‘Nicole passed away shortly after that was published,’ Sara explains, her tone growing sombre.
I breathe in sharply and glance up at her. ‘Oh, God, that’s right, it was in the news. Was she one of your authors?’ I ask with surprise.
She nods.
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea you represented her.’
‘It’s okay. It was very sudden,’ she tells me. ‘She had a brain aneurysm. She was only thirty-one.’
I shake my head, horrified. That’s three years younger than I am now. ‘That’s so tragic,’ I murmur sympathetically.
‘Nicole was writing a sequel,’ Sara continues, drawing my attention back to her. ‘Secretended on a cliffhanger. The readers are crying out for more. And, Bridget...?’
I haven’t been sure up until this point what any of this has to do with me, but, from her more upbeat tone, I sense I’m about to find out.
‘Fay thinks your voice is perfect!’ she concludes, triumphantly.
There’s a long moment where neither of us says anything.
‘To write the sequel.’
She thinks she’s clarifying it, but I’m even more confused.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Fay loves my blog?’
‘Loves it!’ Sara repeats. ‘She thinks your voice is spot on!’
‘I thought you were about to tell me that she wants to sign me up.’
Sara clears her throat. ‘She does. For the sequel toThe Secret Life of Us.’ She points at the book I’m holding.
What?
‘Nicole was about a quarter of the way in,’ she explains. ‘She left behind a stack of notes. Fay’s been trying to find the right person to complete it.’
‘She wants me to be aghostwriter?’ I splutter. ‘But what aboutmybook?’
‘You’ll still write it,’ Sara says evenly. ‘Think of this as a stopgap, your way in. This is your chance to get your foot through the door of a major publisher. You can write your own book alongside this one while you continue to build your profile, and the advance you’ll get will pay for your travels. It’s theperfectsolution.’
‘But...’ I’m still reeling. ‘What makes anyone think I’m up to the job? Surely there are a million other more qualified authors who could do this?’
‘Oh, I’m sure there are, too,’ she says smoothly. ‘But Fay wants you. She’s even read the novel you wrote a few years ago. The plot wasn’t quite there,’ she says hurriedly, quashing any hope of resurrecting my old romantic-fiction dream, ‘but the point is, Fay knows you have it in you to pull off fiction. She thinks your style is fabulous.’
‘She does?’ I allow myself to feel a little flattered, as well as incredibly daunted.
‘Have you readThe Secret Life of Us?’ Sara asks.
‘No,’ I admit, studying the book in my hands.
‘Take that copy,’ she says. ‘You won’t be able to put it down. The protagonist is a travel writer just like you, so you should be able to identify with her brilliantly. It is the biggest compliment that Fay believes you can carry Nicole’s baton to the finishing line.’
‘I just... I’m not sure...’ I’m struggling to get my head around all of this. A young woman, dying so abruptly... A bestselling author leaving behind an unfinished sequel... Me –me!– being the one to complete her work...
‘Read the book,’ Sara urges, and I sense she wants to wrap up our meeting. ‘And keep in mind, Bridget, this is agreatopportunity. Give me a call as soon as you’ve reached the end so we can discuss the finer details. I’m around all day tomorrow.’
She seems very confident that I’m going to go along with this hare-brained scheme.
Her conviction is founded, because I call her back first thing.
