Chapter 8

What I like in a good author is not what he says but what he whispers.

Logan Pearsall Smith

The manager's cocktail party is great fun. I'd imagined a stiff reception with people standing around being polite, but it turns into a beach barbecue with music and dancing and everyone having a good time. We've all had way too much to drink, but Celeste and I agree that the cocktails aren't very heavy on alcohol so it's OK to mix and match. Although two hours in, I'm not entirely sure about that.

‘Your random order is a mojito, sir.' I approach Charles Miller with a frosted glass only to see that he's on the phone. He smiles at me and nods towards one of the small tables on the wooden decking overlooking the sea. Then he mouths the word ‘work' and makes a face before telling whoever he's talking to that he's at a cocktail party. I glance at my watch as I move away to give him a bit of privacy and calculate that it's nearly midnight back in Ireland so a bit late for him to be having a work conversation. Though I suppose a writer is a writer 24/7. I think, suddenly, of my own workmates, who'll be on the night shift now, and I take a photo of the hotel, looking pretty with the coloured lights strung around it, and send it to Natasha, who I know is the team leader tonight.

Her reply is instant.

Feck off

I grin and send another, this time of my mojito.

Feck right off

I send a thumbs-up.

I hope you're having a fabulous time

I am. How're things there?

Intercepted some coke yesterday. Very happy

Yay! Well done you

All down to Fish and Chips

Chips is one of the sniffer dogs. He's a gorgeous, playful English springer spaniel. His handler, Brad Flisch, is naturally known to us all as Fish. Between them, they have a great detection rate.

Give Chips a hug from me. Tell Fish I'll see him next week

Will do

I put my phone in my tiny handbag, which actually only has space for it and the card key for the room. Charles has his back to me while he keeps talking on his mobile. Celeste is chatting to the widow who plays golf. She's a lovely woman, I've discovered, really strong and determined to live her life to the fullest even without her husband.

‘He wouldn't want me moping about the place,' she told me as we swam in the sea this morning. ‘Besides, I was never the moping sort.'

‘But you miss him?'

‘Every minute of every day,' she replies. ‘All the same, it is what it is. I can't change the fact that he's gone and I'm here. He'd want me to make the most of life.'

I admired her fortitude and resolved to be more like her myself. As a result, I haven't checked on Steve's location all day. In fact I've decided never to do it again. I'm giving myself a pass on wanting to know where he was on our wedding day, but I don't want to turn into an actual stalker.

I move away from the main group and head back towards the beach. There are a few couples strolling hand in hand along the water's edge, and I make a determined effort not to imagine me and Steve doing the same. I glance back towards the party and see that Charles has finished his phone call and is now in conversation with one of the male golfers. I turn away again and walk to a small outcrop of rocks at one end of the beach. I sit there and watch the waves lapping against them.

It's about ten minutes later when Charles joins me. He has a cocktail in each hand.

‘All alone?' he asks as he offers me another mojito.

‘Happily.' I accept it from him.

‘Am I interrupting?'

‘Not at all.'

He perches gingerly on an adjoining rock.

‘I wrote about people doing this,' he says with a grimace. ‘I made it seem romantic. I didn't realise how bloody uncomfortable sitting on a rock is.'

I laugh.

‘Seriously.' He grunts as he tries to find a more comfortable position. ‘I have a new respect for models who make it look easy when they're showing off swimsuits.'

‘Especially as those photo shoots are usually in the winter,' I remark. ‘And anyone modelling a bikini in Dublin in the winter deserves a medal.'

He chuckles, and we sit in companionable silence for a while. I continue to look out to sea, not that there's anything to look at except the silver-white light of the moon on the rippling water.

I'm not thinking of anything, simply enjoying the music that's wafting on the night air, the warmth of the breeze on my shoulders and the proximity of Charles Miller, who doesn't seem bothered by our lack of conversation. Then I'm aware of someone approaching us, and I see Celeste.

‘Hi.'

‘I came to say goodnight.'

‘Huh?' I peer at my watch in the moonlight. ‘It's early yet.'

‘Bit of a headache,' she confesses. ‘I shouldn't have had those vodka martinis. I don't have your iron-clad constitution, Charles.'

‘Do you want me to come up with you?' I ask.

‘No. Stay. Have fun. I just need to lie down.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Would you like me to walk you to your room?' Charles stands up and brushes sand from his linen trousers. ‘Those pathways aren't best lit, and I'd hate you to stumble in those fabulous heels.'

Celeste thanks him and slips her hand around his arm. ‘Don't go away,' he says to me as he walks with her.

I feel a little guilty for not leaving the party too, but I'm not tired and haven't had as much to drink so am good for a while yet. Besides, the fire torches on the beach and the music of tonight's calypso band are enticing. I sit on the edge of the jetty and allow my feet to dangle in the warm seawater.

It's not long before Charles returns to join me.

‘Is Celeste all right?' I ask.

‘Fine,' he assures me. ‘She's going to bed. She says she probably had one martini too many.'

‘I'm beginning to think they mix them stronger at night,' I remark.

‘Oh well, it's not a holiday until someone has a hangover. Thankfully, it's not me.'

‘Because you're not on holiday,' I point out. ‘You were having a late-night conversation about work earlier. What do you mean by work? Writing your book? Or other stuff?'

‘Talking to my agent, mainly.' He grimaces. ‘She's agitating for a manuscript. Or at least a few chapters.'

‘Have you had the same agent all the time?' I ask.

‘Yes.'

‘So she was also your significant other?'

‘Jesus.' He looks at me with a touch of irritation. ‘You're like the hairdresser in Janice Jermyn's book. Investigating things that don't need to be investigated.'

‘All I did was read your bio and a couple of news pieces online.'

‘Yes, I've had the same agent for ever. Yes, we were together for a while. We're not any more but she's still my agent. Does that satisfy your inner sleuth?' His tone is mild, though I think he's put out that I know so much about him. But honestly, does he really not google people himself?

‘I didn't mean to sound like I was quizzing you,' I say, although I'm itching to know if they got married and divorced, or if one of them broke off the engagement. In which case we'd have something in common. I ask him as casually as possible if there's anyone else in his life.

‘For crying out loud! What's this, the Spanish fecking Inquisition?'

I don't say anything. I don't want him to think I'm harbouring ideas about him, given that we're sitting apart from the rest of the guests, dangling our feet in the moonlit water in what can only be described as a romantic setting. It's not like I'm feeling romantic. About him or anyone. All the same . . .

‘Sorry.' He shrugs. ‘I'm not good at answering questions about my life unless it's an actual interview. Anyhow, it's all about the work these days. She's one of the best agents around. I like to work with the best.'

‘You must have loads of manuscript to give her,' I say, thankful that we've moved on from the inquisition accusations. ‘Haven't you been locked up in your room for the last few days writing?'

‘Yes,' he says. ‘Twelve hours a day. I'm motoring along.' He sounds both surprised and enthusiastic.

‘In that case, send her something to read and give yourself a break.'

‘I don't want to send anything at all until I'm sure of what I'm doing,' he says.

‘You're still not sure?' I'm shocked. ‘But if you've written loads . . . well . . . what happens if you're not sure?'

He doesn't answer.

‘If you send it to her, won't she be able to tell you whether it's OK?'

‘I've taken a fresh approach. Maybe I need fresh criticism.'

‘Surely if it's good it's good,' I say.

‘You're so na?ve. Come on.' He holds out his hand.

‘Come on where?'

‘With me.'

He pulls me towards the pathway. There's an unexpected firmness in his grasp; I feel the dryness of his palm and a surge of electricity between us. Not sexual electricity. He's old enough to be my father. (Although not really. Dad is sixty-five. According to Wikipedia, Charles is nearly fifty.) Nevertheless, there's a connection that's real. I don't know if Charles feels it too.

He pushes open the white gate that leads to his private villa, then slides the patio doors apart and shows me inside

It's gorgeous, all marble tiles, modern furniture and mood lighting. The sort of decor I'd love to have in my own house, if only I could afford a place of my own. There's also a small kitchen, divided from the living area by a granite counter. Charles's laptop is perched on top, still open. There's a pile of printed paper beside it.

‘I get the hotel to print out the draft every day,' he tells me.

‘I'd've thought it'd be safer to read it onscreen,' I remark, remembering the incident in the cove.

‘I like to see hard copy,' he says. Then he thrusts the top pages at me. ‘Here.'

‘You want me to read it?' I look at him in astonishment. ‘Your actual book?'

‘Not the entire book,' he says. ‘The first chapter.'

‘This is what you were working on in the cove?'

‘No,' he says. ‘Well, yes. But I've reworked it.'

I take the pages from him and sit on the comfortable sofa.

‘I'll make coffee,' says Charles.

‘Decaf,' I tell him. ‘Otherwise I'll be awake all night.'

He says nothing, but busies himself with the machine.

I look at the first page and begin to read.

I'm still reading when he brings the coffee and puts it on the glass-topped table in front of me. I glance up, but carry on until I finish the chapter.

‘Well?' he asks.

‘Not bad.'

‘Not bad!' He sounds affronted. ‘Just not bad?'

‘It's very different to Winter's Heartbreak.'

‘Of course it is,' he says. ‘It's a crime novel. Like you suggested.'

I nod. It's crime, but not my sort of crime. I don't know what to say.

‘Not as good as Janice Jermyn?' He looks at me enquiringly.

‘Well . . .' I put the pages on the table and take a sip of coffee. ‘It's much . . . much wordier than her books.'

‘Of course. Because I'm creating characters and atmosphere.'

‘But we're nowhere near the murder yet.'

‘It's the first chapter. I'm setting the scene.'

‘Janice always has a murder in Chapter One.'

‘Janice hasn't won the Booker.'

‘Janice sells a lot of books.'

‘What would you do differently?' he asks.

‘I'm not the writer.'

‘But as the reader?'

‘You've read The Mystery of the Missing Mallet. I'd make it more like that.'

‘Then I'd be copying someone else.'

‘Not exactly the same,' I say. ‘Just . . .'

‘More murders,' he says.

‘One, anyhow.'

He laughs. Then he gets up and hands me some more printed sheets.

‘Try this.'

I read without stopping, and then I look up at him.

‘Did you write it?'

‘It's the same story. The same characters. Of course I did.'

‘I love it. I love that they're all going on holiday together. I love that everyone has a reason to hate the grandmother. I've no idea who the murderer might be.'

‘Oh good.' He looks pleased. ‘I thought that was an essential part of the whole thing.'

‘It is.'

‘I'm glad you like it. The first chapter I gave you was how I started the rewrite. And then I realised that it was too wordy. You're right about that. So I changed it.'

‘It's great,' I say. ‘Obviously you've a long way to go, but it's a page-turner for sure.'

‘I think it's good too,' he says. ‘And I have to thank you for your advice. You know what you like and you speak your mind. I'm so used to people talking around me, speaking in code, not saying what they really mean. You're refreshing.'

‘Thanks, I think.'

‘Seriously, Iseult. You're my saviour.'

‘I'm glad I helped.'

‘You really did.'

He smiles at me, I smile at him, and then somehow I'm in his arms and he's kissing me.

I hadn't thought there was a sexual electricity between us. I was very wrong.

Because this feels very, very right.

He's the one who breaks away first, and he looks at me with those amazing blue eyes that aren't icy any more.

‘I'm sorry,' he says. ‘That was particularly inappropriate.'

‘It was wonderfully inappropriate.'

‘I wanted to thank you. I got a little overenthusiastic.'

‘So this isn't how you usually thank people?'

‘No.' He smiles, then frowns. ‘I've actually wanted to do that for . . . well, quite some time, to be honest.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes.'

‘Wow.'

‘But better if we don't do it again,' he says.

I'm disappointed, but I say nothing.

‘I should write some more.' He breaks the silence. ‘I'm on a roll. It's very exciting writing this way,' he adds. ‘Usually I draw up a detailed plan, but I have the old manuscript to work on and I'm having such fun turning everything on its head that I don't need one. It's wonderful to feel murderous instead of angsty about all my characters.'

‘In that case, I'll leave you to your murderous intentions.'

He doesn't seem to notice the chill in my voice.

‘Thank you.' He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘Thank you for pulling me out of the hole I'd dug for myself. Thank you for telling me I should write something different. Thank you for being you.'

‘You're welcome.' My tone isn't quite as chilly now.

He leans forward, and so do I.

We're kissing again.

And he forgets all about the exciting new developments in his book and concentrates on the exciting new developments with me instead.

It's much later when I gently open the door to Room 501, take off my shoes and tiptoe across the tiled floor. I think about doing my cleanse, tone and moisturise routine but decide it would be better not to wake Celeste, who's curled up beneath the sheet of her bed. So I slide out of my dress and drape it over the nearby chair, then slip beneath my own sheet in my underwear.

Celeste rolls over.

‘You took your time,' she says.

‘I thought you were asleep.'

All that trying to keep quiet and she was faking it!

‘Drifting,' she says. ‘That must be the latest a party has ever gone on in this hotel. Usually everyone's tucked up before midnight.'

I glance at my watch. It's nearly one.

‘I was talking to Charles Miller,' I say.

‘Only talking?'

‘He's an interesting man.'

‘Only talking?' she repeats.

And kissing. Talking and kissing. But not anything else. Because even as we were lying on the super-king-sized bed in his gorgeous villa and I was wrapping my legs around his body, he suddenly swore and muttered about not having condoms and really not wanting either of us to suffer unforeseen consequences of what was happening.

‘I'm on the pill,' I murmured. Which was enough for Steve when I first went to bed with him. He confessed that he hated condoms and never enjoyed sex wearing one.

‘You may well be.' Charles Miller disentangled himself from me. ‘And I trust you completely on that score. But I've got to this point in my life without being responsible for an unplanned pregnancy and I'm not going to start now. I like to be part of the protection plan.'

‘Oh.'

‘We don't know each other,' he says.

‘Well, no. But—'

‘I'm sorry, Iseult.' He sat up and pulled on the shirt and shorts he'd been wearing earlier. ‘I didn't mean for us to have this conversation. I didn't expect this to happen at all.'

‘They don't make male authors like they used to,' I said as nonchalantly as any woman who's been pushed away twice by a man can possibly be. ‘I thought all you guys were like Hemingway and . . . and . . .' I stopped there, as Hemingway was the only author I remembered from school who was portrayed as a womaniser.

‘I'd be pleased to be compared to him as far as success with my books goes,' said Charles. ‘It's just that . . . well, I'm not really the kind of man who'd meet someone and sleep with them straight away. I know that probably sounds daft to you. My niece once told me that hopping into bed with someone isn't any greater deal than a kiss these days, but I grew up with the Catholic guilt, you see, so I'm not quite as good at it.'

‘OK . . .'

‘That aside, though, I don't want to have a one-night stand with a beautiful young woman who's about half my age. You realise that turns me into a trope. Middle-aged man runs off to tropical island and falls for younger woman.'

‘If you've fallen for me, it's not a one-night stand. What about your ex-significant-other who's your agent?' I asked. ‘You said it was all about the work these days, but is it?'

He hesitated, and I felt my heart sink.

‘It's a very long time since we loved each other,' he replied. ‘We don't have a personal relationship any more.'

‘So if there's nothing between you and I'm OK with it, it's no big deal.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I need a bit of time to process this. And . . .' he looked at me sheepishly, ‘as I was kissing you, I thought of a great plot twist.'

‘You've got to be kidding me.' I clambered off the bed and started to get dressed. ‘I'd better get back. Celeste will be wondering what's happened to me.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Charles. ‘I . . . You're a lovely person.'

‘Thanks for letting me down gently. Twice,' I added for good measure as I picked up my bag and walked to the door.

‘Iseult.' He stopped me opening it. ‘It's not that I wouldn't . . . it's . . .'

‘It's fine.'

Our eyes locked and we gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity. I could feel the electricity surge all over again.

And then I opened the door and walked out.

‘Crikey,' says Celeste, when I tell her this. ‘You would've had sex with him?'

‘I haven't had sex with anyone since Steve. I haven't wanted to have sex with anyone since Steve,' I say. ‘But I so wanted to with Charles Miller.'

‘Wow.'

‘And I realise that he's an older man, but he doesn't seem older when I'm with him.'

‘Izzy! You don't seriously fancy him, do you?'

‘Physically he's amazing,' I say. ‘And he was nice to talk to. And his murder mystery book was great.'

‘I never thought you'd rebound like this,' says Celeste.

‘I'm not rebounding. I'm . . . well . . . I'm interested in someone. As a holiday romance,' I add quickly. ‘Nothing more than that.'

‘In Charles Miller.'

‘It's not like he's Timothée Chalamet,' I tell her. ‘He's a writer, not a celeb.'

‘And yet we recognised him.'

‘Anyhow, it's irrelevant.' I lie back on my pillow. ‘He thinks it's inappropriate.'

‘Do you?'

‘Honestly?' I pause. ‘I haven't a clue.'