Sara swivels on her chair and takes a book down from the shelves behind her. ‘Nicole had a runaway bestseller with The Secret Life of Us, which was published last autumn. It took us all a little by surprise, to be honest.’
‘I remember hearing about it.’ I pick up the novel she’s placed in front of me. The cover has a photograph of a lone girl standing on a beach in Thailand. I turn over the book and scan the blurb. It’s about a travel writer who falls in love with two different men on two different continents.
Where is Sara going with this?
‘Nicole passed away shortly after that was published,’ Sara explains, her tone growing sombre.
I breathe in sharply and glance up at her. ‘Oh, God, that’s right, it was in the news. Was she one of your authors?’ I ask with surprise.
She nods.
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea you represented her.’
‘It’s okay. It was very sudden,’ she tells me. ‘She had a brain aneurysm. She was only thirty-one.’
I shake my head, horrified. That’s three years younger than I am now. ‘That’s so tragic,’ I murmur sympathetically.
‘Nicole was writing a sequel,’ Sara continues, drawing my attention back to her. ‘Secret ended on a cliffhanger. The readers are crying out for more. And, Bridget…?’
I haven’t been sure up until this point what any of this has to do with me, but, from her more upbeat tone, I sense I’m about to find out.
‘Fay thinks your voice is perfect!’ she concludes, triumphantly.
There’s a long moment where neither of us says anything.
‘To write the sequel.’
She thinks she’s clarifying it, but I’m even more confused.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Fay loves my blog?’
‘Loves it!’ Sara repeats. ‘She thinks your voice is spot on!’
‘I thought you were about to tell me that she wants to sign me up.’
Sara clears her throat. ‘She does. For the sequel to The Secret Life of Us.’ She points at the book I’m holding.
What?
‘Nicole was about a quarter of the way in,’ she explains. ‘She left behind a stack of notes. Fay’s been trying to find the right person to complete it.’
‘She wants me to be a ghostwriter?’ I splutter. ‘But what about my book?’
‘You’ll still write it,’ Sara says evenly. ‘Think of this as a stopgap, your way in. This is your chance to get your foot through the door of a major publisher. You can write your own book alongside this one while you continue to build your profile, and the advance you’ll get will pay for your travels. It’s the perfect solution.’
‘But…’ I’m still reeling. ‘What makes anyone think I’m up to the job? Surely there are a million other more qualified authors who could do this?’
‘Oh, I’m sure there are, too,’ she says smoothly. ‘But Fay wants you. She’s even read the novel you wrote a few years ago. The plot wasn’t quite there,’ she says hurriedly, quashing any hope of resurrecting my old romantic-fiction dream, ‘but the point is, Fay knows you have it in you to pull off fiction. She thinks your style is fabulous.’
‘She does?’ I allow myself to feel a little flattered, as well as incredibly daunted.
‘Have you read The Secret Life of Us?’ Sara asks.
‘No,’ I admit, studying the book in my hands.
‘Take that copy,’ she says. ‘You won’t be able to put it down. The protagonist is a travel writer just like you, so you should be able to identify with her brilliantly. It is the biggest compliment that Fay believes you can carry Nicole’s baton to the finishing line.’
‘I just… I’m not sure…’ I’m struggling to get my head around all of this. A young woman, dying so abruptly… A bestselling author leaving behind an unfinished sequel… Me – me! – being the one to complete her work…
‘Read the book,’ Sara urges, and I sense she wants to wrap up our meeting. ‘And keep in mind, Bridget, this is a great opportunity. Give me a call as soon as you’ve reached the end so we can discuss the finer details. I’m around all day tomorrow.’
She seems very confident that I’m going to go along with this hare-brained scheme.
Her conviction is founded, because I call her back first thing.
Chapter 2
It’s a beautiful sunny day in early June when I step off the bus in Padstow, Cornwall. The tide is out and the view stretches right over the Camel Estuary as I climb the hill, revealing a series of long, smooth sandbanks punctuating the clear, bluey-green water. The smell of fish and chips wafts through the air, making my tummy rumble. My appetite will have to wait. It’s already three thirty in the afternoon and Nicole’s husband, Charlie Laurence, is expecting me.
When Sara explained that Charlie wanted to oversee the writing of his wife’s book, I was apprehensive. The job was already going to be challenging enough – would he make it even more difficult?
I come to a stop outside a modest, terraced, redbrick house. A narrow, slate-topped veranda stretches across the front, sheltering a charcoal-grey door and a bay window. Apart from a lavender hedge bordering the wall adjacent to the street, the tiny paved area is devoid of plants.
Movement catches my eye at the window, so I quickly walk up the path and knock on the door. There’s not even time to check my reflection in the glass before it opens to reveal who I’m assuming is Charlie.
He looks to be in his early thirties, and is around six foot tall and slim, with green eyes and shaggy dark-blond hair held back from his forehead with a mustard-yellow bandana. He’s wearing a faded orange T-shirt and grey shorts, and his face and limbs are sun-kissed the colour of honey, all the way down to his bare feet.
Wow.
‘Charlie?’ I check hopefully.
‘Hello,’ he replies with a small, reserved smile, holding back the door. ‘Come in.’
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
‘Tea?’ he offers.
‘Thank you, that’d be great.’ I jolt as the door closes with a clunk. I’m nervous.
Charlie gestures down the hall, indicating that I should lead the way. The television is on in what I presume is the living room, but I don’t look in as I pass, and a moment later we spill out into a galley-style kitchen. It continues onto an extension containing a two-seater sofa backed up against the left wall and a round table at the end.
He fills the kettle and gets out two mugs. ‘How was your journey? Did you drive?’
‘No. Tube from Wembley to Paddington, train to Bodmin, and bus to here.’
‘Sounds harrowing.’
He’s polite and well spoken, but he hasn’t made eye contact with me once since I stepped over his threshold.
A noise sounds out from the direction of the living room.
‘Excuse me,’ he says, exiting the kitchen.
I take a deep breath and force myself to exhale slowly while taking in my surroundings.
The internal walls are exposed and the bricks have been painted with thick, white masonry paint. The worktops are fashioned out of old railway sleepers, sanded and varnished to a dull shine. French doors at the end open up onto the back garden. It’s neat and tidy in here, but it looks like a right tip out there. My attention drifts to the table and the wooden chairs encircling it.
Two chairs.
And one highchair.