I didn’t really know what to say.
“Right,” is what I eventually managed to come out with.
“Would you like to go to dinner?” he asked after a pause. “One night next week? There’s an Italian place in Sittingston that’s very nice.”
I thought for a few seconds – the cons went through my head. A) My ex’s best friend. B) My ex that I shot. C) Who murdered Guy’s cousin.
But also, he’s really hot, and it’d been a few months.
“Um, sure. I mean, it’s just dinner, it can’t hurt.”
Guy’s face changed into a large grin. “Great. I’ll text you about it. I’ll see you later at the vigil.”
He left, and I closed the door after him. “Kennedy, Daddy has a date with a very posh man. Do you think I should go read some Mitford sisters’ novels to learn how his people act?”
I sat back at my laptop and worked for a few hours. I was just managing to make some headway on a part of the novel that had been causing me headaches for several days when Verity called.
“Bloody hell, it’s like Piccadilly Circus in here today,” I said as a greeting.
“How is your village likeMidsomer Murders? They’ve killed a priest now?”
“Vicar.”
“That’s not a difference.”
“Can I help you, Verity? I’m terribly busy writing the book you want from me.”
“Your priest is on the front page of theMail Online.”
“Am I mentioned?”
“Why? Why would you be mentioned?” Verity had gone into agent = panic voice.
“You know, that whole ‘my ex tried to kill everyone’ thing that happened a few months ago.”
She scoffed. “People won’t put two and two together. Oh, wait, I’ve scrolled down. It has a big section about it.”
I put my head in my hands. “Is it bad?”
“I mean, it’s not great,” Verity said. “Unless the publicity makes you sell more books. In which case, yes, it’s great!”
Verity was a capitalist at her core. My oldest, dearest, friend was also my agent. She’d quit her job as an editor at the finance magazine I’d been a reporter at to go back to her first career as a publishing agent and then opened her own agency. “I’ll sign you,” she’d told me when I showed her my scribbles when we first met. “As soon as I have my own agency, you’ll be my first client.” I’d scoffed at the time. She’d kept her promise, and I’d been her first author.
Our working relationship was sometimes clouded by our personal friendship, and vice versa, yes, it was true. However, in the near five years since I’d published the first novel, we had never had a sizeable falling out and had limited our emotions to the odd eyeroll and cross word with each other.
“Did you know him well?”
“‘Do’, not did, Vee. He’s alive.” Just.
“Yeah, yeah. Do you know him?”
“We’ve met socially a handful of times. He knows Nigella well and Guy, too. I think he might even be friends with Simon.”
“Posh lady, posh guy MP… guy who you fucked on the floor, right?”
“Oh, yeah, I forget you haven’t met any of these people. You really should come down for the weekend.”
“By all means, invite me to the pheasant hunt, or whatever it is you all do down there.”
