The Love Letter (43 page)

Done it. Thanks. How is Gordon?

Right here. He sends his best. Keep up the good work. K

It was the most conventional exchange they’d all had in days, and Conrad would no doubt be delighted to find his PA communicating with his top client with such coffee-morning politeness, but it left Legs feeling uneasy and dissatisfied. She sensed Gordon was in retreat. He hadn’t asked about Farcombe or the Protheroes at all. Kelly’s final reply read like a brush off, although with Gordon breathing down her neck, his PA could hardly report back on his mental state.

She started to print out Delia Meare’s manuscript, but, unable to concentrate as she watched the pages shunting out, she found herself wondering what Gordon Lapis thought about the Emperor’s New Clothes when it came to stripping them off seductively in front of her boss and his agent. She sensed he would disapprove enormously. For all Ptolemy and Purple’s flirtation and Gordon’s talk of erotic tension between Julie Ocean and Jimmy Jimee, there was a piety that allowed Gordon his dark, sexy wit and clever tropes without ever being accused of salaciousness.

Ptolemy Finch, despite being immortal, was far too young to get jiggy, and had thus far spent five books building a deep, fierce friendship with coquettish sidekick Purple without so much as a kiss. It wasn’t even entirely clear whether Purple was female or male, but this whirlwind of wit and flirtation could hack any computer and hot-wire any vehicle, metamorphosise into a meerkat, speak any language and channel spirits, occasionally all at the same time. Purple also upheld the ‘Ten Rules to Live By’ that every child was taught at soothsayer school with almost religious fervour. Gordon clearly had high, if eccentric standards, in sidekicks as well as pet-friendly hotel rooms.

Perhaps Gordon was a priest, she wondered suddenly, imagining the media furore to find the great author standing before them in a dog-collar.

Conrad had left her with a mountain of prep work to do for the Farcombe appearance, liaising with half a dozen contacts from Gordon’s publishing house, informally dubbed ‘Team GL’.

Conrad’s press release had unleashed a tidal wave of interest, just as he had predicted. Every broadsheet, tabloid, glossy celebrity magazine and television chat show was clamouring for interviews, big name producers wanted to commission documentaries about Gordon stepping from the shadows of anonymity, there was even talk of Hollywood film rights being sold to the story of the man behind Ptolemy Finch. Everybody involved had an opinion over how it – and Gordon – should be handled from now until the big event to maximise the hype.

What about
after
the event
? Legs asked her Team GL colleagues amid the hyperbole.
How can we help him prepare for the exposure and intrusion after so long behind the veil?

Don’t jump ahead,
Gordon’s dictatorial editor Wendy Savage snapped back, cc-ing her email to even more people on the evergrowing Team GL list.

After two hours of circular emails, attachments and clashing opinions, Legs was close to meltdown. As well as disregarding Gordon’s mental state totally, the team had no understanding of the way Farcombe worked, and how much resistance they would get if they carried on planning as they were. She struggled to get her point across, but it was a losing battle; she badly needed some backup.

Legs, who had now read Gordon’s ‘sting in the tale’ email so many times she knew it by heart, wasn’t so sure he was in a good place right now, but she felt she couldn’t betray his confidence, not even to Conrad.

She composed another email:
Your message about the Emperor’s New Clothes has made me think, cry, laugh and worry about you too many times to count. I can’t tell you how much difference it’s made to my personal life. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, and reassure you that I’m your emissary, ally, research assistant and trainee Julie Ocean whenever you need me.

Farcombe is a good place and a safe place. I have taken my clothes off there many times and may well do so again. If one is going to strip
bare, it’s a great spot. You will be brilliant. You are brilliant. I will be there for you. A.

P.s. Just look out for the gorse bushes.

Unable to send it direct, she went for broke and directed it to Kelly with an urgent tag. As soon as it went, she regretted the p.s.

He made no reply. Nor, by four, was there any direct word from Kelly. Conrad still wasn’t back from his lunch. But Legs couldn’t wait any longer to hurl herself across London to fetch enough evidence to liberate the shiny silver Honda.

At seven o’clock that evening, Tolly was free and legally permitted to stay in the Ealing street on which it was parked. The Farcombe seagull droppings still tattooed on its roof had now been joined by a Jackson Pollock abstract of pigeon poo gunshot. It was a hot, airless evening that smelled of dust and exhaust fumes, thunder rumbling in the far distance. The stormy heat wave looked set to stay all week.

Legs let herself into her flat. All was silent overhead. It was choir practice night; Ros and Nico were at the cathedral.

Francis had sent an ominous text:
Say the word. ILY.P.s. Please do not mention your love of your car again before our Friday deadline. I may be forced to rethink.

Was he going to take Tolly back again? She wondered. If so, what had he done with her old red banger of which he denied all knowledge?

Her throat was aching and her head pounding. She couldn’t face running that evening.

Instead, she looked through several new manuscripts picked up from her desk today that had been marked up by the agency’s readers as worth Conrad’s attention. In the first, the corpse of a High Court judge was found floating in the Thames with a key crammed up each nostril; in the second, three schoolgirls kept prisoner in a cellar were drained of blood, and the third was the most gruesome of all, detailing the slow mental deterioration of a ripper
who kept all his conquests piled up and rotting in a remote lock up. None had anything unique or compelling about the prose style, although they were better written than most submissions. All three left her with an aching back and a fear of humankind. How could anybody trust anybody else these days? She wondered, marking the third for Conrad’s attention, knowing he would love the potential of a television tie-in; drama producers couldn’t get enough mass murder and mental breakdown these days. Reading them all had served to remind her how exceptional the Delia Meare script was. She wished she’d brought it back with her tonight instead of plonking it in the middle of Conrad’s desk like a guilty love token.

She took a long candlelit bath in her little tub. Her involuntary thoughts drifted to Byrne as she pushed her toes up the taps, unable to stop herself wondering how he was getting on. She hoped he and Poppy could get closer. Both were such difficult buggers, hiding behind defence shields as high as cirrocumulus, yet desperate to be understood. If he had only a little time left, he deserved to break through her grand monologues to the real truth.

‘Coat of Many Colours’ started playing on the radio, crackling like mad because the batteries needed changing. She sank beneath the bubbles for a moment as she remembered singing it off key the night she’d told Byrne so many of her secrets.

Before she knew it, she was having an imaginary conversation with him, asking about his childhood and his illness, offering friendship and support. By the time the bubbles had all popped and the bathwater had gone lukewarm, they were firm allies.

She certainly needed allies right now, even imaginary ones.

Her iPhone started ringing with ‘I’m a Believer’, Conrad’s designated tone.

Dripping water everywhere, she located it on the bed.

‘Have you read your emails?’ He demanded, launch party still raging in the background.

‘Not for an hour or two.’ She found herself wondering what
finger food and drink they served at the
Hansel and Gretel Diet
book launch. Chicken bones and water?

‘Read it. Deal with it. We’ll have a breakfast meeting at my desk at eight tomorrow. Don’t be late.’

Not bothering to wait for her laptop to boot, she looked at her emails on the iPhone. Team GL had spent a busy evening forwarding attachments and cc-ing them to even more people. Gordon himself had replied to nothing, but Kelly had sent a collective message.

Dear all,

Gordon asks that Allegra North no longer works on his behalf and ceases all involvement with his forthcoming appearance at Farcombe Festival without further notice.

Kind regards,

Kelly

Legs felt the bathwater dripping down her body turn to ice as she sat down heavily on the bed.

Hands shaking, she started composing a reply and then remembered he had blocked all incoming mail. She went on to direct messaging instead. Gordon was online.

May I ask why you want me removed from the project?
She addressed him as stiffly as if she was writing a formal letter.
Was it my email this afternoon? If I have been impertinent then I can only apologise wholeheartedly and beg your forgiveness. I would really appreciate your time in letting me know why this has happened. With kind regards and concern, Allegra.

Gordon Lapis went immediately offline.

He sent an email in the early hours. She was still awake, lying in bed with the covers kicked off because it was so hot and close. Reading the last chapters of
Ptolemy Finch and the Topaz Eagle,
she’d just reached such an exciting cliffhanger that her phone’s message alert beep made her scream out loud.

My dear Allegra,

You may be the only one of the lot of them who seems to understand
me, but right now I do not require understanding; I require action. You do not act very well.

Your friend,

GL.

P.s. Be careful in what you say to Delia Meare; she has once again flooded my inbox; I have reinforced my firewall and changed my email. I advise caution for all her writing brilliance.

She heaved a deep, infuriated sigh, deciding she didn’t like the Mad Hatter very much at all when he was in this mood. She wasn’t going to waste her bedtime wishes on him tonight. When she closed her eyes to try to sleep, however, a face was waiting beneath her lids, a curious composite made up of Francis, Conrad, her imaginary Ptolemy Finch, and even Byrne, those furnace eyes full of disapproval. It wasn’t a face to be ignored.

She clicked on the light and groped for her phone to reply.

Sleep tight.

Sleep tight,
was returned in a less than a breath.

The breakfast crisis meeting with Conrad was stickier than the melting Danish pastries that went untouched on the plate in front of them. He was wholly unimpressed by Legs’ explanation that Gordon thought she acted too badly to stay on Team GL.

‘This isn’t an amateur production of Pygmalion,’ he stormed. ‘It hardly matters that you’re insincere if you get the job done.’

‘I am
not
insincere!’ She was highly affronted.

Conrad waved her protests away. ‘Gordon calls the shots and that means he can call you any name he likes. He’s just being bellicose. He needs you. Let’s find a solution.’

‘I can hardly beg him to change his mind,’ she rationalised.

He wiped his sweating forehead with a handkerchief that had ‘World’s Best Dad’ written on it. ‘This means I am going to have to take on the entire mantle of protecting his interests,’ he said furiously, far more worried about his time commitments than Gordon’s wellbeing.

They both knew Conrad needed her as much as Gordon. He’d shifted so much of the Lapis workload across to her in recent months that he’d lost interest as well as control. Gordon’s eccentricity and lack of ambition irritated him. Looking after the Ptolemy Finch brand was a full-time job in itself, especially right now with the launch of a new book imminent, then Farcombe Festival’s key event and the surrounding media furore following straight on. Conrad was a risk-taker who liked breaking new names and making new deals, not mollycoddling demanding authors. In the same way that he’d presented Legs like a treat to his most lecherous client that first lunch he’d taken her on, he had handed her to his bestselling client as a pacifier. Now that Gordon had spat out the dummy and was throwing his toys out of the pram, Conrad was at a loss.

Looking at him now, Legs felt a wave of regret that all her fantasies of sharing power coupledom with one of publishing’s most fêted mavericks had come to so little. She was, after all, still just a lover he assigned to weekday nights and lunchtimes in hotel rooms, a corporate freebie he used to best advantage. But she wanted to help Gordon, her loyalty guaranteed for evenings, weekends and sleepless nights. Gordon inspired devotion, even among the newly fired.

‘I’ll work in the background,’ she suggested, fanning herself with her notepad because she was so hot. Not thinking, she pulled forward her dress neckline and blew down into it to try to cool her sweat-slicked chest. Then she saw Conrad’s eyes harden in that hypnotic, sexual way which told her he was no longer thinking about Gordon.

‘No melting into the background in that outfit,’ he growled,
admiring another of her Browns dresses, this one asymmetric sunflower yellow jersey, clinging softly to all the right places.