The Unexpected Consequences of Love (31 page)

Marguerite waited in the green room, pretending to read texts on her phone to avoid having to make polite conversation with anyone else. Her mouth was dry and her palms were damp. She'd never been one for spur-of-the-moment decisions before, but it was happening now. Less than an hour ago, she'd realized what it was she had to do.

Okay, not
had
to. But it needed to be done.

Oh yes. Definitely.

“Hi,” said Tony Weston, appearing before her and making her jump. “In case I don't get a chance to tell you later, my wife's a huge fan of your books. She wanted you to know how much she loves them.”

“Really? Thank you so much. That's lovely to hear.” Having done her homework and studied the information Riley had printed out for her, Marguerite knew that Tony Weston had met his wife Martha just four years ago. A strikingly attractive woman of Afro-Caribbean descent, she was a successful artist in her own right. Their first meeting had taken place on Primrose Hill in north London, and as far as Tony was concerned, it had been a case of love at first sight. By all accounts they were idyllically happily married.

Which was lovely in one way, of course, but disappointing in another.

Some people just had it so easy, didn't they?

And then there's me,
thought Marguerite, at the other end of the scale.
Why
can't I have a fraction of their luck?

“Ms. Marshall?” A studio runner wearing the obligatory headset and clutching a clipboard said cheerfully, “Time to take you downstairs. Shall we go?”

“Absolutely.” Now that she'd made up her mind, the fear fell away. It was like waking up and finding yourself miraculously twenty years younger. Rising to her feet, Marguerite smoothed down her skirt and said, “Let's do this thing.”

Tony Weston's smile was unintentionally encouraging as she turned to leave the green room. “Have a good one.”

“Don't you worry,” said Marguerite. “I will.”

The show had begun. The hosts had had their three minutes of playful husband-and-wife banter and were now announcing who would be on the show. The audience, whose job it was to generate maximum enthusiasm, went wild. Listening to them from backstage, Marguerite wondered if this was how it felt to have an out-of-body experience. Her agent would be at home now, watching the show. As would her editor.

As would her fans, those faithful readers all over the country who for years had bought and adored her books.

“Ms. Marshall?” said the runner. “Are you feeling all right? You're looking a bit pale.”

Was she? Marguerite considered the options. What was the worst that could happen? She could faint onstage, on live TV. Sometimes people lost control of their bladder when they fainted;
that
would generate a few headlines.

Although maybe not the kind you'd want to read.

Oh, what the hell. She wasn't the fainting kind.

And as for the headlines… Well, they weren't exactly going to be flattering anyway.

“Don't worry.” Marguerite checked her mike pack was secure. “I'm fine.”

“And now please welcome into the studio one of this country's most successful novelists, with twenty-five million books sold worldwide…the marvelous,
magnificent
Marguerite Marshall!”

The audience cheered and applauded, and Marguerite made her way onto the set. She exchanged air kisses with Jon and Jackie and took her place on the purple suede sofa. A pocket of extra-enthusiastic cheering in the right-hand section of the audience alerted her to the fact that her fan club was in; thirty or so women who lived and breathed her books and hired minibuses to attend as many of her public appearances as humanly possible. Six of them, she knew, had traveled down from Scotland for this evening's show.

Who else would be watching from the comfort of their own homes? Lawrence and Dot? Loyal readers who had lined up in the cold and the rain to have her sign books for them? Old friends from years gone by with whom she hadn't bothered to stay in contact after her career as a bestselling author had taken off?

Okay, this was like drowning and having your whole life flash before you. Time appeared to have slowed to a crawl. Marguerite glanced at the front row and saw Suze, still clapping madly. Because she worked in public relations and it was her job to applaud.

And there, next to her, sat Riley and Tula, the sides of their legs almost but not quite touching. As she looked at them, Riley leaned over and murmured something and Tula tilted her head close to his to hear what he was saying. Then she broke into a smile and gave his knee a playful nudge with hers.

Marguerite, who had spent the day paying
very
close attention to the way they interacted, knew she was about to do the right thing. The chemistry between them was unmistakable. Tula might be doing her level best to deny it, but to a novelist—a professional observer of body language—the signals were definitely there.

Okay,
ex-novelist
.

“Wow, Marguerite, that was quite some welcome,” Jon enthused when the applause finally died down. “Not that you're anywhere near old enough, but that kind of reaction means you're practically a national treasure!”

“It's very kind of them.” The blood in her veins was racing around her body at Formula 1 speed. Smiling apologetically at the audience, Marguerite said, “Thank you. I really don't deserve it.”

Which prompted cries of “Yes you do!” from her adoring fan club.

“Well, I
love
your books,” Jackie chimed in, as bubbly and effusive as ever. “Once I start reading them, I just can't stop! I once missed a flight to New York, that's how engrossed I was!”

“And that was our honeymoon!” Jon quipped. “Now, the new book is published today.” He held up a copy of the hardback for the benefit of camera three. “Unbelievably, it's your thirty-ninth novel, and this one's called
Tell
Me
Now
.” He paused, twinkly-eyed. “So, Marguerite, tell
me
now, what's the secret? How
do
you keep on doing it?”

If she'd written the script herself, she couldn't have engineered a better opening line. Okay, here goes. Marguerite fixed her gaze on twinkly-eyed Jon and said, “I don't. I get someone else to do it.”

Everyone burst out laughing. If a stand-up comedian had said it, it wouldn't have been funny. But when a noncomedian said something faintly amusing, the response was greater. Like when a tennis player at Wimbledon dropped a ball thrown to him by a ball boy and pulled an
oops
face, and everyone on Centre Court cracked up.

“No, don't laugh.” Marguerite shook her head at Jon and Jackie. “I'm not joking. It's the truth.”

***

The weird thing, Tula couldn't help noticing, was the way everyone in the audience was laughing except Riley. He'd suddenly become very still. Glancing at his profile, she saw him staring intently at Marguerite on the purple sofa, his high cheekbone accentuated by the overhead lighting. A muscle was twitching in his jaw.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, her own cheek brushing his shoulder.

He nodded without replying.

Up on the stage, Jon was now saying jovially, “You mean if you get a bit stuck every now and again, you have a brainstorming session with your editor?”

Then Tula saw that Marguerite was shaking her head, very firmly indeed.

“No, nothing like that. It's been bothering me for a while; I'm a very proud woman, if not always an honest one. But it's time to come clean. I suffered a horrible case of writer's block and haven't managed to write a book since. In fact, it's been six years now…”

Marguerite wavered and paused, raising a hand to signal that she needed a moment to compose herself. Tula wondered what was going on; was Marguerite drunk or having some kind of breakdown? The audience had now fallen silent too.

“Um, so I know this is going to upset my readers and I'm really sorry, but there it is. I can't write anymore. At all. It just won't…happen.”

“Well, this is quite an announcement,” Jon said quickly. “I think it's fair to say we're all pretty surprised by this news. Can I ask how your publishers feel about it? I mean, presumably they hired a ghostwriter to do the job on your behalf, but did they have any idea you were coming here tonight to reveal the big secret?”

Tula glanced across at Suze, who was looking as frozen now as Riley had earlier. It was safe to say the answer to that question was no.

“My publisher didn't hire a ghostwriter,” said Marguerite, “because they didn't know I needed one. They weren't aware there was any secret to reveal.”

God, this was getting weirder and weirder. It was unbelievable. Tula put her hand on Riley's forearm and felt the rigidity of the muscles beneath the surface. Leaning in to him, she whispered, “Is this true? Did she tell you about this? Did you
know
?”

“So, Marguerite.” On the purple sofa, Jackie assumed her professionally mystified face. “In that case, who
has
been writing your books for you?”

Marguerite turned her head to look out into the audience, and Tula felt the muscles in Riley's arm tighten to the next level. Then Marguerite raised her left arm and pointed directly at her.

“Right there. See? Sitting in the front row.”

“Oh shit
.” Tula gasped as Suze jerked around to stare incredulously at her. “This is mad; it's not me… She can't make me pretend I wrote her books!” There might be some situations you could bluff your way through, but this definitely wasn't one of them.

Then she became aware of a noise like compressed air escaping from a car tire and realized it was coming from Riley's throat.

As the floor manager frantically gestured for camera two to swivel around and face the audience, Marguerite pointed again and jabbed her finger. “That's who's been writing the books. Over there. My nephew, Riley.”

Okay, now Marguerite really had lost it. Either that, or she was playing some kind of bizarre, improbable joke. Except there didn't appear to be any discernible punchline.

Then Tula looked again at Riley, saw him shake his head in resignation, and heard him say under his breath, “
Fuck
.”

Not in an it's-not-true way. More of a cat-out-of-the-bag one.

Tula's eyes widened in disbelief. “You?
You've
been writing Marguerite's books?”

The idea of it was on par with a Labrador suddenly breaking into a tap dance.

Then she flinched as the overhead spotlights swiveled, their brightness illuminating the audience. Specifically, the front row. The cameras had swung around too, cables snaking behind them. Up on the stage, Marguerite's voice broke as she said, “I'm sorry. I'm so ashamed. I've felt terrible about it for years. I just didn't want to disappoint my readers…” She stood up, struggling to disentangle the mike pack from beneath her pink jacket. “We didn't mean to trick anyone; it was just my own stupid pride. Okay, I can't do this anymore. I have to go now before I make even more of a fool of myself…”

There were gasps as Marguerite succeeded in separating herself from the mike pack and left the stage, leaving Jon and Jackie staring helplessly after her. There was a moment of stunned silence, then Jackie jumped up and moved quickly over to the audience. Reaching for Riley's arm, she said, “Well, you can't leave us guestless! Come on, if you write the books for Marguerite, you can stand in for her on the sofa.”

She must have been stronger than she looked, because Riley didn't appear to have any choice in the matter. The moment the cameras panned away from the audience, Suze shot out of her seat and disappeared, clutching her phone and looking as if she'd swallowed a hedgehog.

The next few minutes surely ranked among the most surreal of Tula's life as she sat and listened to Riley explain how the switch had come about. If Jon and Jackie seemed amazed, it couldn't begin to compete with her own astonishment, since they didn't know Riley and she did.

Except she hadn't, had she? Her heart thumping against her ribs, Tula realized she hadn't known Riley Bryant at all.

Then the interview was over and Jon was wrapping up the segment with, “Well, I have to say, ladies and gentlemen, that wasn't something I'd planned on happening tonight, but I guess that's live television for you. Expect the unexpected, eh? Riley, good luck with everything, my friend.” Cheerily he added, “And tell Marguerite we forgive her for pulling the wool over our eyes all these years, even if her publishers don't!”

The audience broke into jerky applause and Riley left the set, to the accompaniment of stifled sobs and angry mutterings from Marguerite's fan club, who evidently weren't taking it well. Someone said in a shocked voice, “All this time she was just lying to us… I can't
bear
it.”

And
then
there
was
one
. Tula wondered what she was meant to do now. Jon and Jackie were already gearing up to introduce the female singer, their next guest on the show. Then someone in the row behind Tula tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, “
Psst
, he's over there by the fire exit.”

Tula looked and saw Riley beckoning to her. As she crept out of her seat, the girl who'd given her the tap on the shoulder said enviously, “Is he your boyfriend? You're so lucky. He's, like, totally hot.”

The fire exit door closed behind her and Riley said, “Come on, we need to find her.”

He looked serious. And concerned. And gorgeous. The girl sitting behind her had been right; he
was
totally hot.

Anyway, never mind that now. Together they made their way along corridors and past members of staff who allowed them through security doors when they realized who Riley was. They reached the green room and found Suze pacing up and down, speaking urgently into her phone, her body radiating tension. The female singer's entourage was clustered around the TV, watching her performance on the show. Marguerite was sitting on a black leather sofa, wiping her eyes with a tissue and talking to a middle-aged Afro-Caribbean woman in a long crimson cotton dress.

Tula said, “Who's that with Marguerite?”

“Tony Weston's wife. Her name's Martha.” As they watched, Martha wrapped motherly arms around Marguerite and drew her into a sympathetic embrace. She murmured words of comfort as Marguerite broke down and sobbed on her shoulder.

“Oh God,” Riley said under his breath.

He'd taken Tula's hand. She squeezed his in return. Marguerite had always been strong, fearless, super confident, and utterly invincible. Seeing her in tears was all kinds of wrong.

Then Tony Weston crossed the room carrying a brimming, fizzing tumbler.

“Here you go.” He held it out to Marguerite. “Gin and tonic, strong enough to stun a tiger.”

Martha released her hold on Marguerite and rummaged in her bag for fresh tissues. “If my husband's good for anything, it's mixing a hefty gin and tonic. There now, sweetie, dry your eyes.” Glancing over at Riley and Tula, she said, “Ah, look. Your boy's here.”

Your
boy
. Martha had the warmest, gentlest voice you could imagine. They saw Marguerite mentally gather herself, dab the tissue beneath her heavily mascaraed lashes, and take a huge gulp of her drink. Then she looked up.

Riley said, “I've just been interviewed on TV.”

“I know. We saw. Sorry about that.”

“You could have warned me.”

“You were great,” said Marguerite. “You're a natural.”

Riley paused, shaking his head. “Why did you do it?”

A longer pause. Then Marguerite replied steadily, “You know why.”

Tula, who
didn't
know why, gave Riley a nudge and hissed, “Give her a hug.”

Riley ignored her, continuing instead to gaze down at Marguerite. “Talk about risky. What if it doesn't work out? You'll have done all of this for nothing.”

“Maybe I have. But I don't think so.” A glimmer of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I'm pretty good at figuring out what's going on. Trust me, I used to be a writer.”

“You're completely mad,” said Riley. Then he let go of Tula's hand, made his way over to Marguerite, and hugged her tightly. From ten feet away, Tula thought she heard him murmur beneath his breath, “But thanks.”

Honestly, what
were
they on about? This was a conversation badly in need of subtitles.

“Right!” Switching off her phone, Suze announced efficiently, “I've spoken to your editor, the publishing director, and the managing director. They're all on their way over… They'll be here in twenty minutes. We'll have a meeting and decide what to do. Obviously Riley needs to be included—”

“Not me,” Riley interrupted. “Not tonight.”

Suze was visibly alarmed. “Oh, but—”

“Nor me,” Marguerite said firmly.

Suze's eyes widened in horror; this time she looked as if she might pass out. “Marguerite, they're on their way now. As we speak. You can't do this. You have to talk to them!”

“Not if I don't want to.”

“But—”

“Come on.” Marguerite knocked back her gin and tonic. “Let's get out of here.”

“Marguerite, please!” Panic-stricken and begging, Suze's voice rose. “They'll be here
any
minute
.”

Having kissed Martha and Tony Weston good-bye, Marguerite said briskly, “All the more reason to leave now.”

***

Outside, Riley flagged down a black cab, and the three of them traveled back to the Savoy in silence. Marguerite gazed out of the window, lost in her own thoughts. When they'd reached the hotel and navigated the heavy revolving doors, she said to Riley, “I'm going to my room now. The rest's up to you. Can you ask them to send up a bottle of something decent and not put through any calls? I don't want to be disturbed.”

Riley nodded and headed over to the reception desk, leaving Marguerite and Tula together.

“No way.” Tula shook her head. “We're not leaving you on your own.”

“How sweet you are.” Visibly touched, Marguerite said, “But I'm not planning on killing myself, if that's what you're worried about. Truly, not my style at all.”

“Well, good.” And thankfully Marguerite sounded as if she meant it. “But listen,” said Tula, “I know it might not feel like it at the moment, but you'll be so glad you did this. It's all out in the open now. No more subterfuge, no more guilty conscience.” Desperate to reassure Marguerite, she added enthusiastically, “Trust me, it's a good thing and you're going to feel a million times better. So don't worry, everything'll turn out fine.”

“Really? Sure about that?” Marguerite's expression softened. “After all this palaver, let's hope so.”