Shadows Over Paradise (3 page)

We showered the couple with petals and took snaps with our phones; then the photographer began the formal photos of them while we all milled around by the porch.

“Great to see you! Fantastic weather!”

“Lovely service—much prefer the King James.”

“Me too. Well read, Honor!”

“Should we make our way to the house?”

“Not yet. I think they want a group pic.”

Rick and I, keen to get away from the crowd, strolled through the churchyard; we looked at the gravestones, most of which were very old and eroded, blotched with yellow lichen.

Rick stopped in front of a slate headstone. “That’s odd. It’s got a pineapple on it.”

I looked at the carved image. “A pineapple means prosperity,
as do figs, and I guess this was a prosperous area, probably because of the wool trade.”

We walked on in silence, past stones that had angels on them, and doves and candles, the symbolism of which was clear.

We could hear the chatter of the guests, a sudden burst of Honor’s unmistakable laughter, then the photographer’s voice.
“Could you look at me, Nina?”

Rick approached another grave, by a yew. He peered at it. “This one’s got a bunch of grapes carved on it.”

“Grapes represent the wine at the Last Supper.”

Rick glanced at me. “How do you know all this, Jen? I didn’t think you were religious.”

“I had to research it for one of my books. It was years ago, but I’ve remembered a lot of it.”

“Now look at each other again.”

“Here’s a rose,” Rick said, pointing to another headstone. “I assume that means love?”

“Oh, very romantic.”

“No. Roses show how old the person was when they died.” I studied the worn emblem. “This is a full rose, which was used for adults.” I read the inscription. “Mary Ann Betts … was …” I peered at her dates. “Twenty-five. The stem’s severed, to show that her life was cut short.”

“I see.” Our conversation felt stiff and formal, as though we were strangers, not lovers.

“Can we have a kiss?”

“A partially opened rose means a teenager.”

“And another one. Lovely.”

“And a rosebud is for a child.”

“Hold his hand now.”

Rick nodded thoughtfully. “A sad subject.”

“Yes …”

“Okay, all stand together, please—nice and close!”

Rick and I joined everyone for the group photo, for which the photographer climbed onto a stepladder, wobbling theatrically to make us all laugh. We smiled up at him while he clicked away, then, hand in hand, Nina and Jon led us down the path, across the field, to the house.

The Old Forge was just as I remembered it—long and low, its pale stone walls ablaze with pyracantha and Virginia creeper. A large marquee filled the lawn. In the distance were the hills of Slad, the plunging pastures dotted with sheep, their bleats carrying across the valley on the still air.

We joined the receiving line, greeting both sets of parents, then the bride and groom.

Nina’s face lit up, and as we hugged I had to fight back sudden tears. I didn’t know whether they were tears of happiness for her or of self-pity. “You look so beautiful, Nina.”

“Thank you.” She put her lips to my ear. “You next,” she whispered.

Jon kissed me on the cheek, then clasped Rick’s hand.

“Good to
see
you both! Thanks for coming!”

“Congratulations, Jon,” Rick said warmly. “It was a lovely service. Congratulations, Nina.”

Now we moved on into the large sunny sitting room where drinks were being served. I put our gift on a table among a cluster of other presents and cards. A waiter offered us a glass of champagne. Rick took one and raised it. “Here’s to the happy couple.”

I sipped my fizz. “They are happy. It’s wonderful.”

“How long have they been together?”

“About the same as us. They got engaged on their first anniversary,” I added neutrally, then laughed at myself for ever having thought that Rick and I might do the same.

I looked at Rick, so handsome, with his open expression, dark hair, and blue gaze. I tried, and failed, to imagine life without him. We’d agreed to talk things over again the next day. Before I could think about that, though, a gong summoned us into the marquee, which was bedecked with white agapanthus and pink nerines, the tables gleaming with silver and china. We found our names and stood behind our chairs while the vicar said grace.

Rick and I had been placed with Honor, and with Amy and Sean, whom I’d known at college but hadn’t seen for years, and an old schoolfriend of Jon’s, Al. I was glad that Nina had put him next to Honor; she’d been single for a while now, and he was very attractive. Also at our table was Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. I vaguely remembered him from her twenty-first birthday. A near neighbor named Carolyn Browne introduced herself. I steeled myself for the effort of making small talk with people I don’t know; unlike Honor, I’m not good at it, and in my frame of mind I knew it would be harder than usual.

I heard Carolyn explain to Rick that she was a solicitor, recently retired. “I’m so busy though,” she confessed, laughing. “I’m a governor of a local school; I play golf and bridge; I travel. I was dreading retirement, but it’s really fine.” She smiled at Rick. “Not that you’re anywhere
near
that stage. So, what do you do?”

He unfurled his napkin. “I’m a teacher—at a primary school in Islington.”

“He’s the deputy head,” I volunteered proudly. Carolyn smiled at me. “And what about you, erm …?”

“Jenni.” I turned my place card toward her.

“Jenni,” she echoed. “And you’re …” She nodded at Rick.

“Yes, I’m Rick’s …” The word
girlfriend
made us seem like teenagers;
partner
made us sound as though we were in business, not in love. “Other half,” I concluded, though I disliked this too; it seemed to suggest, ominously, that we’d been sliced apart.

“And what do you do?” Carolyn asked me.

My heart sank—I hate talking about myself. “I’m a writer.”

“A writer?” Her face lit up. “Do you write novels?”

“No,” I replied. “It’s all nonfiction. But you won’t have heard of me.”

“I read a lot, so maybe I will. What’s your name? Jenni”—Carolyn peered at my place card—“Clark.” She narrowed her eyes. “Jenni Clark.”

“I don’t write under that name.”

“So is it Jennifer Clark?”

“No—what I mean is, I don’t write under
any
name.”

I was about to explain why when Honor said, “Jenni’s a ghost.”

“A ghost?” Carolyn looked puzzled.

“She ghosts things.” Honor opened her napkin. “Strange to think that it can be a verb, isn’t it? I ghost, you ghost, he ghosts,” she added gaily.

I rolled my eyes at Honor, then turned to Carolyn. “I’m a ghostwriter.”

“Oh, I see. So you write books for people who can’t write.”

“Or they can,” I said, “but don’t have the time, or lack the confidence, or they don’t know how to shape the material.”

“So it’s actors and pop stars, I suppose? Footballers? TV presenters?”

I shook my head. “I don’t do the celebrity stuff. I used to, but not anymore.”

“Which is a shame,” Honor interjected, “as you’d make far more money.”

“True.” I rested my fork. “But I didn’t enjoy it.”

“Why not?” asked Al, who was on my left.

“It was too frustrating,” I answered, “having to battle with my subjects’ egos, or finding that they didn’t turn up for the interviews; or that they’d give me some brilliant material, then the next day tell me that I wasn’t to use it. So these days I only do the projects that interest me.”

Honor, who has a butterfly mind, was now discussing ghosts of the other kind. “I’m
sure
they exist,” she said to Vincent Tregear. “Twenty years ago I was staying with my cousins in France; it was a warm, still day, just like today, and we were exploring this abandoned house. It was a ruin, so we could see right up to the roof. And we
both
heard footsteps, right above us, on the nonexistent floorboards.” She gave an extravagant shudder. “I’ve never forgotten it.”

“
I
believe in ghosts,” Carolyn remarked. “I live on my own, in an old house, and at times I’ve been aware of this … presence.”

Amy nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve sometimes felt a sudden chill.” She turned to Sean. “Do you remember, darling, last summer? When we were in Wales?”

“I do,” he answered. “Though I believe it was because you were pregnant.”

“No—pregnancy made me feel hot, not cold.”

“A few years ago,” said Al, “I was asleep in my flat, alone, when I suddenly woke up, convinced that someone was sitting on my bed.”

I shivered at the idea. “And you weren’t dreaming?”

He shook his head. “I was wide awake. I can still remember the weight of it, pressing down on the mattress. Yet there was no one there.”

“How terrifying,” I murmured.

“It was.” He poured me some water, then filled his own glass. “Has anything like that ever happened to you?”

“It hasn’t, I’m glad to say. But I don’t dismiss other people’s experiences.”

“I’ve always been skeptical about these things,” Sean observed. “I believe that if people are sufficiently on edge, they can see things that aren’t really there. Like Macbeth seeing the ghost of Banquo.”

“Shake not thy gory locks at me!” intoned Honor, then giggled. “And Macbeth certainly is on edge by then, isn’t he, having murdered—what—four people?” Then she went off on some conversational tangent about why it was considered unlucky for actors to say “Macbeth” inside a theater. “People think it’s because of the evil in the story,” she prattled away as a waiter took her plate. “But it’s actually because if a play wasn’t selling well, the actors would have to quickly rehearse
Macbeth
, as that’s always popular, so doing
Macbeth
became associated with ill luck. Now, what are we having next?” She picked up a goldtasseled menu. “Sea bass—yum. Did you know that sea bass are hermaphrodites? The males become females at six months.”

Al, clearly uninterested in the gender-switching tendencies
of our main course, turned to me. “So what sort of books do you write?”

“A real mix,” I answered. “Psychology, health, and popular culture; I’ve done a diet book, and a couple of gardening books …”

I thought of my titles, more than twenty of them, lined up on the shelf in my study.

“So you must learn a huge amount about all these things,” Al said.

“I do. It’s one of the perks.”

Carolyn sipped her wine. “But do you get any kind of credit?”

“No.”

“I thought that with ghostwritten books it usually said ‘with so-and-so’ or ‘as told to.’ ”

“It depends,” I said. “Some ghostwriters ask for that. I don’t.”

“So your name appears nowhere?”

“That’s right.”

She frowned. “Don’t you mind?”

I shrugged. “Anonymity’s part of the deal. And of course the clients like it that way. They’d prefer everyone to think they’d written the book all by themselves.”

Carolyn laughed. “I couldn’t
bear
not to have any of the glory. If I’d worked that hard on something, I’d want people to know!”

“Me too,” chimed in Honor. “I don’t know why you want to hide your light under a bushel
quite
so much, Jen.”

“Because it’s enough that I’ve enjoyed the work and been paid for it. I’m happy to be … invisible.”

“You were always like that,” Honor went on. “You were never one to seek the limelight—unlike me.” She giggled. “I enjoy it.”

“So, are you still acting?” Sean asked her.

“Not for five years now,” she answered. “I couldn’t take the insecurity anymore, so I went into radio, which I love.”

“I’ve heard your show,” Amy interjected. “It’s really good.”

“Thanks.” Honor basked in the compliment for a moment. “And you two have had a baby, haven’t you?”

“We have,” Amy answered. “So I’m on maternity leave.”

“And what are you working on now, Jenni?” Carolyn asked.

I fiddled with my wineglass. “A baby-care guide.”

“How lovely,” she responded. “And are you a mum?”

My heart contracted. “No.” I sipped my wine.

“Doesn’t that make it difficult? Writing a book about something you haven’t been through yourself?”

“Not at all. The client’s talked extensively to me about her experience—she’s a midwife—and I’ve written it up in a clear and, I hope, engaging way.”

“I must buy it,” Amy said to me. “What’s it called?”

“
Bringing Up Baby
. It’ll be out in the spring. But I always get a few complimentary copies, so if you give me your address, I’ll send you one.”

“Oh, that’s kind. I’ll write it down.” Amy began looking in her bag for a pen.

“You can contact me through my website,” I suggested. “Jenni Clark Ghostwriting. So … how old’s your baby?”

At that Sean took out his phone and swiped the screen.

“She’s called Rosie.”

I smiled at the photo. “She’s gorgeous. Isn’t she lovely, Honor?”

Honor peered at the image. “She’s a little beauty.”

“She’s what, six months?” I asked.

Amy’s face glowed with pride. “Yes—she’ll be seven months a week from Wednesday.”

“So is she crawling?” I went on. “Or starting to roll over?” Beside me I could feel Rick stiffen.

“She’s crawling beautifully,” Amy replied. “But she’s not rolling over yet.”

Sean laughed. “It’ll be nerve-racking when she does.”

“You won’t be able to leave her on the bed or the changing table,” I said. “That’s when lots of parents put the changing mat on the floor—not that I’m a parent myself, but of course we cover this in the book …” Rick had tuned out of the conversation and was talking to Carolyn again. Al turned to me. “So can you write about any subject?”

“Well, not something I could never relate to,” I answered, “like particle physics—not that I’d ever get chosen for a book like that. But I’ll do almost any professional writing job: not just books, but corporate reports, press releases, business pitches, memoirs—”

“Memoirs?” echoed Vincent. “You mean, writing someone’s life story?”