Page 45 of The Honeymoon Affair

I think for a moment about Steve and his lips on mine earlier. His assumption that it would be OK. And I smile at Charles.

‘I’d love to see your room.’

He smiles and takes me by the hand.

#ThePerfectMan, I think as I accompany him.

Chapter 12

Ariel

A good book is an event in my life.

Stendhal

I place the last page of Charles’s manuscript on the coffee table, then gaze across the city from my apartment window. I’m on the fourth floor, and the view towards the bay is beautiful. One of the things I definitely prefer about Dublin as opposed to London is being beside the sea. I allow my eyes to rest as I gaze into the dusky light and think about my client’s latest book.

I started reading first thing this morning, when I woke up and realised that my migraine had finally lifted. I raised my head cautiously from the pillow, half expecting the blinding pain that takes residence behind my right eye to return, but I was perfectly fine. I was equally cautious getting out of bed, but by the time I’d made it to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, I knew I was back to normal.

I cursed the inappropriate timing of getting a migraine at the same time as Charles’s manuscript. No matter how much I wanted to read it, I simply couldn’t. My migraines have become less frequent over the last few years, but when one does arrive, I react by immediately posting an out-of-office message on all my media before getting myself into a dark place and taking a couple of pills. Then I lie down and wait for it to pass. I’m always relieved when it does.

I rub the back of my neck before picking up the manuscript again.

It’s good. Really good. A Caribbean Calypso is well written, very witty, cleverly plotted (despite some glaring errors, which can be fixed) and the characters are hugely engaging.

But it’s not the novel Charles was contracted to write, which was tentatively titled Springs Eternal. It’s not the novel his readers will expect. Many people who read pacy crime novels also read Booker Prize winners; however, the kind of people who read and review Booker Prize winners don’t usually admit to having popular murder mysteries on their shelves (or if they do, they murmur that it’s a guilty pleasure).

My phone buzzes.

How are you feeling?

Better

Have you been able to read the manuscript yet?

Yes, I’m letting it sink in

In a good way?

In an agent-y sort of way

This time my phone rings.

‘What do you mean, “in an agent-y sort of way”?’ demands Charles. ‘Can’t you just give it to Graham and tell him how brilliant it is?’

‘Obviously this is a very different kind of book, and not what he’ll be expecting from you, so it’ll require some additional discussion with him.’

‘Is it too different for Xerxes?’ Charles sounds anxious. ‘I know they don’t do crime usually, but the characters are from Springs Eternal and the plot follows the plan I had for it in a weird kind of way.’

‘I don’t recall three murders in the outline you gave me,’ I say in amusement. ‘Or a poisoned pineapple, fun though it was to read about. What on earth possessed you to write a murder mystery anyway? You were gung-ho about Springs Eternal in its original format.’

‘Until I got writer’s block and discovered another side to myself.’

‘A homicidal side?’

‘Maybe.’ He laughs.

‘Well, leave it with me and let me persuade Graham he has a bestseller on his hands. But there’ll have to be some editing, Charles. You’ve dropped clues that give away the murderer early on.’