Page 2 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

1

LONDON, FEbrUARY 2000

A couple of years ago, I ghostwrote the autobiography for a breakfast TV presenter renowned for her vibrant power suits and equally cheery disposition. The book was titled Rise and Shine! – the exclamation mark was obligatory as everything she said was an exclamation of some kind, even ‘please could you pass the salt!’ – and the pages were crammed with positive platitudes such as ‘happiness doesn’t cost a thing!’ and ‘the sun is always shining, even behind the clouds!’ I think of this last quote now as I stand, crammed into a rush-hour Tube, trying not to be asphyxiated by the aftershave of the man squashed beside me. There’s no denying that my life has been ‘cloudy’ for quite some time. Ten months to be precise, after Robin, my partner of sixteen years, left me for another woman.

I scan the crowded carriage, trying to find a glimmer of anything that feels like sunshine. My gaze falls upon a gum-chewing man sitting to my left. His legs are spread so wide, the poor woman beside him has had to suck herself in to the width of a pencil, but his curly black hair and chiselled jaw put him in the category of textbook attractive. I continue to stare at him, willing my body to feel something – anything – vaguely resembling desire, but there’s nothing.

The man glances up and his eyes meet mine with such cold indifference, it’s like I can feel a film of frost forming on my heart. I fight the urge to lean down and push his stupid legs shut. But then I have a flashback to the last time I saw Robin, the day he moved out, and the same dead look in his eyes as he told me goodbye, and a lump begins forming in the back of my throat.

I quickly glance at the adverts lining the curved wall above the windows. Beat the winter blues , one of them reads, above a picture of a tropical beach. Maybe I should go away, I muse as the train veers to the right and the man reeking of aftershave topples into me. Perhaps if I went somewhere where the sun isn’t perpetually stuck behind a thick bank of cloud, I’d finally rediscover my mojo. I mentally photoshop myself onto the powdery sand in the picture, and the tension in my shoulders begins to loosen a little.

The train finally judders to a halt at Covent Garden and belches a wave of relieved passengers onto the platform. I take the lift up to the ground level and emerge into the dank grey day. There was a time when a meeting with my literary agent, Jane, would have filled me with excitement, especially when the meeting is to talk about a new ghostwriting client. But the last couple of jobs I’ve done – the autobiography for a monosyllabic boyband member and a novel about forbidden love in a Dubai stable for a glamour model who doesn’t even read books, let alone write them – have left me feeling distinctly underwhelmed. Even though I don’t know who the job is for yet, I wonder if I should turn it down and tell Jane I need to take a break.

A double-decker bus goes sailing past, a streak of red cutting through the grey, spraying my legs with dirty puddle water. My urge to escape to the sun grows ever stronger. The green crossing sign lights up, and I step into the road, only to almost get mown down by a courier on a bike.

‘Watch where you’re going, stupid!’ he yells over his shoulder, and all the reasons why this complete stranger on a bike is right and I am stupid start scrolling like a ticker tape of headlines across my mind. You can’t get your own books published… You couldn’t keep your partner… You can’t even have children… You’re thirty-five years old and you’re all alone…

By the time I reach the other side of the road, I feel so small I half expect to not be able to see my reflection in the shop window in front of me. But there I am, just about, grim-faced and thin in my customary outfit of black jeans, leather jacket and high-tops, my red fringe poking out from beneath my hood. And then, in a flash, a small child appears beside me in the glass. Her hair is the same shade of auburn as mine, and she’s hugging the bottom of my leg. ‘No!’ I mutter, and I close my eyes tight. When I open them again, she’s gone. Now I’m in no doubt – I need to go away.

I march along James Street mentally rehearsing how I should break the news to Jane that her most reliable and efficient ghostwriter wants to do a runner. Perhaps I should capitalise on the ‘new millennium, new me’ craze doing the rounds now that we’ve realised the computers aren’t going to crash and send planes falling from the sky. But I don’t want her to think that the new millennium me is work-shy.

I was wondering if I could take a holiday, I recite in my head as I arrive at the agency and take a seat on one of the plush leather sofas in the reception. An extended holiday , I add as I wait for Jane to appear. I used to be proud of the fact that I could ghostwrite books at breakneck speed, and I loved the challenge of writing in someone else’s voice, but since Robin left, it’s as if all the tears I’ve cried have caused my brain to rust. Now, the thought of having to churn out 80,000 words in a couple of months fills me with dread, especially if this new client is anything as difficult and uninspiring as the last two.

Finally, the lift doors ping open, and Jane walks out to greet me. Her white bobbed hair is immaculate as always, and she’s wearing a wraparound dress in a vibrant paisley print, making me instantly feel drab and underdressed.

‘Lily!’ she cries, holding out her hands, causing the gold bangles on her wrists to jangle. ‘It’s so great to see you.’

‘You too,’ I reply, and as she hugs me and I inhale her signature floral scent, I’m filled with a rush of warmth. Over the thirteen years we’ve worked together, she’s become so much more than an agent to me. When I was dropped by my first publisher for disappointing sales, Jane plucked me from my despair and suggested I reinvent myself as a ghostwriter, enabling me to forge a successful and lucrative writing career, albeit anonymously. And when Robin left, she took me out for lunch and, unlike my other well-meaning friends, told me to resist the urge to instantly get over it and change my life for the better.

‘You need to embrace the butterfly soup,’ she said, before explaining that when a caterpillar builds its cocoon, it doesn’t just sprout a pair of wings and burst out, magically transformed. Instead, it completely dissolves in its own digestive juices and marinates for a while. Even though it was kind of gross, hearing this did make me feel better by easing the pressure a little. The trouble is, I’ve been marinating in a soup of apathy and indecision for almost a year. I need to do something to haul myself out of it.

‘Come,’ she says, ushering me inside the lift.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall and can’t help grimacing at how pale I look.

‘How are you doing?’ Jane asks, her smile fading into a look of concern.

‘OK. I didn’t sleep very well last night,’ I say, trying to explain my wan appearance.

‘Are you eating properly?’ She looks me up and down.

‘Yes. Kind of.’ The truth is, I stopped bothering to cook anything other than ready meals and various things on toast after Robin left. It seems pointless going to all the effort of cooking from scratch for just one person.

‘Well, I’ve got us some coffee and pastries,’ she says in her clipped upper-class accent, so customary in the UK literary world.

As she gives my arm a squeeze, I feel dangerously close to tears. Growing up in foster care left me with a bone-deep longing for proper parents – and when I say proper parents, I mean the kind you see in Hallmark movies, the kind who give each other affectionate nicknames and hug and squeeze their kids.

I need to take a break, I mentally rehearse again. I need to see the sun to prove to myself that it does still exist.

The lift arrives at the top floor, and the doors slide open. We make our way along the book-lined corridor to Jane’s corner office at the far end. The walls are made entirely of glass, and the views across London are stunning. As I gaze out at the skyline, I have a flashback to my first meeting here, thirteen years ago when Jane had just got me a deal for my first – and last – novel in my own name. It was a warm June day and the sky had been bright blue, instead of the gunmetal grey of today. I’d felt on top of the world – literally and metaphorically. Not only had I landed my dream career as an author, but I’d also just moved into an apartment in London with my university sweetheart. Despite my decidedly shaky start in life, I’d managed to turn things round. I was a success!

Now, as I perch on one of the leather armchairs in front of Jane’s desk, I have to push away my feelings of failure yet again. My novel only ended up selling a couple of thousand copies, and my university sweetheart eventually ended up leaving me for someone brighter and shinier and no doubt more fertile. I catch a glimpse of the little red-haired girl peeping out at me from behind one of the giant potted plants. I clear my throat and try to compose myself. I was wondering if I could take a holiday…

‘Coffee?’ Jane asks, picking up the jug on her desk.

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Do you really need to ask?’

She laughs. ‘What was I thinking! I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s OK; just don’t let it happen again,’ I joke, taking off my jacket and sitting back in the chair.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she says, bringing a steaming mug over to me.

I wrap my cold fingers around the mug and inhale the rich aroma. Perhaps it would help to tell her the truth. A problem shared is a problem halved and all that, and if she knows the full story, she might be more understanding when I turn down this new job. I take a sip of coffee to embolden me. ‘Do you remember the day you took me out for lunch and told me about what happens to a caterpillar when they’re inside the cocoon?’

She nods. ‘The butterfly soup?’

‘Yes. Exactly how long does a caterpillar marinate in its own juices?’

‘Hmm, about two weeks, I think.’ She sits down in the chair across from mine and crosses her slim legs.

‘OK, well I’ve been in the soup for ten months now, and I can’t seem to find the energy or enthusiasm to pull myself out. When does the caterpillar know it’s time to change?’

‘When it feels the calling of the butterfly from deep within its cells,’ she replies dreamily.

I let out a sigh. ‘That’s very poetic, but I’m not feeling anything calling to me from within, so I was wondering if?—’

‘Well then, this is perfect timing,’ Jane interrupts. She picks up the basket of pastries on the coffee table and offers them to me.

‘It is?’ I take a plump golden croissant and put it on a plate.

‘Yes. I think this new ghostwriting job might be exactly what you need.’

My heart sinks. ‘Are you sure? The last couple of clients weren’t exactly inspiring.’ I glance at the wall by the door which is lined with the framed covers of bestselling books by some of Jane’s authors. At least five of them were written by me, including the autobiographies of the six-time Olympic gold athlete Joyce Daniel, and one of Britain’s most successful and beloved actors, Sir Lawrence Bourne – both of whom were a joy to work with.

‘Oh, trust me, this job will be nothing like those last two.’ She smiles mysteriously. ‘In fact, it will be nothing like any job you’ve ever done before, which was why I wasn’t able to tell you about it over email.’

‘What do you mean?’ Despite my overwhelming desire to do nothing but lie on a sunny beach for a month, possibly even two, I feel a prickle of interest.

‘It’s top secret,’ she replies, lowering her voice. ‘So top secret in fact that only I know about it.’

My interest grows. ‘Who’s it for?’

‘I can’t tell you until you sign the NDA. I have it on my desk ready.’

‘But…’

‘Trust me, Lily, this is like no other job I’ve ever handled before.’ Her eyes sparkle with excitement. ‘And I think it’s exactly what you need to get out of the soup.’

Now she really has my attention. ‘Can’t you give me any clues before I sign my life away?’

‘If you were to take the job, you’d have to go abroad – to meet the client initially, and then, if all goes well, to write the book. So it would mean being away for a couple of months, maybe more, and a complete change of scenery.’ She glances through the window at the grey sky. ‘And somewhere a lot warmer and sunnier too.’

I feel a burst of excitement. This has never happened before. Everyone I’ve written for previously has been based in the UK. And how bizarre that it should happen right when I realise that I need to escape. ‘Where exactly?’

‘Portugal.’ Jane leans closer. ‘Trust me, Lily, this could be the most incredible experience of your career. And the client has asked for you specifically.’

I nod, unsure why she thinks this is such a big deal. I’ve ghostwritten so many books, I’m well respected within the publishing industry, even if no one outside of the industry knows me.

‘If you knew who she was, you’d realise what a magical opportunity this is,’ Jane continues, placing her hand on mine. Her huge diamond ring glints up at me as if to emphasise the magic of this opportunity.

One of the things I like most about Jane is her no-nonsense, unflappable attitude. I’ve never seen her so excited by a job before, so I know I should take it seriously. But more than anything, the opportunity to leave the relentless gloom of the UK in February is hugely appealing.

I grin. ‘All right. I’ll do it.’’

‘Wonderful!’ She leaps up and goes to her desk to fetch the NDA.

‘Go on then, put me out of my misery – who’s the client?’ I ask as I sign it, praying I won’t be disappointed.

‘Sofia Castello,’ she replies enigmatically.

I frown. ‘The singer?’

‘Yes!’ She smiles.

‘The singer who sang “Ocean Longing”?’ I ask, certain I must be mistaken.

‘The very one.’

‘But it can’t be.’ A shiver runs up my spine. ‘She’s been dead for years!’