Once Upon a Time
THE AUTHOR’S PHOTO FILLS THE SCREEN.
The world-famous Arthur Fletch, sitting in an office that looks bigger than Cate’s flat. Surrounded by hundreds of his books, name flashing on every spine like a chorus. A stadium of fans.
The profile ran last year, one of dozens of articles that sprang up when the fifth and final Petrarch novel was announced.
Fiction’s holy grail.
The long-awaited finale and, according to this piece, the last book Arthur Fletch will ever write.
She scrolls through the article, past the interviewer’s praise, the talk of creative genius, the tallying of his accomplishments, beginning back with the Ashbolt books before she was even born. Then the films. The TV adaptations. The exponential growth. Fifty million book sales, which is more than the Bible in some countries.
And now—this.
The most anticipated novel of all time. Which is kind of hard to believe. But then again, maybe it’s not? Everyone she knows has read at least one of his books. Even her flatmate, which was surprising, considering Cate has never seen her lay eyes on anything longer than a listicle.
She keeps skimming the profile, past the parts she knows by heart. How Arthur Fletch came from nothing. How he built his fandom word by word, book by book. His increasing reclusiveness, broken only by the occasional salons hosted on the Scottish island of Skelbrae.
She pauses at the photos.
Arthur Fletch, gazing out over the cliffs, wind in his white hair, tipping the brim of a wide-brimmed red hat.
Sitting in a high-backed chair with a leather notebook in his lap and a pen to his lips.
Standing in the open doorway of his house—which is practically acastle—one hand extended in a gesture that could either be welcome or goodbye.
In each picture, he has that same enigmatic look. Mouth quirking to the right. Not quite a smile—no one ever tells the men to smile—but like he’s got a secret.
And then, toward the end of the article, she hits her favorite part.
Where he talks about spending half his fortune on a book made ofactualgold.
The first time she read about it, she couldn’t believe it was real.
And it’s probably not.
But she wants it to be.
According to the interviewer, there’s a twinkle in the author’s eye when he mentions it. Which could mean he’s full of shit. Or that it’s totally true.
And what else is Arthur Fletch gonna spend it on?
He’s already got the mansion.
And his very own island.
Meanwhile, Cate Newhouse can barely afford new underwear.
Cate Newhouse has pulled as many shifts as they’ll give her in the café two doors down, and currently exists on a diet of day-old pastries and pilfered tea.
Cate Newhouse just got dumped by her girlfriend of two years and had to move into a shitty shared flat over a butcher shop, where a horrid smell wafts up on warm days, and the walls are too thin and her roommates are always either fucking or fighting, and they’re constantly running out of loo roll, because she’s the only one who ever buys it.
Cate Newhouse could really use a break.
And the wildest thing is—
She might have just been given one.
