Chapter Ten

Ella

I don't want to go home.

I love it here, and we've had the best time… but we can't stay.

It's not that we've got anything in particular to go back to Boston for, but Mac only booked the cabin until this morning, and that means we have to leave.

Given the choice, I think he'd want to stay on longer, too… but as we said last night, when we were lying in bed, we've got nothing much to do for the next couple of months, and we can enjoy ourselves just as much at home and in Newport as we have here… well, nearly.

It won't be quite the same.

Here, it's been a perfect oasis, away from everything, and I've enjoyed every single moment.

Mac loads my bag into the trunk of the car and looks up at me as I take in a lungful of fresh, mountain air before he comes over and climbs up the steps, standing in front of me.

"Thank you," I murmur, looking up into his eyes.

"I told you, you don't have to keep thanking me."

"Yes, I do."

He smiles and reaches out, cupping my face. "No regrets?" he says, his face quite serious now, and I know he's thinking about what happened on Friday night. Forgetting to use a condom might have been a mistake, but it's one we've repeated over and over, every time we've made love since then. I didn't want the barrier between us… and to be honest, I couldn't see the point. I liked feeling him, and I know he liked feeling me, too. He said so on several occasions.

"None at all."

He smiles. "Good."

We haven't talked about the consequences of our actions, but we will… when we get home.

Once we're back at my apartment, I'm going to tell him why I was okay with throwing caution to the winds. I'm going to tell him I'm in love with him. And then I'm going to ask him to move in with me.

I could have said all that while we were here, but I want to say the words when we're in the real world, not in this small corner of heaven he's created for us.

"I guess we'd better get going." He sounds as disappointed to be leaving as I am.

"I guess so," I say, looking up at him as he takes my hand and helps me down the steps. "Do you want to come back to my place?" For some reason, if I'm going to bare my soul to him, I'd rather do so on my own territory. I feel a little nervous… not just about telling him I'm in love with him, but about asking him to move in. I think if we're at his place and I suggest moving to mine, he might wonder about my motives. He might assume I don't think his place is good enough… which isn't the case at all.

"Sure." He smiles. "I'll just need to go home first and get some more clothes."

"Why? You can wash the ones you've got with you."

He shakes his head. "I'd rather take care of you than take care of laundry," he says.

"When you put it like that, I'll take you home first."

Mac's been quiet all the way back to Boston, but so have I, I guess.

I've been trying to work out exactly how to phrase my invitation to move in with me. Oddly enough, I'm fairly sure how I'm going to tell him I'm in love with him, but the rest of it isn't so easy.

"Do you want to come up with me?" he asks as I park the car outside his apartment, and I turn to look at him. He never normally asks me to go in with him, and I usually wait in the car whenever he has to get clothes or check his mail. He's looking a little doubtful, though, so I nod my head.

"Okay."

He smiles and we both climb out of the car. He grabs his bag from the trunk and takes my hand, leading me to his apartment building. We both look at each other and I stifle a laugh when we see the sign on the elevator doors, which reads ‘Out of Order'.

"So much for confined spaces," he says, and I chuckle, following him to the stairwell and climbing up to the top floor with him.

His apartment feels warm and I undo my jacket while he glances at his mail, throwing it down on the couch before he turns and takes me in his arms, kissing me deeply. I hadn't expected that, and as I feel his hands on my waist, pulling me closer, I moan into his mouth, my body crushed to his.

"Go pack your things," I murmur, breaking the kiss and leaning back.

"Why? Are you impatient to leave?"

"Yes."

A smile twitches at his lips. "Is there a reason for that?"

"What do you think?"

His smile widens and although I don't tell him that my reason isn't entirely physical, he lets me go and picks up his bag, heading for the stairs and climbing up them to his bedroom.

"Do you think we should turn our phones back on?" I call up to him.

"Probably." I pull mine from my pocket, switching it on. "I suppose there's a chance we might have heard from the studio. Kennedy said we'd be getting emails, didn't she?"

"Yes."

I can hear the excitement in his voice, although I find it hard to raise as much enthusiasm myself. The thought of twenty weeks of recordings is still too ominous to contemplate.

My phone sparks into life. I've got no calls or text messages, which is a relief. It seems I haven't missed anything important, and I quickly go onto my email app, just to check if I've heard anything from the studio. I haven't, and I'm just closing the app again, when I hear Mac's phone beep, and then beep again, and again, over and over.

"What the hell?" he says and I look up. He's at the top of the stairs, his packing clearly abandoned as he stares down at his phone, which is still beeping away.

"Someone obviously wanted to get hold of you."

"Yeah… Delilah. She's tried calling me twenty-three times since yesterday morning… and she's left fourteen messages."

Fourteen? I feel a shudder of fear creep up my spine.

"Who's Delilah?"

He comes down the stairs and walks straight over to me.

"She's my agent."

I sigh out my relief and he smiles, although his face clouds again as he looks back at his phone.

"What does she want?" I ask.

"I don't know."

"Maybe she's found someone who wants to publish your book."

He shakes his head. "I doubt it. She's not even looking… and besides, I've got a re-write to do now."

His phone seems to have stopped beeping. "Have you heard anything from the studio?" I ask, and he shrugs.

"God knows."

"I haven't. I checked my mail."

"In that case, I doubt I will have done. But it's early days. Kennedy only told us about the new season on Friday."

"Yeah… I guess." He looks down at his phone. "Are you going to listen to your messages?" I ask.

"No. I'm going to call Delilah. It'll be quicker."

"Would you like me to go wait in the car?"

He frowns. "No, of course not." He presses on the screen a few times and holds it out in front of him, making it clear he's taking the call on speaker. I'm surprised by that, but then I realize he's doing it because he wants to reassure me, and I move closer, nestling against him. He puts his arm around me just as the call connects.

"Blake? Where the hell are you?"

I notice her harsh New York accent, and that she doesn't get to call him Mac, which makes me smile.

"I'm at home. Why?"

"Where have you been all weekend?"

"In Vermont… and again… why?"

"Have you looked at the Internet in the last twenty-four hours?"

"For Christ's sake, Delilah…" He lets me go and steps away. "I think it's fairly bloody obvious I've had my phone switched off, so will you stop asking me questions and tell me why you've been trying to get hold of me?"

"Because your name is all over the goddamn web… and in the tabloids."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"But that's good, isn't it? Kennedy told us the show was…"

"It's not good." She interrupts him. "It's bad… very bad."

I feel an icy chill creep over my skin and I look up at his face. He frowns, his eyes darkening. "What's it about?" he asks, his voice much quieter.

I hear Delilah sigh. "Someone's gotten hold of the fact that you're not who you claim to be. The headlines are that Blain – the supposed Meal Master – is a fraud, who can't even cook. The articles go into great detail about how you're… and I quote… ‘nothing more than a second-rate actor, and would-be author'."

I see the pain on Mac's face, and reach out to him, although he pulls away, wandering over to the window. "Who'd do this to me?"

"I don't know," Delilah says. "The quotes are from someone close to the show, but there are no names attributed to them. Either way, you're through. Kennedy Black has made a statement this morning that the studio was tricked into hiring you. She hasn't mentioned my name, but she's implying that I was involved in the fraud you're being accused of."

"There is no fraud, Delilah," Mac says, pushing his fingers back through his hair. "I told Kennedy I couldn't cook. Hell… she was the one who hired me, after she'd seen me in that show."

"I know. It's also Kennedy who's fired you. Very publicly."

"She's fired me?"

Mac's as surprised as I am.

"Yes. I haven't heard anything from her personally, but she's given a statement to the press, saying that the studio have terminated your contract and are considering legal action against you."

Mac staggers back slightly.

"Legal action?"

"Yeah. I'm not sure what they can do… if anything. She probably just said that because it sounds good."

"You think? It doesn't sound great to me. It also doesn't make sense. She came into the studio on Friday and told us the show had been recommissioned for a second series."

I walk over, standing beside him, and gasp at the worry etched on his face. "I know. The statement said they're bringing the show back in the new year, but with a different presenter."

"It did?" he says.

"Yeah. Someone called Ella is evidently lined up to take over from you, which I guess means they'll also be renaming the show… it can hardly be called Meal Master anymore, can it?"

Mac's staring at me, and I struggle to breathe, shaking my head.

"No… no, it can't," he mumbles.

"This all feels too well orchestrated to be a spur-of-the-moment thing," Delilah says. "If you ask me, someone planned it. Have you made any enemies at the studio? Anyone who'd want to ruin you?"

"Of course not."

I hear a rustle of papers on the end of the phone. "Your career is toast, Blake. My reputation won't be faring much better once word gets out that I'm your agent, so if we're gonna try to salvage something for either of us, we need to work out who's behind this. That way, we can discredit them. Let's think about it logically. Did everyone there know you couldn't cook?"

"Yes. The entire crew knew. It was obvious from the moment I stepped into the rehearsal studio."

"Right… in that case, who knew you were writing a novel? Had you told anyone?"

"Kennedy knew. I told her at my interview, and…" He stops talking and turns, looking down at me, his face like thunder. "I'll call you back Delilah."

He hangs up, even as she's shouting his name.

"What's wrong?" I ask, staring up into his face, but barely recognizing him as the man I love.

"You tell me." Even his voice seems strange and I step back.

He moves forward, towering over me. "Tell you what?"

"Why you'd do this to me?"

"I haven't done anything, Mac."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Only you and Kennedy knew about my book, so there's no point in denying you're the one behind this. All I want to know is why."

"How can I tell you that when I didn't do it?"

He takes a breath, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, and then lowers his eyes to me again, frowning slightly. "Okay. I'm not angry, I…"

"Yes, you are. You're furious."

"I just want to understand, Ella. I need to know why."

"I'd kinda like to know that myself." His frown deepens, like he doesn't understand. "I'd like to know why you're so quick to believe I'm the person responsible for all this."

"Because it's the only thing that makes any sense."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Think about it. No-one other than you and Kennedy knew about my novel, but unlike you, Kennedy had nothing to gain from selling a story like this to the press. Why would she sabotage her own show, for Christ's sake?"

"I don't know, but in case you've forgotten, I'm a multi-millionaire. Why would I need to sell you out for a few thousand dollars?"

"Is that the going rate for betrayal these days?" he says, his eyes darkening.

I stare up at him, shaking my head. "I didn't betray you."

"And yet, you're the one who comes out on top. You get your own show, with nothing to stand in the way of you becoming the next celebrity chef… and my career is over."

"I don't want the damn show, any more than I want to be a celebrity chef. That's never been my ambition."

"Then why did you do it?"

I don't know the man standing before me, and as he shakes his head at me, I realize I don't want to… not if this is what he thinks of me.

"I didn't. But you've clearly made up your mind about me, and you're not gonna listen to a word I have to say, are you?" I choke back my tears and although he steps forward, I move away, toward the door. "I thought I meant something to you, Mac, but I guess I got that wrong."

"Ella? What are you doing?" he asks, fear rather than anger lacing his voice now.

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like you're walking out on me."

"Well done. You might have been wrong about everything else, but you got that right."

He shakes his head, following me, as I get nearer the door. "No. No… don't do this."

"You seriously expect me to stay when you refuse to listen… to believe in me?"

"Okay… I'm sorry." He holds up his hands, palms out, like he's surrendering. "Let's sit down and talk."

"It's too late for talking."

"Ella… please."

"I—I thought I'd found the right man. But I was wrong about that, too, wasn't I?"

"No. I am the right man."

"Not for me. Not anymore."

I get to the door, yanking it open, and he stops. "Please, don't do this. Don't leave me."

"What choice do I have when you don't trust me?" A sob escapes my lips, tears falling onto my cheeks. "Damn you, Blake MacKenzie."

I run down the stairs.

Despite everything he's just said, he doesn't call after me, and I don't look back.

But I guess that's what happens when you both know it's over.

***

Mac

I stand outside the terminal building, looking up at the grey sky and wonder if I've done the right thing.

Should I turn around and go back?

What would I say to her if I did?

Would she even talk to me?

Do I want to talk to her?

I shake my head and pull my phone from my back pocket, turning it on and going to my contacts list. It only takes me a moment to scroll, although I pause at Ella's name, sucking in a sharp breath before I move on to Henry's, connecting the call. I have no choice. I've got no-one else to turn to.

"Mac? How are you?" he says, sounding as cheerful as ever. "And why are you calling me in the middle of the night?"

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. It must be four-thirty in the morning over there."

"I'm not over there, Henry. I'm here… at Heathrow."

There's just a moment's silence. "You're here?"

"Yes. I've come home."

"For a visit?"

"No, for good."

Another silence…

"Do you need somewhere to stay?"

I smile, even though it's an effort. I knew I could rely on Henry. "Would that be okay?"

"Of course," he says. "You know my basement flat is always yours whenever you need it. You jump in a taxi, and I'll make up the bed and put the kettle on."

I smile again, which feels like a miracle. "Thanks, Henry."

It's easy to find a taxi at Heathrow and the cabbie takes just over an hour to drive me into Clapham. Fortunately, he's not in a very talkative mood, which suits me just fine, and as he drops me outside Henry's four-storey town house, I look up and see my father's oldest friend, standing by the front door, waiting for me. I know I'm going to be staying in the basement, but after I've paid the taxi driver, I lug my cases up the steps and Henry greets me with a welcome hug.

"Come in out of the cold," he says, smiling up at me.

He moves aside and I follow him into the house, down the hall and into the kitchen, which overlooks the back garden. Considering the age of the property, the kitchen is very modern, with dark grey units and stainless steel appliances, and I wonder what Ella would make of it… and how long it's going to be before she stops being the first thought that comes into my mind.

We sit at the table and Henry pours the tea from a bright yellow teapot, looking across at me in his usual, avuncular manner, his brown eyes sparkling behind his rimless glasses. Henry is a confirmed bachelor, in his early sixties, with steel grey hair, and a lean figure. He's the owner of a popular art gallery in Denmark Street, which is how he met my father… so many years ago.

He's also the kindest man I've ever met.

"So, you're back," he says, stating the obvious.

"Yes."

He frowns. "The last time you called, you said the show was going well."

"It was."

"Then what happened?"

I pick up my cup of tea, taking a sip. It tastes good, but then I haven't drunk tea in ages. Ella didn't like it, and because we were never apart, I got used to drinking coffee. I got used to a lot of things when I was with her… like being happy.

"I fell in love," I say and he nods his head.

"With someone who lives here? Is that why you've come home?"

"No. She's American. She lives in Boston… and in Newport."

"She's got two homes?" He raises his eyebrows.

"Yes. She's a multi-millionaire."

He leans back in his chair, staring at me for a full twenty seconds. "I don't understand. It seems like you had everything going for you. Love… success… happiness."

"I know. It sounds ideal, doesn't it? Until you add betrayal into the mix."

His shoulders drop. "She cheated on you?"

"No. Not in the way you mean."

"What did she do then?" he asks.

"She went to the press and told them I was a fraud. She told them I couldn't cook, that I was a second-rate actor, and would-be author."

"That's harsh."

"Which part?" I ask, and he smiles.

"All of it. But especially the would-be author thing."

"I know. But it's also how I know it was Ella who betrayed me. She's the only one, apart from the show's producer, who knew about my book. And there's no way the producer would have done this…"

"Of course she wouldn't," he says, frowning. "The show was a success. She'd be stupid to jeopardise that."

"Exactly. That's what I said." It's such a relief to have my suspicions confirmed. I've spent every minute of every hour since Ella left me, wondering if I made a mistake… even though I know I didn't.

"So, you broke up with her?" he says, sipping his tea.

"No. She broke up with me."

He shakes his head. "She did?"

"Yes. She denied talking to the press, even though the producers had announced they were going to keep the show going… with Ella taking over my role."

"In which case…"

"I know." I hold up my hand and stare down at my cup for a moment before looking back at him. "She denied it, Henry. All of it. And then she made it clear we were over, and… she left."

Memories flit through my mind… the tears on her cheeks, her calling me ‘Blake', like she hated me… the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. I didn't want her to go. I wanted her to stay and talk; to work things out… somehow. But my feet wouldn't move, and I guess that was when I realised… love isn't always enough.

"What are you going to do now?" Henry's voice brings me back to the here and now.

"I don't know. I'll have to do something, though. My bank balance took a hit, what with having to pay a month's rent in lieu of notice on my apartment… and booking a last-minute flight during Thanksgiving week."

"Hmm… the timing could have been better."

"I know. But I couldn't hang around over there any longer."

Once Ella had gone, I sat in my apartment for a while, just staring into space, until my phone rang. It was Delilah, and I knew I'd have to take the call. She wanted to know what had happened, so I explained, telling her everything.

"Forget about gunning for her," I said firmly as I finished my story.

"Your career's over." It sounded like she was still thinking of trying something.

"I don't care about my career," I yelled down the phone at her.

"Okay… okay." She paused for a second. "What are you gonna do now?"

"Go home." I hadn't even thought about it, but the idea flashed into my head, and it made perfect sense.

"To England?"

"Yes. There's nothing left for me here."

"She really got to you, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did."

"Well… stay in touch."

Her words held so little conviction, and she didn't even try to persuade me to stay, so I wondered if she was glad to see the back of me. My departure meant she could wash her hands of me… publicly, at least. She could distance herself from any negative publicity surrounding the show and my role in it, and get on with representing more profitable clients.

Once the decision was made, it only took me a couple of days to organise everything, and even though I know I could have taken more time, or waited to see if something else came up over there, I didn't want to.

The adventure was over…

"Do you want to come and see the flat?" Henry says, and I look up to see he's smiling at me.

"Okay, but before I do, and while we're speaking of what I'm going to do and my lack of funds, I should probably warn you, I won't be able to pay you very much rent for the time being."

He leans across the table, his hand on my arm. "You don't have to pay me any rent at all. And you can stay here for as long as you want. You know that."

"Thank you, Henry."

He gets up. "Come on, then…"

I follow him to the front of the house, where I left my cases, and carry them outside and down to the basement. Henry pauses by the door, the key in his hand.

"I've had the whole place redecorated," he says, opening the door, and handing the key to me as we cross the threshold. "I hope it doesn't smell of paint."

I can't detect any smell at all, and follow him inside, closing the door behind me.

The hallway is narrow and quite dark, but Henry flicks on a light, revealing white walls and a pale grey carpet.

"The bathroom's just here." He opens the sliding door to our left, and I glance inside, looking at the smallest bathroom in the world… although there's no bath, just a shower, a tiny corner basin and a toilet. "And the bedroom is opposite." We turn and he stands aside, pushing open the door. I go inside, looking around. The room has a small sash window, a double bed, which has been made up with white bedding, and two bedside tables. There's a built-in wardrobe, which takes up the whole of the wall to my left. It's got mirrored doors, which make the room seem bigger and lighter, and I nod my head as I dump my cases at the end of the bed.

"This is lovely," I say, turning back to him.

He smiles and I follow him out into the hall, and along to the kitchen, which is at the rear of the house. It's a galley style, with white units down one side, broken up by a built-in electric cooker and hob, and a washing machine at the end, underneath the draining board. The fridge/freezer is behind the door and on the right-hand wall is another sliding door which, this time, leads to the living room.

In here, against one wall, there's a large dark grey leather sofa, and against another, there's a small dining table with two chairs. The other two walls feature a fireplace, and a set of doors which lead out into a tiny courtyard. There are wrought-iron railings separating it from Henry's garden above, but at least it's an outside space… not that it's warm enough to sit out there at the moment.

"Is it okay?" Henry asks, and I turn to face him.

"It's perfect."

"You make yourself at home," Henry says. "And come up for dinner later on."

"Okay… thanks."

It's a relief not to have to think about food, or cooking… although thinking about Ella isn't optional. She's in my head every second of the day.

She's been there ever since, no matter how hard I've tried to distract myself.

On Friday, it'll be two weeks since I took her to the cabin in Vermont.

That means, on Monday, it'll be two weeks since Ella walked out of my apartment, and my life.

Not that I'm counting the days, of course.

I'm counting the hours… and the minutes.

I've relived that final scene in my head, over and over, wondering if I could have played it differently.

Except it wasn't a scene, and I wasn't playing.

And how else was I supposed to react? She'd ruined my career; she'd betrayed me and she was standing in front of me refusing to admit to any of it. As far as I was aware, we'd never lied to each other, but there she was, lying to my face.

How could I not be angry?

Okay, so I might not have been completely honest with Ella about my reasons for taking her to the cabin, but at least my intentions had been honourable. I wasn't lying when I said I wanted to get away from everything for a few days, but what I didn't explain was that I also wanted to take her somewhere quiet, so I could tell her I was in love with her. Of course, I hadn't anticipated that I'd get carried away with the atmosphere of the place, and forget to use a condom… but that and its consequences made saying those three little words absolutely impossible. She'd have doubted my motives and probably assumed I was only saying them because of what had just happened. I didn't want that. I didn't want her to doubt me.

So, I kept quiet, and looking back, I think that was a mistake.

I should have found a way to tell her, although how and when, I don't know.

The opportunity never really arose. We both got a little carried away with the situation… with where we'd found ourselves. Ella made it clear she didn't want to use a condom again, and neither did I. We both knew there were consequences to what we were doing, but we didn't talk about them, either… which was a definite mistake.

We should have discussed what we were doing, but we didn't. I reasoned to myself that we could talk it through when we got back to Boston… back to the real world. I told myself that when we got home, I'd explain to her how I felt, and suggest we move in together. It made sense, considering where we'd taken our relationship.

I mulled it over on the journey back from Vermont, trying to work out how to phrase my suggestion. After all, I was being kind of presumptuous. I was going to suggest that I move into her place, rather than the other way around, but I wasn't sure how to do that without it sounding like I was freeloading. I could hardly offer to pay rent, and any contribution I made towards our living expenses was always going to be a drop in the ocean as far as her wealth was concerned.

I still hadn't worked out what I was going to say by the time Ella parked her car outside my apartment… but in the end, it didn't matter.

She left me, regardless.

I suck in a breath.

Two weeks…

I know what that means.

It means, if there are any consequences to what happened in Vermont, she'll find out about them any day now. I've wondered whether to call her, but how can I? It'll seem like I'm only interested in the baby… assuming there is one. She doubted me at the time, and because of that, I have to wait.

I have to trust her.

That's not easy, when I know she's already betrayed me once, but if she's pregnant, she'll call. She'll tell me. I know she will. She wouldn't keep something like that from me. Ella couldn't do that.

Of course, if there is a baby, we'll have to work out what we're going to do about it. I told her I'd stick around, no matter what, and I haven't done that. I've flown three thousand miles, just to get away from the memory of her.

Not that it's helping.

She's everywhere. Even here, she's in everything I do, and say, and think.

But if she calls, I'll go back, in the blink of an eye. Not for the baby, but for her. It won't be easy – for either of us – but if I get the chance to try again, I'll take it, and I'll make it work. I'll make my love enough for her… for both of us.

For all three of us, I guess.

I think about that for a moment… about becoming a father… about having a child with Ella, and I feel a warm glow in my chest.

I tap on my phone, going to my contacts and finding her name. My finger hovers over the ‘phone' symbol, but I can't do it, and I sit back, staring at the screen.

"Call me… please." My voice cracks and I turn, staring out into the courtyard, the view blurring as my eyes sting with unshed tears.

I don't just want her to phone because she's pregnant. I want her to phone because she needs me, and misses me, and loves me, like I love her.

If only…

It took me a while – and a cup of coffee – before I could focus on my laptop again, but when I did, I knuckled down and got on with re-writing my book.

I've been working on it every day since I got back, having discovered that there were, in fact, a few female doctors in the nineteen-twenties. I was relieved by that because it made it viable to change my central character from a man to a woman. At least I didn't have to change course yet again, and although it's taken a lot of work, as the grey daylight turns to dusk and then to darkness, my screen providing the only light in the room, I finally get to the end.

I liked my version, with Jonathan Hawkes, the male surgeon and part-time sleuth, but this new one is so much better. It now features Evelyn Harper, who prefers to be called Evie. She's very much a bright young thing, whose older brother was killed in the Great War, spurring her to follow in his footsteps and study medicine at university, defying tradition, and her father's wishes. I've moved the setting to the home counties and created both back and side stories to defy description, including a tentative love interest for Evie, in the form of the detective inspector who eventually arrives at the country house, just in time to arrest the villain. I wasn't in the mood for taking that too far, and because of the nature of the story, I didn't have to.

The good thing is, I think I might be able to write a sequel, pairing Evie and her detective inspector in another murder investigation. I've even got a few ideas for where to set it.

And it's all thanks to Ella…

I stand, stretching my arms above my head, and take a deep breath.

The question is, what to do with my novel now?

I could self-publish it, but I'm not sure I've got the know-how for that.

I could try to find another agent, although that's a notoriously long and laborious process, as I know from bitter experience.

Or I could swallow my pride and send it to Delilah.

I sit down again, clenching my fists a few times to relieve some of the stiffness from all the typing I've been doing, and then I go to my mail app…

‘Hi Delilah,

I hope you're keeping well.

I'm not sure if you're still willing to represent me, but on the off-chance that you are, I'm attaching a revised version of my manuscript.

I've re-written it, in the hope it's now more to your liking.

Let me know what you think.

Best wishes,

Blake'

I re-read it, hoping it doesn't sound too obsequious, and then attach the file, and press ‘send' before I can change my mind.

I didn't bother to explain to Delilah the ways in which I've changed my novel. I'm sure she'll work it out for herself soon enough.

I get up to fetch myself another coffee, just as my laptop pings and I sit down, surprised to see I've received a reply from Delilah… already.

‘Blake,

It's good to hear from you. You had me worried when you bolted back to England, but I'm glad you've been busy.

I'll find the time to read through your manuscript in the next few weeks, but if you've made enough improvements, I've got someone in mind who I can send it to.

I think it's only fair to warn you, they're probably going to ask if it can be turned into a series. Standalone books are harder to pitch and sell, so is that feasible?

Let me know.

Best,

Delilah'

She didn't seem that worried when I told her I was coming home, so I wonder if she just feels sorry for me now, after everything that happened. That said, I'm not sure pity is one of Delilah's strongest traits, and I fire off a quick reply, telling her I've got a few ideas for a second novel.

Now isn't the time to outline them to her, but as I wander into the kitchen, I let them percolate around my brain…

I like the idea of a limited number of suspects being involved. It keeps things simpler, and I'm contemplating setting the second story in a theatre. It's something I know a little about, and I rather like the idea of creating a strong female lead, and then having her killed off. I'd base her on Kennedy Black, I think, with Evie Harper in the audience and, therefore, on hand to interfere in the official investigation, which can be run by her love interest… the police inspector.

It's all coming together nicely in my head, and I grab a cup from the cupboard, wondering whether to have Kennedy whacked over the head with a piece of scenery, or stabbed with a prop dagger that turns out to be real. Either would do…