Page 27 of A Murder is Going Down

‘You really don’t know what I do for work?’ she asks me.

I stare at her, trying to figure out what she’s really asking. ‘How would I?’

‘I’m a book publisher,’ Marianne says, and it’s like she’s expecting fireworks to explode over her head or a banner to unfurl itself.

‘Congratulations?’

‘An important one, too,’ Marianne adds. Does she know this makes her sound like a wanker, or is that the point? ‘A lot of people want to pitch me their book ideas.’ I still don’t say anything; whatcanI say to this? ‘Have you ever heard of an elevator pitch?’

‘Uh, maybe?’

‘It’s shorthand for a snappy book pitch. The idea is that the writer could sell their story in the time it takes to ride an elevator.’

I look around the lift, still acting like I don’t get what she’s saying although I’m not a complete idiot. ‘We’re not really riding this one anywhere, though, are we?’

‘My point,’ Marianne says, ‘is that this story you’re telling me is very detailed. I wondered if you’re … this isn’t an elevator pitch, is it? Because, I’ve got to tell you, that would be wildly unprofessional.’

I frown. ‘You think I’m pitching you a book?’

‘Are you telling me you’re not?’

‘You think I hang around in lifts hoping they’ll break?’

Marianne’s mouth goes flat. ‘Was it a coincidence that the lift broke down?’

I’ve always been a bad blusher. I blush when I’m embarrassed. I blush when I’m pleased. I blush when I’m nervous. I blush when I’m trying to flirt or being flirted with (not ideal). And I blush when I’m angry. I can feel itstart to happen now: first there’s a prickling on my neck, and then I can feel the heat like bubbles rising to the top of a boiling kettle. ‘You thinkI broke the lift?’

‘Did you?’

We can’t go on like this, swapping questions instead of answers. So, instead of saying something likewhy would I do that?, I stand up and mash the intercom button. ‘It’s me again. The other woman in here needs to talk to you. Her name’s Marianne. If you could just reassure her that I haven’t sabotaged the freaking lift, that would be great.’

While the lift guy reassures Marianne that I’m not a criminal mastermind seeking a book deal, I sit back down and take out my useless phone, flicking through the camera roll: the slideshow of faces, smiles, outfits and screenshots recommending books I meant to get around to reading, scrolling faster and faster until I find the photo I’m looking for. My own face next to that of a smiling man. His hair is cropped so close it makes his eyes look huge. He’s nearly a foot taller than me and so tanned it makes his teeth glow.

Marianne sits down next to me a couple of minutes later. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ I angle the screen away from her.

‘Is that your brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I see?’

I think about saying no, just to be petty, then pass the phone across to her.

Marianne studies the photo. ‘You look younger. When was this taken?’

‘Three years ago. I don’t have many photos of the two of us together.’ I hold out my hand for the phone, then scroll until I find the other image I want. ‘Here.’

Marianne takes the phone back. She’s now staring at a screenshot of a news story: MAN PLUNGES TO DEATH DURING PARTY. There’s a photo of a house on a scrub-covered cliff and an inset of a young man – the same one from the photo.

‘Just in case you still think I’m secretly angling for a bestseller and a three-part Netflix series,’ I say.

There’s a long silence; long enough to stretch the length of the lift shaft, long enough to run from one end of St George’s Terrace to the other, long enough to calm a racing mind.

‘Sorry,’ Marianne says. ‘If you knew publishing, you’d understand why I had to ask. The things people will do to get their manuscript out of the slush pile and into my hands is, well, a lot.’

I look at those hands, the nails of which are painted fluorescent orange.Shellac, I think, the kind that’s impossible to get off. I did it once and had to chip it off, flake by flake.