Chapter 28

A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.

Virginia Woolf

The following week, I have lunch with Janice Jermyn. Many readers seem to think that writers of cosy crime are somehow cosy themselves. Not Janice. She's tall, blonde and statuesque, with a shrewd business brain and a quiet confidence about her success. She delivers her manuscripts on time and with a minimal need for editing, and she doesn't give a damn about reviews. She gets on with writing her next bestseller without any fuss whatsoever. Yet while all my male novelists (who seem to take up far more of my time) have had in-depth newspaper pieces written about them and their work, Janice's main feature was all about how lucky she was to be able to chuck in her job as a dental technician after her first novel (where the murderer was a dentist) was a solid bestseller in five countries.

She's brilliant, of course. She's also great fun.

‘What's this I hear about Charles Miller muscling in on my territory by turning to crime?' she demands when we get to the dessert stage of our lunch. ‘It's a big change for the Undisputed King of Tearjerkers.'

I laugh. That was a headline used on a book blogger piece about Charles last year. He was furious when I told him. He said it made him sound like some kind of romance novelist. When I joked that he sort of was, I thought his head would explode. I tell Janice that he has indeed written a crime novel, though it's nothing like hers.

‘It better not be.' She smiles at the waiter, who's placing a huge slice of lemon meringue pie in front of her, but her expression when she looks at me is fierce.

‘It's an enjoyable book,' I say. ‘Would you like to read a proof? Maybe give a quote if you enjoy it.'

‘Me? Quote on a Charles Miller novel?' Janice splutters. ‘You're having a laugh.'

‘I have it on good authority that it was reading one of your books that inspired him to switch to crime.'

‘Feck's sake.' She stabs her pie. ‘Tell you what, Ariel. You get some of your literary reviewers to give me the kind of fawning reviews they give Charles, and I'll say something wonderful about his crime novel.'

‘Yes, well.' I smile. ‘You know how it is, Janice.'

‘I bloody do.' She takes a moment to demolish the dessert. ‘Delicious. Anyhow, leaving reviews and quotes and all that sort of thing aside, they're not going to bump me for him at Harrogate, are they?'

Harrogate is a prestigious literary crime festival and Janice is scheduled to be on a panel. It's the first time she's been asked, and she's very excited.

‘Of course not,' I tell her. ‘They specifically want you. Anyhow, he's very nervous about his foray into crime, so I'm not sure he's ready for Harrogate yet.'

She snorts and say he's got nothing to be nervous about. It's about respect, she continues. Men are always respected more than women, no matter what area of life it is. Business, arts, entertainment – you have to be exceptional to be noticed as a woman. A man expects it.

She's not entirely wrong. In fact, in my experience she's entirely right.

‘We'll be talking to your publisher about a contract soon,' I say.

‘Yes.' She nods. ‘I have some ideas for a new series.'

‘Oh? Not Crispin Devereux?' This is both good and bad news. It's fun that Janice is considering a new series, but her readers love Crispin. He's a throwback to the gentlemen detectives of the 1930s and 40s. The son of an earl who's fallen on hard times and is selling off the country estate, he is now a detective inspector on the police force. Janice and I often joke that the beautiful countryside in which he lives is an absolute hotbed of murder, blackmail and dark deeds.

We chat for a while about her idea for a female detective and I like what she's outlining. The character's warm, empathetic exterior masks her brilliant deductive reasoning, and I think she sounds like a very modern Miss Marple.

‘That's the idea,' says Janice. ‘Although she's living in an apartment in a new town, not a gorgeous cottage in the Home Counties.'

‘I like her already,' I say.

‘In my head, she's a bit like you,' she tells me.

‘How?' I frown.

‘You're such a lovely person to talk to, but all the time I can see the wheels spinning inside your brain. Working out what'll work and what won't. Working out how to shape things to the best advantage.'

‘I don't know whether to be flattered or not,' I say.

‘Oh, be flattered.' She grins at me. ‘I couldn't have a better agent.'

‘That's good to know.'

And it is. In a year where things haven't always gone exactly to plan, it's nice to hear that my bestselling crime novelist appreciates me.

I feel equally appreciated when I meet Josh that evening for the drink we eventually managed to schedule. When I arrive at the Cellar Bar at the Merrion Hotel, he's already there, a pint of Guinness in front of him. I sit down opposite and apologise for being ten minutes late.

‘No worries.' He signals to the barman and I order a gin and tonic.

‘How are you doing?' I ask when we clink our glasses together. ‘Any progress on . . . well, whatever you're going to do.'

‘Divorce,' says Josh. ‘There's no chance of a reconciliation. She's mad about Ivan.' He almost spits the name out.

‘Are you sure it isn't . . . Sorry, Josh, I hesitate to say this because I hate the term and always edit it out of a manuscript, but are you sure it isn't some kind of midlife crisis for her?'

‘Even if it is, she can't throw me out and expect me to come back whenever she feels like it.'

‘Do you think she might?'

‘I doubt it.' He sighs. ‘Apparently this Ivan guy is bringing her to arty events and theatre and stuff like that, and she says it's enriching her life immeasurably. We used to go to the pub and maybe occasionally a blockbuster movie with popcorn. Mostly we stayed in and binge-watched TV dramas. She said she couldn't be arsed to go out. Now I gather she never wants to stay in.'

‘What about the kids?' They have two, a boy and a girl.

‘They're at home with her, of course,' says Josh. ‘It's not like I could have a twelve-year-old and an eight-year-old in the flat above the office, is it?'

‘I guess not.'

‘I thought we were building a good life together,' he says. ‘She never said there was anything wrong. She seemed happy. I suppose I'm totally clueless for not realising that she wasn't.'

‘How serious is it between her and Book Club Man?' I ask.

‘Apparently he understands her in a way I never will.' He makes a face. ‘I swear to God, Ariel, I feel like I'm a character in a romance novel myself. A minor character. One that gets forgotten after Chapter One.'

‘Oh, Josh.' I reach out and catch him by the hand. ‘The overlooked characters in Chapter One sometimes make a triumphant return at the end.'

He laughs.

‘Have you got a good solicitor?' I release his hand.

‘If nothing else, I know lots of good solicitors,' he says. ‘How about you and the Big House? Now that he has someone else, I presume you've got that in motion yourself.'

‘Working on it,' I reply. ‘It should be fine. Everything's already agreed.'

He orders another drink, and when he's finished it, he says he'd better get home as he had a couple before I arrived and is now feeling the effects. He apologises for being a boring old drunk. I tell him he's certainly not boring or old, even if he is a little drunk. He tells me I'm kind. I order a cab and we share it as far as his office.

‘Would you like to come in for coffee?' he asks, and then immediately says, ‘No, don't, sorry. That's such a cliché. Besides, we're both still married to other people, and anyway, you're my client, Ariel. A good client. I don't want to mess that up. I'm sorry.'

I make soothing noises and ease him out of the cab while the driver pretends he's not listening to us. I wait until I'm sure he's safely inside before telling the driver to carry on. But I'm thinking about Josh's remark about us both still being married to other people.

We won't be married to other people for much longer. Yet as much as I'm Josh's client, Charles is still mine. And that complicates things in ways that, at this hour of the night, I can't really get my head around.

I'm on a Zoom with Shelley when the door to the mews opens and Charles walks in. I look up in surprise, because he rarely comes to my office.

‘Why haven't you returned those signed documents?' he asks.

‘Charles! You can't just walk in here. I'm in the middle of—'

‘I texted you. You didn't answer.'

‘I'll get back to you, Shelley,' I tell my assistant, and end the session.

Then I turn to Charles.

‘Never, ever interrupt me when I'm talking to someone again,' I say. ‘You could have ruined a deal, for yourself or someone else.'

‘You were talking to Shelley,' he says.

‘You weren't to know that. Now, I have a heap of things to do that are really important—'

‘The most important thing is telling me you've signed the papers I know you received the other day.'

‘Everything is in hand,' I say.

‘I don't want it to be in hand,' says Charles. ‘I want it to be with the courts. Iseult and I would like to get married as soon as we can.'

‘What's the big rush?' I ask. ‘Is she pregnant?'

‘Of course she isn't pregnant!' He gives me a horrified look. ‘Why would you even say such a thing? And not that it would matter if she was, but . . . are you jealous?'

‘Oh, please.' I roll my eyes. ‘How could I possibly be jealous of her?'

‘Well, you not getting on with things is affecting my work. I can't think of anything till it's done. Sydney sent me more – more! – suggestions for A Caribbean Calypso . . . You'll have to talk to her and tell her to lay off on them. I can't concentrate properly until I know those papers have been filed. Iseult's parents will be home from their cruise soon and I want to be able to tell them that I'm a divorced man.'

‘Even if I'd hand-delivered the papers to the judge himself, it wouldn't make things happen faster.'

‘Well, if you haven't bothered, if you're too bloody busy to walk to the post office, give them to me now and I'll post them myself.'

‘Here you are.' I pull open the bottom drawer of my desk and take out a large envelope. ‘Everything that's needed is in there.'

‘Why you couldn't have . . .' He shakes his head. ‘At least I know we'll be up and running after today. I'm going to send them by registered mail right now.'

‘Fine,' I say. ‘Takes something off my plate.'

‘Anything to help,' says Charles, and walks out of my office, slamming the door behind him.

Fuck, I think as I watch him stalk up the garden. I should've sent the papers the day I got them. But every time I took the envelope out of the drawer, I put it back in again. Something was holding me back. Perhaps it was the feeling that the invisible bond between him and me is necessary for both of us. Or maybe it was simply that I don't want him to have that bond with someone else.

I'm being silly. I know I am.

I turn back to my laptop, but my concentration has been shot to pieces.

I glare up at the house, then snap the laptop shut.

I'll work from home, where I won't be interrupted.