That evening, I was propped up on my bed in the folly with a steaming cup of tea and an ill-advisedly tall and teetering pile of ginger nut biscuits on the bedside table. Excommunicated from my house guests, I had no reason to be wearing anything other than my red satin boxer shorts. The letter from HMRC was shoved deep beneath the pillows, and my copy ofThe Broken Crownwas open in my lap. It’s the first book in theKnights-Erranttrilogy proper, and I was getting to the good bit, where young Sir Gawain saves Prince Henry from an assassin’s arrow and the unspoken sexual tension between them starts to sizzle and smoke like a dragon’s set it ablaze.
There was a knock at the door.
“Bramley?”
The knock came again.
“If that’s you, Jonty, I’m not risking a turn on Indira Murray’s ducking stool to listen to you bleat on about my father’s balls again.”
“Sorry?” said a soft feminine voice. It definitely wasn’t Indira. Perhaps one of Petey’s colleagues had come to ask me to relight the hot water system, or fix a loose stair rod or relocatethe newts in the downstairs lavatory? I opened the door to find a woman mid-curtsey, her voluminous breasts practically tumbling out of a black silk dressing gown.
“My lord,” she said, standing upright, her wide brown eyes—innocent as a newborn doe’s—meeting mine.
“Are you lost?” I asked. “Can I help you?”
She shook her head, then looked at me the way a child looks at a doughnut in a bakery window.
“No, thank you. I’ve foundexactlywhat I’m looking for.” She brushed her décolletage with her hand. “My name’s Ridhi. Aren’t you going to invite me in, my lord?”
“I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” I said—suddenly aware this unsolicited intrusion was going to cost me £10,000. I had to get rid of her.
“But the whole idea is for us to get to know each other, my lord.”
“Whole idea of what?”
She looked past me to the bed, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, my goodness, you’re a reader. What are you reading?” Ridhi’s voice had changed completely. She pushed her way into the room and plucked my book off the bed.
“The Broken Crown?” She smiled—somewhat patronisingly, I thought—and sat on the edge of my bed. “Knights-Errantis such a classic series. Have you tried Brandon Osmond’sA Kingdom of Vipers and Valour, though? It’s so much fresher.”
Well, that was it. I had no idea what this woman wanted, but if it was an argument, she was going to get it.
“I prefer fantasy that doesn’t read like the author has already sold the TV rights to a streaming service,” I said.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, my lord.Knights-Errantis a foundational text?—”
“Without D. R. R. Fanshaw, thereis noBrandon Osmond.”
“Isoagree.” No, she didn’t. She was backtracking. I know an Osmond apologist when I hear one.
Silence fell between us. Ridhi worried her lips with her teeth.
“I think we might have got off on the wrong foot, my lord. Can we start again?” She leant back onto the bed and kicked her legs playfully. “I have just had a vision of the most incredible collaboration. My followers will go nuts for a fantasy-reading aristocrat with a chest like that.” She patted the bed. “What would you say to you and I… going viral together?”
I reached out a hand. She smiled, batted her eyelashes, and grabbed it.
“Absolutely not,” I said, pulling her upright and shuffling her out the door.
“But… my lord! Please! I think there’s been a misunderstanding?—”
“No misunderstanding,” I said, firmly. “You’re a member of the cast. I’m not allowed to talk to you. Please, go. And for the love of God, don’t tell anyone you’ve been here!”
Ridhi frowned.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, and gently closed the door.
A moment later came a muffled “Vipers and Valourhas sold more than thirty million copies, you pretentious wanker!” I heard her stamping up the hall like a petulant child. Well, I wasn’t letting her have the last word.
“Knights-Erranthas never been out of print, you philistine,” I shouted back, without opening the door.
