‘I haven’t given her that smile.’ I argued.
George smiled knowingly. ‘Of course you haven’t. Anyway’—he pointed a threatening finger at me—‘don’t fuck this up. She’s good for you.’
Later that night,I crawled into my bed, exhausted and with a Fallon-shaped weight pressing down my chest. Why did I give a flying fuck if I’d upset her? It was my life we were writing about.Mystory. So why was the memory of her face paling at my words repeating on a loop in my head?
I’d hurt her, and the only thing I wanted to do was un-fuck this mess. The cold sheets moved about my body as I tossed and turned. My brain ran over the entire conversation until every word and expression played like a movie behind my eyelids.
Fuck this.
As tired as I was, sleep clearly wasn’t coming. I rolled over, propping myself up on some pillows, threw an arm behind my head and reached for the remote. One of theperks of having money was the ability to be frivolous. I rarely spent money on things I didn’t need. However, there was one big exception that I had always wanted.
A giant hidden TV.
I pressed a few buttons on the remote and watched a sleek 80-inch TV soundlessly pop up from the foot of my bed. I had the bed frame custom-made when I bought this house—feeling like a kid on Christmas morning when it was installed. The speakers were embedded all around the room, so whatever you watched felt like a cinema experience every time. Movies and TV shows weren’t what I used it for. My life was dramatic enough. I didn’t need to suffer through someone else’s fictional catastrophes. I clicked on the only thing that had ever worked to calm my racing thoughts.
The deep sonorous tones of David Attenborough filtered through the speakers. The screen filled with blue as videos of dolphins and whales splashed through the ocean.
I settled in to watch when my phone buzzed on the bedside table. My heart rate picked up, hoping for some ridiculous reason that Fallon’s name would be the one on my screen.
The bubble of hope popped.
I held the phone to my ear as I muted the TV. ‘Hey, Tony.’
A long silence.
‘Tony?’ I pulled the phone away from my eyes to make sure the phone had connected.
‘I’m here… just checking you’ve not been kidnapped or body-snatched.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ I snapped—my patience was already at an all-time low.
He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, but you are incapable of answering my call without some sarcastic remark that I’m sure is meant to cut me to the bone. Fortunately, all it does ismake me smile.’ I pinched the bridge of my nose as he continued, ‘So you’ll forgive me if hearing you answer the phone in a way that resembles a civilised human being is slightly jarring.’
‘I’m having an off day.’ I grunted.
‘Well, hopefully, I have news that will make it better.’
I didn’t immediately perk up because I knew from experience that Tony’s version of good news and mine weren’t the same.
‘I floated the idea of the book to a few agents I know, and they’ve managed to pitch it to one of the biggest publishing houses in the UK.’ Tony paused for dramatic effect.
I leaned back against the headboard, tilting my head back to stare up at the ceiling.
‘Great,’ I said unenthusiastically.
‘Great?’Tony shrieked. For a man who spent his entire life trying to put out fires everywhere. I had quite the ability to cause him to fizzle with frustration.
Now, thatdidput a smile on my face—if only a small one.
‘Sorry, I’m not jumping for joy. I’d get my dancing shoes, but I lost them.’
‘There he is.’ I could practically hear Tony rolling his eyes. ‘We have a meeting with them tomorrow to discuss the rights and potential ghostwriters.’
I sat upright. ‘What are you talking about? Fallon Lowell is writing the book, and she is not a fucking ghostwriter.’
Tony sighed in hisI’ve been in this business a lot longer than youway, which made me want to pluck all the hairs out of his perfectly manicured beard.
‘I’m sure she’s good, but they will want to put a more experienced writer on this project for you to work with.’
