“I agree her fans will want her art and we need to foster that. I whole-heartedly disagree with the method. You saw how affected Bess was by that letter. Why would I, let alone you, want to play with her emotions? The idea's abhorrent."
"I probably wouldn’t have come up with it if you hadn’t thought the other day that I was suggesting you write her a love letter instead of giving her the soldier’s one.”
I wag a finger at her. “I’m not taking responsibility for the notion of falsifying love letters.”
“Honestly? When it works, she'll understand. She'll be grateful, even."
"You have no idea how she'll react. The only way I'd remotely consider getting involved – and let me stress that word 'remotely', because the whole thing is completely disingenuous – is if Bess is in on it, too."
Mistral folds her arms. "You know it won't work. She needs to respond to the letters in a genuine way. You can't fake the kind of emotion she showed in that first video."
"In that case, the answer's still 'no'."
She steps towards me and clasps my upper arms just above the elbow. "Oh come on, Ed. You're pretty much a writer."
I try very hard not to take offence at the position she hasn't quite put me in on the writer-author continuum.
"It'll satisfy your creativity, especially when we contrive some sort of mystery around them toreallyhook the viewers. Okay, so." She removes her hands from my arms and steps back to gesticulate as if she is selling a headline. "Who was this love-struck soldier? Who is sending his letters to Bess and why?”
I open my mouth to retort that I would never deceive Bessfor the fun of it, but she holds up a finger.
"Andapart from it heroically saving her business and the livelihoods of Port Derrum artists, it's a means for you to literally express to Bess how you feel about her, while keeping your total cowardice about the situation."
I gather myself for a gasp, but end up laughing instead. "What on earth makes you think that's the point of argument that'll clinch the deal? The idea's mortifying."
Mistral leans in and whispers, "You get to write Bess love letters." She straightens and says at a normal volume."It's exactly what she wants as a romantic gesture."
I turn away to sit at my desk and wake up my computer. "I can tell you what she categorically won't want as a romantic gesture. Someone lying to her and leading her on."
"But for a really selfless cause."
I turn back to her. "When do you think 'But I was thinking of you the whole time I was lying to your face' has ever worked, Mistral?"
She eyes me for two seconds, then raises her palms, conceding defeat. "Okidokes. I respect your decision not to rescue the love of your life from financial ruin."
I point my finger at her. "Don't be doing that emotional-blackmailing, reverse-psychology thing on me. And the last time you said 'Okidokes' you told Bess I was gifting her the letter when I expressly told you to do no such thing. I am being emphatic with my 'no' here, Mistral, in case you misunderstood its meaning the first time I said it."
She lifts her eyebrows in a show of innocence and turns to empty the returns bin. Then she whips around again. "To be fair, though, if you removed any concern about Bess from the equation, you have to admit it's a brilliant idea."
I absolutely do not have to admit that. Even if I suspect it's true.
Chapter thirteen
Bess
"Hello,Bas."
Basil Alexander Everett is, as usual, silent as the grave.
"Jeanette and Lutek couldn't be here today, so it's just me." This is no different from any other visit, but I like to pretend they could be here if they wanted to.
Jeanette and Lutek find my grave visits somewhat morbid. They are, however, happy to give me messages to pass on to their former headmaster. Like me – like most local children – their time at Port Derrum Primary School was not often a happy one.
The dog turd has gone from the grass in front of Basil's headstone. Hopefully it liquefied as requested, but most likely it was cleaned up by a well-meaning but wholly ignorant groundsperson.
What it does have is a headstone offering courtesy of Jeanette. Other graves sport flowers, some real, most plastic. Bas' headstone now has a jar of bloated rat suspended in the brown water it drowned in nestled at its foot.
She found it in a bucket of rainwater in the garden and immediately thought of Headmaster Everett.
