I snatched it towards me and swiped it open. There was nowayI could write in these conditions, which should have been great fuel for a murder-mystery novel. But I wasn’t writing a bloody murder-mystery. My stomach dropped at what I was about to do. But I couldn’t put it off any longer. The ghost writer…
The man who could write my book for me. I imagined that for him to do it in a week would cost double what I paid the first time. I’d only ever done it once, when the children were young, and I was a new writer with a three-book deal for an eye-wateringly low advance. I’d had to take a permanent position as a personal assistant– and by the time I was due to submit the third book I just couldn’t keep up. Writing never had and still didn’t make ends meet. But now, Miles earned just enough to keep us both going, and he had convinced me to quit the PA job and pursue my dreams.
The first time I managed to scrape together three hundred pounds to pay the ghost writer, the guy wrote it in his spare time, over two months. Now I was going to ask him to write a book in a week and a half.
I dreaded to think what the cost was going to be.
I went into my drafts folder, looking for the email I’d started. I stared at the screen and the empty draft folder. I was sure I had already written it… With a sigh I rewrote the email to him, detailing my desperate situation and the tight deadline. The cursor blinked accusingly, reminding me of the ethical line I was about to cross. Again.
With my finger hovering over the send button, a soft knock at the door made me jump. I slammed the laptop shut as Miles poked his head in.
‘Everything all right, darling?’ he asked.
I forced a smile. ‘Just trying to work on the book. It’s… not going well.’
He came and sat beside me on the bed, placing a comforting hand on my knee. ‘I know it’s been difficult, with everything that’s happened. But you shouldn’t push yourself too hard. Your publisher will understand if you need an extension.’
I swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at my insides. He looked so tired. I knew he hadn’t gotten much sleep last night after what had happened with Toots, and now here I was laying more worries at his door.
‘I’ve already had an extension…’ I began. ‘More than one. I think– I think I might have to pay back the advance.’
His face dropped. ‘How much?’ he asked.
I gulped.
He tried to hide the look of dread and to his credit it was gone in a flash– but I had caught it. I couldn’t tell him. Twenty grand to pay back the advance, or… I don’t know how much the ghost writer was going to ask for, but it certainly wouldn’t be as much as that.
‘Look, don’t worry,’ I said brightly, ‘I’m being silly. You know me. I’m almost there– if I really get my head down and shut myself away, I can get it done.’
He looked into my eyes. ‘Okay… If you need me to help, to read over anything, I’m here. Okay, Liv? I can help.’
I smiled into his warm brown eyes. Even with everything going on, he never failed to be there for me and the kids. Guilt gnawed at me. I always remarked on how selfish Mimi and the twins could be, but sometimes, I really was no better.
‘Thank you,’ I said, leaning forward and giving him a kiss on the nose.
‘I’m going to make a coffee,’ he said standing up and planting a swift kiss on my forehead. ‘Want one?’
‘No, thank you. I’m just going to get on with this,’ I pulled open the laptop once more.
I watched him as he left the room, his shoulders bunched with tension. I had to sort my shit out so that I could be there for him, not the other way round.
He closed the door just as I hit send.
13
CLAUS FOR CONCERN
Four Years Earlier…
28thDecember 2021
Misery Miser Eugene Weiss had celebrated his 90th birthday a month before, and my God, he was fitter than all of us. It would be another ten years or more until he croaked it– and I am not one for waiting.
Greedy guts loves his Scotch so much it’s practically replaced the blood in his veins. God forbid anyone else should drink Eugene’s whisky.
The best thing about antifreeze is that the side effects are so similar to having a few too many and developing a cold. No one thought twice when he took himself to bed feeling groggy and a bit nauseous. Twelve hours later, we woke up to find the old boy had met his maker.
The reading of the will was four weeks later and the vultures circled and sharpened their claws. I could already hear theirwhispers, the subtle jockeying for position. Who would get the beach house? The classic-car collection? The stocks? The goldmine?
