Chapter 12

A good book is an event in my life.

Stendhal

I place the last page of Charles's manuscript on the coffee table, then gaze across the city from my apartment window. I'm on the fourth floor, and the view towards the bay is beautiful. One of the things I definitely prefer about Dublin as opposed to London is being beside the sea. I allow my eyes to rest as I gaze into the dusky light and think about my client's latest book.

I started reading first thing this morning, when I woke up and realised that my migraine had finally lifted. I raised my head cautiously from the pillow, half expecting the blinding pain that takes residence behind my right eye to return, but I was perfectly fine. I was equally cautious getting out of bed, but by the time I'd made it to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, I knew I was back to normal.

I cursed the inappropriate timing of getting a migraine at the same time as Charles's manuscript. No matter how much I wanted to read it, I simply couldn't. My migraines have become less frequent over the last few years, but when one does arrive, I react by immediately posting an out-of-office message on all my media before getting myself into a dark place and taking a couple of pills. Then I lie down and wait for it to pass. I'm always relieved when it does.

I rub the back of my neck before picking up the manuscript again.

It's good. Really good. A Caribbean Calypso is well written, very witty, cleverly plotted (despite some glaring errors, which can be fixed) and the characters are hugely engaging.

But it's not the novel Charles was contracted to write, which was tentatively titled Springs Eternal. It's not the novel his readers will expect. Many people who read pacy crime novels also read Booker Prize winners; however, the kind of people who read and review Booker Prize winners don't usually admit to having popular murder mysteries on their shelves (or if they do, they murmur that it's a guilty pleasure).

My phone buzzes.

How are you feeling?

Better

Have you been able to read the manuscript yet?

Yes, I'm letting it sink in

In a good way?

In an agent-y sort of way

This time my phone rings.

‘What do you mean, "in an agent-y sort of way"?' demands Charles. ‘Can't you just give it to Graham and tell him how brilliant it is?'

‘Obviously this is a very different kind of book, and not what he'll be expecting from you, so it'll require some additional discussion with him.'

‘Is it too different for Xerxes?' Charles sounds anxious. ‘I know they don't do crime usually, but the characters are from Springs Eternal and the plot follows the plan I had for it in a weird kind of way.'

‘I don't recall three murders in the outline you gave me,' I say in amusement. ‘Or a poisoned pineapple, fun though it was to read about. What on earth possessed you to write a murder mystery anyway? You were gung-ho about Springs Eternal in its original format.'

‘Until I got writer's block and discovered another side to myself.'

‘A homicidal side?'

‘Maybe.' He laughs.

‘Well, leave it with me and let me persuade Graham he has a bestseller on his hands. But there'll have to be some editing, Charles. You've dropped clues that give away the murderer early on.'

‘Dammit, have I really? It's so hard not to do,' he says. ‘But it's not something to worry about just yet. Let's see what Graham and Sophia have to say. I'm sure we'll work it out. Have you eaten? We could have a late lunch and talk it over.'

Sophia, Charles's editor, is in her sixties, very experienced, and has worked with him ever since Winter's Heartbreak. They get on really well together.

‘I have a . . . Oh, all right. I'm at home right now. Will I come to Riverside Lodge?'

‘If you're OK with bread and cheese.'

‘I'll stop off at the deli on the way,' I tell him.

‘You're a gem,' he says, and ends the call.

It takes about ten minutes to drive from my apartment to Charles's house, but stopping at the deli delays me, and it's over half an hour later before I'm pointing the remote at the sliding gate that leads to the parking space beside my mews. The snow of the previous few days has melted, although it feels cold enough to start again at any minute.

I walk past my office and up the path to the kitchen door. It's unlocked. I step inside and made my way into the hallway.

‘Anyone home?' I call. ‘I come bearing gifts.'

I hear the sound of footsteps, and a minute later Charles appears. He's wearing a light blue sweater over his oldest jeans. His eyes flicker to the shopping bag in my hand. ‘What did you get?'

I take out smoked chicken, salads and some crusty rolls, and he smiles appreciatively.

‘Excellent choices, thank you.'

‘Give me credit for knowing your favourite lunch,' I say as I begin to butter the rolls. ‘Haven't you done any shopping since you got back?'

‘No time.' He shrugs.

I did all the food shopping when we were together because Charles is utterly hopeless at it. He eats out or orders in whenever he's on his own.

‘Wine or water?' he asks.

‘Water is fine, thanks.'

‘So.' He puts a glass in front of me, then sits on the opposite side of the counter. ‘I'm really excited about A Caribbean Calypso, Annie. I believe in it completely.'

Apart from my parents, he's the only one who ever calls me Annie, and that's usually only when he's trying to make a point. Mum named me Anne, after her godmother. But Anne isn't a stand-out sort of name, and I wanted to stand out. So when I went to London, I changed it. Nobody else knows my given name and I never, ever tell anyone. It was a statement of trust in Charles that I told him.

I sip my water and then ask him about his inspiration for the book.

‘The Caribbean didn't put me in the right frame of mind for a heartbreaking love story,' he says. ‘But it was perfect for a murder. I had it read by an expert,' he adds.

‘An expert?'

‘At the resort,' he says. ‘There was a girl who read lots of crime.'

‘Someone you didn't even know read your manuscript?' I'm shocked. Early on in his career, he showed a first draft of Winter's Heartbreak to his sister-in-law, Rachel. Fortunately, despite her lukewarm response to the main character, he persevered, but since then he hasn't let anyone bar me and the Xerxes team see his work before the advance reading copies are ready.

‘I wanted feedback from someone who knew the genre,' he says.

‘OK . . .' I can't help sounding doubtful.

‘And she was right, you said so yourself. It's a good book. She's a fan of Janice Jermyn, by the way,' he continues, ‘I told her I'd get her some signed copies of her books.'

‘You did, did you?'

‘Why not?'

I'm stunned by Charles's confidence. He was at a low ebb when he left for the White Sands, but now he reminds me of how he used to be when I first met him. He believed in his writing then, in what he was trying to say. He believed in it when he wrote My Frozen Heart, too. I think it was the time I was most in love with him. When everything stretched before us, bright and promising. The sunlit uplands of literary success in which we both would find eternal happiness.

There's no such thing as eternal happiness. If one of my authors wrote that in a manuscript, I'd tell them that our time on earth is finite, and that strictly speaking our happiness ends with the end of our lives. They'd probably argue that it could carry on in the afterlife, and then we'd have an existential discussion about it and I'd still insist on them editing it out.

However, despite me and Charles no longer being romantically involved, we're still good friends and professional partners. I'll be behind him every step of the way with his new book. He wouldn't expect anything less from me and I wouldn't expect anything less from myself either.