Chapter 7

You know what I did after I wrote my first novel? I shut up and wrote twenty-three more.

Michael Connolly

I'm at the Globe in London, where Graham Weston is hosting a reception to celebrate his father's ninetieth birthday. George Weston founded Xerxes sixty years ago, so it's a double celebration. Xerxes are good at celebrating things. They had a fiftieth birthday bash the same year I won an industry award. My cup was overflowing with joy and my champagne glass was overflowing with Veuve Clicquot. It was a great night: Snow in Summer, Charles's third book, had just been published after a tortuous writing experience, and he was seen as the glittering jewel in the Xerxes crown.

It doesn't seem like ten years ago. Life, and the industry, has changed a lot since then.

There are lots of well-known Xerxes authors here. Unfortunately, Charles is a notable absentee, being holed up in the Caribbean working on his next book, the deadline for which is the end of the month. He's been writing and rewriting for over a year without getting anywhere. However, when he's totally immersed, he can get a messy first draft down on paper quite quickly, so I'm keeping my hopes up while also being terrified that he won't have anything at all.

I'm conflicted about him being away, because this is a high-profile event and it would be good, on many levels, for him to be here, but it's actually more important to get some work out of him, especially as even a synopsis is like trying to prise an oyster out of its shell. But I got him to record a video of his best wishes to George and Xerxes, which Graham plans to show later. I had to make him record it three times, because the first two had the gorgeous Caribbean Sea in the background (once directly, once reflected in a mirror) and I didn't think a video of him apparently living it up in the tropics when he was supposed to be in the grip of his muse would go down well in dark, gloomy London, where Graham, and Charles's editor, Sophia, are waiting impatiently for his manuscript.

Anyhow, his video is excellent – he can totally turn on the charm when he wants to – and I'm relieved he's working hard, so I can allow myself to relax a little and enjoy myself tonight. I have two other authors here, and they deserve some of the time and attention that Charles seems to monopolise whenever he's around.

Penny Blackwater is one of the new wave of writers from Northern Ireland who've been taking the literary scene by storm; she's been shortlisted for a few literary prizes, and although she hasn't actually won anything yet, I'm very hopeful. Her debut was great, but her next book is even stronger, so my fingers are crossed. My other author, Avery Marshall, writes quirky literary comedies that sell really well and that Graham Weston himself particularly likes. In fact, I see the two of them together now, talking animatedly, and I make my way over, glass of champagne in my hand.

‘Two of my favourite men,' I say as I join them. ‘How are you both? What a fabulous night, Graham. Your father must be delighted.'

Although George handed over the reins of the company to Graham years ago, he continues to take a keen interest in the book world and loves nothing more than to be in the company of ‘his' authors.

‘He's thrilled,' says Graham. ‘It's lovely to have so many of our best-loved authors here. And quite a few of them brought to us by you, Ariel.'

‘Always glad to find the right home for them.' I smile.

‘Is Charles around?' Avery, tall and thin and looking very much like a stick of liquorice in his tuxedo, raises an enquiring eyebrow.

‘He's sequestered himself while he writes his latest,' I tell him.

‘I didn't think he was the sequestering sort.'

There's always been a bit of needle between Avery and Charles, possibly because the first time they met, Charles pretended he didn't know who Avery was. The second time, Avery had won the Wodehouse Prize for comic fiction, and Charles congratulated him so effusively I knew he didn't mean a word he said.

I smile now at Avery and tell him that Charles always locks himself away when he gets to a certain point in a novel.

‘I'm delighted he did the video, though it would've been nice to have him with us in person,' says Graham. ‘He was our first Booker winner after all.'

Their only Booker winner, though I don't say that out loud.

‘And I'm your Wodehouse winner.' Avery raises his glass.

‘Indeed you are.' Graham clinks his against it, and so do I.

‘Xerxes did really well this year,' I remark. ‘Your sales have been excellent.'

‘Thanks to Avery here,' says Graham. ‘Black Ivory was a fantastic seller for us.'

Avery smirks.

‘And, of course, poor Maura,' adds Graham. ‘Her dying so tragically was a real boost to sales.'

Maura Mulholland, one of Ekene's authors, wrote mid-list sagas. When she died earlier in the year while on holiday in Italy, her latest book and her entire backlist went stratospheric. Ekene was thrilled. Though obviously sad about Maura's passing, she conceded that it was great publicity.

The book world can be very harsh.

I see Penny Blackwater alone on the other side of the room and excuse myself. I don't like to see her by herself, although Penny is one of those people who would be perfectly happy on a desert island. Being alone, even in a throng of people, doesn't seem to bother her in the slightest.

‘Hi,' I say. ‘Here long?'

‘I arrived a minute ago,' she replies in her distinctive Derry accent. ‘There's a big crowd.'

‘I guess it's a kind of pre-Christmas party event,' I say.

‘Oh, aye. I was delighted to get dressed up.'

‘You look fabulous.'

She's wearing a gold lamé dress that clings to her perfect figure, while her long blonde hair is twisted into a loose plait that hangs down her back.

‘Thanks,' she says. ‘So do you.'

Well, yes, I do. I'm wearing black, which always suits me, and I've gone for a kind of sixties cocktail look to embrace the spirit of the evening. I'm wearing red shoes and long red gloves, although I'll have to get rid of the gloves soon, because as more and more people join the party, I can feel myself getting hotter and hotter. I'm hoping that's just the heating system and not me, because I started the HRT the day I got the prescription from the doctor and so far it's been miraculous – the hot flushes have stopped and I'm feeling a lot more energetic which is a good thing for sure.

‘Charles not here tonight?' asks Penny.

I give her the same reply as I gave Graham and Avery.

‘I wish I had the time to sequester myself away,' she says.

I give her a sympathetic smile. Although her book has had rave reviews and prize nominations, and sold reasonably well too (a welcome bonus!), Penny can't afford to give up the day job yet. Her main income is from her work at an online travel company. She's great at social media, though, and such a lovely writer as well as a lovely person that I'm convinced she'll soon have a massive breakthrough.

‘Have you posted anything yet?' I ask.

She grins and shows me a few pix of the evening, with various hashtags that include #Celebration #BookNight #BookLovers and, of course, #NotSoGentleKisses, the title of her book.

‘Do you want me to take a photo of you?' I ask.

‘Let's do a wee selfie,' she says, and pulls me towards her.

She gets the angle of the phone exactly right so that we both look glamorous and sparkling, although it's very clear that she's sparkling with youth whereas I'm entirely dependent on my make-up, which needs a bit of refreshing. I find a place to deposit my champagne glass and tell Penny I'll be back to her shortly.

It's surprisingly quiet in the bathroom, and I sit in one of the stalls to cool down for a moment. I remove my gloves and take out my phone, and even though I'm totally not a fan of using the phone in the loo, I send a text.

Are you still working?

I'm not really expecting a reply, but the answer comes straight away.

Researching

How's it going?

The effects of multiple cocktails on the human body are very interesting

Are you drinking?!?!?!?!

Not as much as I could

FFS, Chas, I've told everyone you're sequestered and working hard

I am. This particular research is essential to the plot

I replace my phone in my bag, give the loo an unnecessary flush, leave the cubicle and wash my hands. I reapply my lippy and mascara before brushing my hair. Then I walk outside and find a quiet place in the lobby before FaceTiming Charles's number. He answers as a voice call with no video, and I can hear the sound of calypso music in the background.

‘Is everything all right?' I ask.

‘Of course. There's no need to keep checking up on me. I told you that before.'

‘I know. It was you talking about cocktails that made me . . . well . . .'

‘You're like my mother, you know that, don't you?'

I shudder. Charles's mother might be eighty years old, but she's an absolute witch. Or perhaps a word that rhymes with witch.

‘My only concern is that everything's working out for you. It was a big gamble taking six weeks away.'

‘What you really mean is that you hope I didn't simply splurge on a six-week holiday in the sun when my deadline is looming.'

‘Sort of,' I admit.

He laughs. I haven't heard him laugh like this in ages. I feel myself relax.

‘I'm writing like a madman and I hope you'll be happy with the result,' he tells me.

‘I hope so too. I'm sure Graham's fingers are crossed. I'm at the party tonight.'

‘What party?'

‘For heaven's sake, Chas! His dad's ninetieth. The one you recorded the message for.'

‘Oh, right. I'd forgotten.'

How could he forget? It's on our shared diary. It's been there for months.

‘Penny and Avery are here too.'

‘Of course they are. How is dear Avery?'

‘Looking well.'

‘Still reminding you of a pipe cleaner?'

‘A liquorice strip,' I say. ‘I'm too young to know what a pipe cleaner looks like.'

Charles chuckles. It's nice to hear. He's sounded despairing for so long that I've worried about him. And then I hear voices in the background, and a female voice telling him that his random order was a mojito, and I ask if he's at a party himself.

‘The manager's cocktail party,' he says. He adds that it's nice to think we're both having a good time and drinking cocktails, even if we are about seven thousand kilometres apart.

‘I'd better get back to mine,' I tell him. ‘Obviously I want to make sure that people know you're Xerxes' most important author and that you're devastated not to be here tonight but you're being driven by the muse.'

‘Or the mojitos.'

‘You really are writing your book?'

‘I really am.'

He says that quite seriously, so I decide to believe him. Because if he's not writing the book, if he's just living it up on Paradise Island . . . well, I don't even want to contemplate that disaster.

‘Talk soon,' I say. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening.'

‘You too. Tell George I wish him all the best. Tell Graham he'll have the new manuscript soon.'

‘I will.'

‘Goodnight, Ariel.'

He ends the call before I have time to say goodnight in return.