‘Aren’t you the one who always says no author should jack in work on their first book, no matter how successful they are?’
‘Yes, but that’s because I had no idea you were going to outsell the Bible,’ he squawked, loud enough to attract glances from all around the restaurant. ‘When The Beatles said they were bigger than Jesus, everyone went bananas but you, Sophie Taylor, could say it and right now, according to sales figures, it would be true!’
‘That doesn’t mean I want to rush the sequel and let the readers down,’ I countered, hunching over the table and lowering my voice. Malcolm loved drama and attention, I did not. ‘Or that I even want to give up my job, I’ve been offered head of year next term. Maybe I like being a teacher.’
He coughed, choking on his beer. ‘There are people who actually like teaching?’
‘Wild, I know, but yes, there are and I’m not ready to explain to the headteacher how I spend my evenings and weekends writing very spicy romance, let alone the parents.’ I tapped the limited edition, pink-sprayed edge, foiled-board, hardback Spice Rack subscription box exclusive edition ofButterfliesthat sat in the middleof the table and shuddered. ‘Would you be happy with the author ofthiseducating your six-year-old?’
‘I’d be happy with Charles Manson educating my six-year-old if thought he’d come out of it in one piece,’ he replied. ‘Manson, that is.’
‘Xavier is a handful,’ I admitted, keeping the thought that marrying a woman thirty years younger than you and having a baby at the age of fifty-nine was asking for trouble very much to myself. I liked Rosa a lot. I liked staying on Mal’s good side even more. ‘But I don’t think the majority of parents would share your opinion.’
He wiped a hand over his face and let out a resigned sigh before he could even say what we both knew he was going to say next.
‘I suppose that answers the next question I wanted to ask you.’
‘Mal, I know what you’re going to say,’ I replied. ‘The answer is still no.’
‘I’ve got everyone fromGood Morning Americato Oprah bleedin’ Winfrey wanting to talk to “Este Cox” about her book!’ He slapped the table so hard, he made the papadums jump. ‘Why are you so determined to stay anonymous?’
‘I would rather set myself on fire than let people know I wrote it,’ I answered immediately, pushing away my book with the tip of one finger, afraid even to be seen with it in public. ‘You told me it would be OK.’
‘Again, something I agreed to before I knew we were working with one of the biggest-selling books I’ve seen in my career,’ he said with a groan. ‘You know I only want the best for you but honestly, it breaks my heart to think you aren’t out there enjoying all your success. Why are we hiding away in a Brick Lane curry houseso we won’t bump into anyone from the industry when we should be showing off and showering you with champagne at The Ivy? And I do mean the proper one in Covent Garden, not one of those shitty chain offshoots.’
‘As lovely as that sounds,’ I said, even though it did not sound that nice, ‘I’m very happy with the way things are. I don’t want anyone to know I’m Este Cox.’
He sat back, arms folded, and lowered his chin, inspecting me over the rim of his glasses.
‘This is about your parents again, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ I replied too quickly. It wasn’tonlyabout my parents.
‘I understand why you wanted to keep things quiet in the beginning but if you ask me, I think they would be chuffed to bits for you if you told them now.’
I gave Mal a grateful look but we both knew he was wrong. My dad, Hugh Taylor, was a world-renowned book editor and publisher at the MullinsParker imprint, Anaphora, famous for his exquisite taste in literary fiction. In his long and storied career, he’d acquired and edited countless prize winners; Bookers, Nibbies, Neustadts, Costas, Pulitzers, two of his authors had even been awarded the Nobel Prize for literature, all of which was to say, my father was not well known for his love of the romance genre. In fact, it was entirely possible that the only two people on the planet who held it in lesser regard were my mother, well-respected and greatly feared literary critic, Pandora Taylor, and publishing’s current favourite moody boy author, CJ Simmons.
Also known as my ex.
Three perfectly good reasons to keep the authorshipofButterfliesa secret from now until forever as far as I was concerned.
‘I’m not ready yet,’ I said, leaving out the part where I never would be. ‘You know I never wanted to be famous, I just wanted to write a book.’
‘And what a bloody book.’ Malcolm picked up the special edition and flicked through the pages in awe. ‘I still don’t think you understand how good it is. You’re not an overnight global sensation for nothing.’
Good was one word for it. Spicy was another. Filthy. Smut-filled. An affront to all that is holy. Just some of the descriptions I’d spotted when I took a peek at the Goodreads reviews. First and last time I ever did that.
‘Clearly you haven’t read the reviews,’ I muttered into my water glass.
He admonished me with a cluck. ‘There are ten times as many good reviews as bad ones. Sod everyone else,youshould be incredibly proud of it. Of yourself.’
Easy for him to say, trickier for me to believe. Most parents were disappointed in their kids for smoking or drinking underage. Mine would’ve been thrilled to see me puffing on a Marlboro Red as long as I was readingCrime and Punishmentat the same time. Neither of them batted an eyelid when they found my fake ID when I was sixteen but the horrified look on Mum’s face when she came across my secret stash of Jackie Collins novels was something I’d never forget.
‘Ultimately, it’s all up to you.’ He pushed the book back towards me and I felt the furrows between my eyebrows deepen. ‘But even if I can’t plaster Este Cox all over the media, I still need the sequel. I’ve held the dogs at bay as long as I can.’
‘And you’ll get it,’ I promised, trying not to let myeyes slide to the tote bag slung over the back of my chair. The last thing I needed was for Mal to know the manuscript was within grabbing distance. When I woke up, I had every intention of handing it over but, somewhere between Kings Langley and Watford Junction, a niggling feeling in my gut made me take out the stack of pages and give it another once-over. It wasn’t ready. I couldn’t quite say what exactly but I was certain there was something missing.
‘Give me one more week,’ I said, slinging an arm over my chair with forced casualness. ‘You’ll have it by next Friday.’
