Chapter 26

One sure window into a person's soul is his reading list.

Mary B. W. Tabor

I can't stop thinking about her. I don't want to, but I am. Those big brown eyes might be appealing, but she's nothing like his usual type. She's too short and too . . . well, sturdy, I guess. Charles doesn't go for sturdy; he prefers slim, willowy women. I was slim and willowy when we first met, although that was partly because in those days I was existing on lunchtime salad bowls from Pret and warm white wine at evening book events. After I started going out with him and learned about his preferred female shape, I was on constant flab alert. In my twenties, it was easy to keep slim, but it was a lot harder in my thirties, and now, in my forties, it's a battle. That's why I wear shapewear whenever I'm meeting anyone. I can't afford to look anything other than perfect. And I especially want to look good any time I meet Charles, because I don't want him to think that I let myself go after we broke up. I want him to see that it's made no difference to me. And I know he still finds me attractive. Why shouldn't he? After all, handsome as he is, he's put on a few kilos himself. Why does that never matter for a man? Why aren't they bombarded with messages about how to look good in your forties, fifties and sixties? Why are women expected to do all the work?

My mind is spinning around in circles. I know I'm spending far too much time thinking about someone with whom my most intimate relationship is in the past. Yes, we care about each other. And yes, there have been the occasional friends-with-benefits moments. But no matter what Ellis might think about us being the perfect couple, he's not in love with me and I'm not in love with him.

Yet I'm struggling with the thought of him and Iseult. I know I told him she was what he needed, but I was being . . . well, polite isn't the right word. I said it to make him think I didn't care. He's a complex personality and it's clear to me that she's not. It's a holiday romance, and when it goes wrong it'll throw him into a fit of not being able to write (again) because he can't write when he's upset. He's only in love with her now because she got him out of his writing funk with her mad suggestion about a mystery novel that may have worked but isn't really Charles.

None of this is Charles.

He'll realise it soon enough.

Although I sometimes go to the mews office at the weekend, I decide that it's better to stay away for the moment, and instead do some work at home sorting the unsolicited emailed manuscripts that are cluttering up my inbox. I move them to folders arranged in date order, and when I've finished, I highlight the ones that came with a literate email and bin the ones telling me that I'd be a complete loser to pass on a book of such great importance and brilliance. I haven't got the strength to work with someone who uses the word ‘loser' in the subject line of an email.

On Monday, I have an appointment with Josh Carmody, the accountant who's looked after me and the agency ever since I set it up. We meet in his office and he goes through a new system he wants me to use for generating payments for my authors, which will be slightly more expensive but significantly clearer. I give the go-ahead for the switch and he asks how things are going, which he already knows as he filed my taxes at the end of the year.

‘I meant with you,' he says. ‘How are things between you and the Big House?'

He always calls Charles ‘the Big House'.

‘He's getting married.'

‘I thought I saw something about that after Christmas. Are you OK with it?'

‘It's fine by me,' I say, but then add that I'm a bit conflicted because his fiancée is very young and I can't help thinking it's a big mistake. ‘Which will mean more of his money going on a divorce settlement and him getting stressed out and not being able to write.'

‘You're leaping over the actual wedding and going straight for divorce?' He sounds amused. ‘When you haven't even got divorced yourself yet?'

Josh is one of the few people who knows everything about Charles and me. He looks after my money, so he needs to.

‘We're working on the divorce. As for her . . .' I give him a slightly shamefaced look. ‘Josh – you're a man. Do you all really believe that pretty young women fall in love with older men because of their looks rather than their bank balance?'

‘You think she's a gold-digger?' He frowns. ‘Charles is a catch, but not that much of a catch, surely?'

Josh is well aware of how much Charles earns. He sees the royalty statements, after all.

‘There's a new book this year, which will bring in more money,' I remind him. ‘And potentially another TV series. Admittedly Charles spent a lot of his cash when he first did well, but he's much more frugal now. Except for his six-week Caribbean writing holiday and his New Year's Eve party, of course. And the wedding. He'll probably spend a fortune on the wedding.'

Josh laughs, and after a moment, I do too.

‘I'm sorry,' I say. ‘His finances are none of my business.'

‘His income is,' Josh says. ‘But his expenditure is entirely a matter for himself.'

‘And his new wife.'

‘Exactly.'

‘You didn't answer me,' I tell him. ‘Do you really believe it's love, not money, in this kind of age-gap relationship?'

‘I suppose all men like to think they can attract a pretty young thing,' he replies thoughtfully. ‘We want to believe we're still macho and manly. Though I don't suppose any young woman falls for an older man who's unattractive and insolvent. In Charles's case . . . honestly, he gets better-looking with age, the fecker. I envy him. And I say that as a straight man.'

This time it's me who laughs. Josh is around the same age as me and isn't unattractive – he's shorter and less well built than Charles, but he takes care of himself. His hair, which he wears in a buzz cut, is salt-and-pepper grey. His eyes are grey too. He wears decent suits, although his shirtsleeves have buttons, not cufflinks as Charles prefers. On the other hand, I've never seen Josh in casual gear, while Charles can occasionally look positively feral when he's writing, happy to wear the same worn-out T-shirt and trousers for a week. The two men know each other because they worked at the same company for a short time, and Charles recommended Josh to me when I was setting up. He said that much as he found it therapeutic to do his own accounts, it would be a nightmare for him to do the agency's too, and I agreed on the basis that it would be a massive conflict of interest for him to know what my other authors were earning, and would spark too much paranoia in him for me to deal with.

‘Want to grab lunch?' asks Josh.

I nod, and we head to an upmarket deli close to Baggot Street, where I order a warm chicken salad and Josh asks for a steak sandwich. The deli is full of business people, and I feel a sudden sense of belonging. I'm a business person too. At a business lunch. With my accountant. Josh is good company, and his conversation about the agency is upbeat and positive. He tells me I'm doing better than a lot of small businesses and I should be really proud of what I've accomplished. For some unaccountable reason his compliment makes me well up, and I pretend to choke on a crouton so that I can wipe the tears from my eyes.

‘I'd be lost without Charles, though,' I say, after I've assured him I'm not going to choke to death and have taken a sip of my mineral water.

‘It'd be a serious hole in your income,' he agrees. ‘But who knows for how much longer he'll write?'

‘Years, I hope.'

‘I'm amazed he's written so many already, to be honest. Unlike your Lucy Conway and Janice Jermyn, with the books as regular as clockwork, the Booker people tend to take their sweet time about it.'

‘Because they're polishing their work.'

‘Yet Charles manages to get one out fairly regularly.'

‘I know. I think he believes that if he stops, he'll lose it,' I say. ‘Even though he also believes he's an absolute genius.'

‘Charles makes you money because you get him really good advances for his books and because of all the other rights you sell for him,' says Josh. ‘But Janice and Lucy provide a very dependable, regular source of income. As an accountant, I like dependable, regular sources of income.'

‘They're both wonderful,' I agree. Then I dig into my handbag and give him proof copies of their next books. He's a fan of Janice, and his wife, Paula, loves Lucy.

‘Thanks,' he says, as he puts the Janice Jermyn in his case. ‘You can keep the Lucy Conway, though.'

‘Why? Has Paula gone off her?' I'm shocked. Nobody goes off Lucy. Even though some readers describe her as a guilty pleasure, once they've read one, they read them all.

‘Paula and I have split up,' says Josh.

‘What?' I'm even more shocked. Josh and Paula have been together for twenty years. ‘I thought you two were the perfect couple.' It occurs to me that I'm using the same phrase people used about me and Charles, and I think how nobody really knows what goes on in a relationship.

‘No such thing.' Josh pushes the uneaten portion of his steak sandwich to one side. ‘She's found someone else.'

‘Oh gosh.' I give him a sympathetic look. ‘Here I am banging on about divorces and remarriages and you've got this to contend with. What happened?'

‘She met him at her book club.' Josh snorts.

I wince. I don't like to think of a book club being something that broke them up.

‘Their eyes obviously met over a romantic read and she decided I didn't match up.'

‘I'm really sorry.'

‘So you should be.' This time he gives me a rueful look. ‘It was one of Charles's books.'

‘Not really?'

‘That damn novella of his that I thought was rubbish but the book club decided was beautiful.'

It'd be funny if it wasn't such a horrible thing for him, so I say nothing. In any event, whatever was going on with Josh and Paula was deeper than Charles's novella.

‘When did this happen?' I ask eventually. ‘You didn't mention anything when we were doing the taxes.'

‘November.' He shrugs again. ‘It was a bleak Christmas.'

‘Have you moved out?' I ask.

‘Living over the office.'

‘You should've told me. I would have . . . you could have called me.'

‘You were in Mallorca for Christmas, remember?'

‘Only for a few days. You should've got in touch if you were at a loose end.'

Although I understand why he wouldn't. We get on well, but we're not close friends. I remember Charles once saying that men don't have close friends in the same way women do. Not friends they can cry with. But I don't cry. Not if I can help it. Besides, my closest friends are in London, and that's a long way to go for a few tears.

‘Maybe we could meet for a drink sometime,' says Josh. ‘Compare divorce notes.'

‘I'm not sure how helpful I'd be, but happy to meet whenever you like.'

‘I'll give you a shout,' he says. ‘I'm juggling stuff at the moment.'

‘I'm flexible,' I assure him. ‘Whenever suits.'

Josh gets the bill and we leave the deli. He heads back to the office and I hail a cab back home.

There are another five unsolicited manuscripts in my inbox when I return.

Maybe one of them will turn out to be the mega author who replaces Charles as my main income stream in the future.

Though none of them will ever replace him as a person.