad drops his drawers in front of me, I won't make it.'

‘Don't panic, Mum will talk him out of it,' he said with complete certainty that was, in fairness, well placed.

Mum almost always talked Dad out of his more random decisions including, but not limited to, his obsession with learning to ride a penny farthing, a moustache that made him look exactly like Joseph Stalin and that time he became obsessed with Channing Tatum and wanted to offer him a book deal to write the great American novel ‘he just knew he had inside him'. Not to say Magic Mike couldn't pull it out the bag but the obsession was mostly based on the fact my dad watched Step Up and She's the Man on a constant loop while recovering from back surgery and was on a lot of painkillers. Back surgery he needed because Mum failed to talk him out of the penny farthing well enough.

‘Never mind Dad,' William said cheerfully. ‘I have to say I'm very impressed at how you managed to take one great big fucking mess and make it even worse. Incredible work, well done.'

‘Thanks,' I replied. ‘Wait, are you speaking as my agent or my brother?'

‘Agent. As your brother, I still can't even conceive of you having written Butterflies. Do you know how many times you used the word "cock" in that book?'

‘It was more than once.'

‘It was fourteen times.' He slapped the back of one hand against the other palm as he spoke, emphasising each syllable. ‘Thank god you had the presence of mind to make the male character American. The thought of an English accent saying the things you put in that book gives me the ick. Ass, sexy. Arse, not sexy. In fact, what is a sexy British word for your backside? Bum? Buttocks? Trouser turnips?'

‘Can we concentrate for a minute?' I asked. ‘There are more urgent matters to deal with.'

‘Like the fact our baby sister is one iced coffee away from telling the world Joe wrote your book?'

‘That's one of them,' I agreed gloomily. ‘We have terrible parents. Who stands there and watches their child blackmail another human being and does nothing?'

‘You tell me, you're the teacher.'

Sanjit honked and William waved to signify we were almost done.

‘As your agent, as far as I can see, you've only two options,' he said. ‘One, you tell everyone the truth which solves all our problems and makes mine and Mal's lives considerably easier into the bargain.'

‘Mal.' I groaned and slapped my hand over my face. ‘He's going to lose his mind when he hears about this.'

‘Oh yes, he's going to kill you,' William confirmed as though it was a matter of fact. ‘Slowly and painfully if you decide on option number two.'

‘Which is?'

‘You and Mr Walsh come to an agreement in which he acts as the public face of Este Cox and you remain anonymous. I wouldn't advise it but it's been done before.'

I stared off into the middle distance, imagining it for a moment. Could it work? Joe was much happier in the spotlight than me. He could tour, do the interviews, paste his face all over social media, and I could keep my job and keep writing.

‘One thing to keep in mind, if you take that route,' William said sternly, cutting into my daydream. ‘It would have to be a real business relationship. Contracts, financials, we'd have to NDA him up the wazoo.'

‘And that's a legal term, is it?' I asked.

‘What I'm saying is, it's bullshit not to claim your own book,' he replied. ‘And most importantly, unless you want to be sued to high heavens when it all goes tits up, you definitely won't be able to shag Joe once we've got a contract in place.'

‘Shag Joe?' I exclaimed loudly enough for the Bhattas to hear and set off a new flurry of activity in the car. ‘What makes you say that? I don't want to shag Joe.'

‘Then you're the only one,' he said, switching gears with a frustrated sigh. ‘Come on, Soph, tell everyone the truth. All this stuff you're panicking about, it's all in your head. Even if it wasn't, who fucking cares?'

‘But Mum and Dad—' I started until he held up a hand to cut me off.

‘But Mum and Dad nothing,' he replied. ‘That's an excuse and we both know it. As your agent, I'll go along with whatever you decide but as your brother, I'm begging you, rip off the plaster, tell the truth. It'll only get worse the longer you leave it. The clock is ticking. If you think it's bad now, wait until Charlotte reveals it's Joe, Mal loses his shit because your publisher didn't control the announcement, and next thing you know everyone thinks a man wrote Butterflies andJoe's on Oprah.'

The image flashed in front of my eyes, the two of them bonding over freshly squeezed orange juice in her back garden in Montecito, a tear in Oprah's eye as Joe detailed his inspiration for the tender love affair between Jenna and Eric.

‘Make your decision, I'll back you up,' William promised, walking back to the car. ‘But you are going to have to make it.'

A sour feeling turned in my belly as they drove away, Sanjit's dad staring at me out the rear passenger window with terrified eyes, and it had nothing to do with the fact I'd only consumed a croissant, a chocolate chip cookie and a rocket fuel coconut coffee on an empty stomach. William was right.

Joe, Este Cox and I were all running out of time.