‘Don’t.’ He shoots me a warning look.
‘How bad is it?’ I ask gently. ‘Do they want another writer to take over?’
‘There isno waythat’s happening,’ he erupts, shaking his head fervently. ‘I’m just sorry you had to hear that.’
‘I’ve heard worse,’ I comment philosophically.
This doesn’t cheer him up.
‘So what’s their problem?’ I want to get to the bottom of it. I need to understand. ‘I thought it was Kate who talked you into doing this book.’
‘She did. She’s very confused.’
‘Is it just because she doesn’t likeme?’
‘There’s more to it than that.’
‘They clearly don’t approve of my blog.’
‘No,’ he concedes. ‘They only really started paying attention to it recently. Last night, Kate looked up your TV appearance. Someone had mentioned it to her at the party.’
‘I didn’t realise it was that offensive.’
‘It wasn’t,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t think it would matter who you were or what you’d done. Valerie didn’t wantanyoneto take over from Nicki. She thought thatConfessionsshould be left in peace, as should she. Now Kate’s feeling guilty about encouraging me to go ahead with it.’
‘Did you remind them about Nicki’s readers? About all of those people who were desperate for a sequel? Don’t they think Nicki would have wanted someone to see it through?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says with a sigh.
‘Maybe if the ghostwriter had been less of a media whor—’
‘Stop it.’ He cuts me off. ‘This is not just about you. They’ve got it in for me, too. They think I’m over her, that I’m not grieving her enough. They think I’ve... They think there’s...’
‘What?’ I prompt.
He shakes his head again, seemingly lost for words, but I can guess what he’s struggling to say out loud.
‘They think there’s something going on between us,’ I say.
He shakes his head, but it’s not a denial. ‘It’s crazy. I told them that you have a boyfriend, that we’re just friends, that there’s no way I could fall for my late wife’s ghostwriter, but Kate is so damn suspicious!’ He shoves his hand through his hair and I wince.
‘It doesn’t matter what they think,’ he continues. ‘They don’t know anything.’
‘They’re just missing her,’ I point out, trying to be reasonable. ‘They’re taking it out on you and they shouldn’t. You’re the last person they should take it out on.’
‘No,you’rethe last person they should take it out on,’ he says firmly. ‘You’re just here to do a job. You need to be able to focus. You sure as hell don’t needthisshit. And after you gave up yourwhole summerto come down here!’ he exclaims with disbelief. ‘I’m sorry. I really am sorry.’
‘Okay, stop apologising,’ I say. ‘That’s enough.’
He sighs. ‘Yeah, okay.’ After a long moment of silence, he says, ‘You can’t work today. Neither can I. Let’s go to the beach.’
‘Padstow Beach?’
‘Why not?’
‘Okay.’
We spend the afternoon making sandcastles and tearing them down again, but, despite the sunny weather, there’s no escaping the metaphorical dark cloud that’s hanging over us.
