Page 2 of Love At First Fright

“For me, it’s a little different. As a lot of you know, I don’t follow a strict routine.

” David chuckled, running a hand through his thinning grey hair.

“I’m more of an ideas man, so I wait until the ideas come to me and then I write like crazy until it’s all on the page.

I don’t really go in for research beforehand. ”

Rosemary knew he didn’t go in for research, as she’d read an early draft of his new book when his editor had asked her to provide a blurb.

If you’re going to write a horror set during the 1870s buffalo massacre, you would think that you’d want to read up on the history of the period instead of just watching a few Civil War–era films. She hadn’t been able to provide any kind of quote that a publisher would have wanted to promote the book with.

Finally, it came to Rosemary’s turn to answer. Seven minutes or less. She could do this.

“Since I mostly write historical horror, with the occasional step into aquatic horror…” A small whoop from a fan in the audience, waving a copy of Julia, the first novel she’d published, five years ago, a deep-sea horror based on the “Julia” sound recorded by the U.S. Navy in 1999.

“I need to do a lot of research to make sure I’m presenting the era in the most authentic way.

Since most of my books deal with sensitive themes like racism, transphobia, and women’s hysteria, I like to find time to interview people who can help me make my characters as genuine as possible.

Just last week, I had a phone call with a lovely academic archivist to discuss the strange obsession that the Victorians had with Egyptian mummies.

One of the most fascinating things I learned from her was that they would have mummy unwrapping parties where they would place a mummified body on their dining room table and unwrap it like it was some kind of party game.

The facts can be incredibly messed up, but it makes for fantastic horror writing fodder.

” She laughed, before realising that she was going down a tangent again, and had better get back to the point.

“So I start my mornings with research, and then in the afternoon I’ll write, as I’m very lucky that all you lovely people read enough of my books that I’m able to do this full-time. So thank you.”

A few more questions were asked by the audience, and then a round of applause filled Rosemary’s ears as the panel drew to a close.

She thanked James and David for the wonderful chat, though her heart wasn’t in it.

They shook her hand but wouldn’t really meet her eyes.

A younger version of herself might have been hurt, but twenty-nine-year-old Rosemary was well used to this kind of behaviour from a certain demographic of horror authors by now.

When Rosemary had arrived earlier to sign stock for Max, she’d overheard James and David—who definitely hadn’t seen her come into the back room of the store—talking about her movie deal.

“It’s the same studio that optioned mine, but two guesses why they went with hers.” David laughed, and through the stacks of books, Rosemary saw him cupping invisible breasts.

Oh sure, her fantastic tits were the reason she got a movie deal, and it had nothing to do with the fact that When the Devil Takes Hold, her Victorian gothic horror, was one of the bestselling horror books of the last decade.

“You never know,” James added, “she might have even found a different way of persuading the studio execs to take on the project.”

Rosemary had rolled her eyes into the back of her skull.

These supposedly grown-ass men were skulking in a corner, sniggering about how she’d apparently sold her enormously titted body in exchange for a movie deal.

Either way, they’d had their comeuppance later on when the vast majority of fans had shown up with only copies of Rosemary’s books to sign.

Now that the event was over, Rosemary looked around to see if she could spot the ghost again.

But they’d disappeared, probably to a quieter corner of the store so they could read in peace.

Rosemary was tempted to venture into the back aisles of the shop to chat with the ghost—especially since she hadn’t spotted them at Tickled Ink before—but she reminded herself that normal people didn’t go around talking to invisible beings in public.

Max strode over, beaming from ear to ear.

“You were fucking brilliant, as expected.” They laughed, pulling her into a bear hug that lifted Rosemary’s feet off the ground.

“Do you want to wait around, we could go out for a drink after I close?” they asked, looking hopeful. Max and Rosemary had gone out for dinner a few weeks ago. Rosemary hadn’t realised it was a date until Max had shown up with a bouquet of flowers for her.

Not that she minded; Max was handsome in a Californian surfer kind of way, all golden-bronzed skin and sun-kissed hair.

And they made Rosemary laugh. They’d kissed at the end of the date, but Rosemary realised that with her upcoming trip, she wasn’t really in the right place to start a relationship.

She found Max attractive, but there’d been something missing in their kiss, a kind of vital spark.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that kept you up at night, even if she wished it was.

“I wish I could, but my flight to London is tomorrow, and I still need to pack my book case.”

“Your bookcase?”

“Like my book suitcase, where I put all my books.”

“You’re singlehandedly keeping eBooks from taking over, I hope you know that. But hey, maybe we get dinner when you’re back?” They smiled, and it was so heartachingly kind that Rosemary wished she felt differently.

“Of course, I would love to,” she replied. Max looked like they had been about to say something else, but then the bell at the till rang, and they both looked over, noticing the queue of readers eagerly waiting to purchase signed copies.

“Well, that’s my cue,” Max said. “I’ll see you when you’re back from England. Have a lovely time, and don’t murder the actors.” They grinned wickedly before leaving.

Ah, yes, the actors. One actor in particular. The actor that had been a bane of Rosemary’s existence since she’d found out that he was going to be cast in her book-to-movie adaptation all those months ago. Hollywood heartthrob and, according to one very viral tweet, a certified daddy. Ellis Finch.

When Rosemary found out he’d been cast as Alfred Parlow, the leading man in her movie, she’d been furious.

Sure, she’d heard of Ellis Finch before, and had been assured by her film agent that he was the shiniest of Hollywood actors, but he looked nothing like her character.

Alfred was a feeble Victorian gentleman—tidy, skinny, timid—and Google Images showed Ellis was instead tall and broadly built in a way that said he was muscular without being “gym-ripped.” He was in his early forties, with a rakish grin and grey-blue eyes that pierced Rosemary through the phone screen.

In some photos he was clean-shaven, with an offensively chiselled jawline, in others he sported a grey-tinged five-o’clock shadow.

His dark brown hair curled a little at the ends, and appeared to be greying at the temples.

According to his Wikipedia page, he was born in Scotland and had lived in the UK for most of his life. Rosemary wondered if he had an accent.

Quite a few of the photos online were paparazzi shots of him; sometimes at a café or a bookstore—and seeing him carrying a tall pile of books, shirt rolled up to display his muscular forearms, hadn’t elicited any strange feelings in Rosemary. None at all.

In fact, it made her stomach drop with what was definitely just acute dislike.

And not to mention the photos of him parading his latest girlfriends down the red carpet, a whole host of gorgeous, tanned models with dazzlingly white teeth.

Though she had to admit those all seemed to be from around a decade ago, and there was nothing about him dating anyone more recently.

She had reassured herself, when she’d googled “Ellis Finch girlfriend recent” that it was only part of her research into him as a professional.

Regardless, he wasn’t famous for period dramas, although he’d been in one years ago. From the list of movies Ellis had starred in, it was clear he was better suited to action-packed blockbusters.

The frustrating thing was, when she looked at his face, she could almost understand the casting choice.

He had clearly mastered a roguish expression that would have been perfect if he were cast as Wickham in a Pride and Prejudice adaptation.

Or maybe Willoughby. There was just something about him that would make historical women act all wanton and weak in the knees.

Not her, though. When she’d first found out he’d been cast, Dina and Immy had to listen through a nearly hour-long rant about how terrible a casting choice he was.

This was a man who was known for starring in films where the only female characters were one-dimensional love interests, the cars were fast, the explosions huge (but never actually killed the hero), and don’t even ask about the plot, because there wasn’t one.

That’s what Ellis Finch was good at, and she wished he had stayed in his lane.

Once, after one too many room-temperature white wines at a book event, Rosemary had emailed her film agent to present the case for why Ellis should be pulled from the casting.

She’d received a kind, but firm, no. Ellis was going to be her Alfred.

The fact of the matter was that he was just completely wrong for the part and nothing could change her mind.

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