Chapter 18
‘You’re late,’ said CJ when Mimi found him at the airport bar.
‘No I’m not. I’m early. More to the point, so are you.’ Checking his watch, Mimi saw that he’d reset it wrongly following his last flight; oh well, at least it meant they wouldn’t miss this one. Expertly she reset the time, then nodded at the gin and tonic in his other hand. ‘Speaking of early, is this a good idea?’
CJ said, ‘It’s an excellent idea. Airport rules. When you’re flying, it’s allowed.’
He had a point; all around them, people were knocking back wine and downing pints of lager, despite the fact that it was nine fifteen in the morning. Mimi hopped onto the stool next to him. ‘What time did you wake up?’
‘Haven’t been to bed yet. What can I get you to drink?’
‘Coffee? Boring.’
‘Someone has to look after you.’ Just to remind him, Mimi said, ‘It’s kind of the reason you’re paying me.’
‘Turn your head.’ CJ narrowed his eyes, made a twizzling gesture with his index finger. ‘This way.’
She swivelled on her stool to face him and he did a double-take. ‘Jesus, what happened? Who did that to you?’
‘Someone with a big pair of pliers.’
‘You’re kidding. Was it your ex? Did you see him last night?’ Outraged, CJ said, ‘If you want me to have him dealt with, just say the word.’
This was evidently the trouble with being a crime novelist; your brain instantly conjured up the worst-case scenario. Tempting though it was to have Rob dealt with by a hired assassin, Mimi said, ‘That’s sweet of you, but it was my dentist.’
The flight was uneventful. CJ fell asleep before they’d even taken off and mercifully didn’t snore. Once they’d passed through customs and left Palma airport, Mimi found them a taxi. As they travelled across the island, she went through the long list of instructions Willa had emailed her.
Honestly, it was going to be like looking after a delinquent chimpanzee.
‘What’s that?’ CJ leaned over to try and get a look.
‘Willa’s rules for nursemaiding an author who doesn’t like to do his job.’
‘I hate writing. I love having written. Who said that?’
‘You just did.’
He tutted. ‘I mean who said it first? It’s a quote. Look it up.’
‘Please,’ said Mimi.
‘What?’
‘If you’re going to ask me to do something, it would be nice if you said please.’
‘But I’m paying you. That means I don’t have to.’
‘It’s called manners. Being polite. You pay me and you say it.’
CJ shook his head in disbelief. ‘Don’t worry. It was probably Ernest Hemingway, the miserable sod.’ He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then snapped them open again. ‘Arthur murdered his brother when he was eighteen.’
‘Sorry?’ Was he talking about one of Ernest Hemingway’s relations? Or was Arthur someone he knew?
‘It needs to go into the book.’ CJ jabbed a finger at the phone in her lap. ‘Come on, make a note. He killed his brother and made it look like an accident during a skiing holiday in the French Alps . . . no, wait, not there, let’s do it at Lake Como. They were in a boat and he used fishing line as a garrotte.’ Pause. ‘Would fishing line do the job?’
‘Maybe too thin and slippery.’ Mimi was busy taking down everything he said. ‘You’d need to get a proper grip.’
‘He can slit his throat then. With the knife he was using to gut the fish. Find out what kind of fish live in that lake and if the knife would be serrated. But someone saw him do it. The gardener. Or the aunt. Are you getting all this?’
‘Of course.’ She’d been warned by Willa that this was how the creative process happened in CJ’s case; plot details and vital snippets of dialogue could be blurted out at any moment and it was her job to save them, like a goalkeeper being bombarded from all angles by penalty shots.
‘Even though I didn’t say please?’
‘I decided to let you off. Just this once.’
He winked at her before closing his eyes once more and sleeping the rest of the way to Puerto Pollensa. When they arrived, he lifted his head. ‘Here we are then. Your home for the foreseeable future.’
‘It wasn’t Ernest Hemingway.’ Mimi had looked up the quote while he’d been out for the count. ‘It was Dorothy Parker.’
CJ said with a grin, ‘I know. She was a miserable sod too.’
The nice thing about being a hugely successful thriller writer was the lifestyle it brought you. Mimi had already seen photos of the property online, but in real life it was even more impressive.
‘Well?’ CJ spoke with a touch of pride as she gazed at the dazzling white villa surrounded by manicured gardens overlooking the bay. ‘What d’you think?’
‘I think it’s the kind of place I could never afford to stay in if I was on holiday. When I was growing up,’ said Mimi, ‘caravan parks were as good as it got.’
‘When I was a kid, a holiday in a caravan was beyond our wildest dreams. We used to borrow a tent from our neighbours and spend a week camped out in Nan’s back garden in Warrington.’
‘Was it awful?’
‘Are you kidding? It was the most brilliant adventure and we loved every minute, even when rats got into the tent and chewed holes in the airbed. But that was when I was seven and kept spiders in matchboxes for pets. Wouldn’t want to do that now I’m old and rich.’
CJ wasn’t old-old; he was only forty-three. But he was definitely rich-rich.
‘Do you think you’d be a different person now if you hadn’t become a writer?’ It was something Mimi had wondered ever since their first encounter.
‘You mean would I be more content? Poor but happy?’ He looked appalled at the very idea. ‘Not a chance in hell.’
‘Actually, that wasn’t what I meant. I wondered if you’d still be the way you are.’
CJ stared at her. ‘You mean stroppy, bossy and selfish?’
‘And rude,’ Mimi reminded him. ‘Don’t forget rude.’
‘If I was poor, I’d be bloody furious. And far more obnoxious than I am now. You’d better believe it.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘That’s why I’ve hired you, and why it’s in your best interests to keep me writing these damn books.’
The modern two-storey villa had been designed to make the most of the views of the sea and the mountains. The ground-floor apartment that had been Willa’s was connected to the rest of the house but had its own separate entrance, which opened out onto the terrace.
‘Here you are, this is yours. The housekeeper’s been in, got everything ready for you.’ CJ showed her the compact but spotless kitchen with its well-stocked fridge, the made-up bed, and the snowy bath towels in the white marble bathroom. ‘Not too shabby, eh?’
From the small living room Mimi had a view of the glittering turquoise pool. For a moment she remembered sitting with Cal in the car yesterday, holding her breath as he’d leaned across and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her numb, swollen cheek. Today he was still in Gloucestershire, where, according to the weather app on her phone, it was now chucking it down with rain. Whilst here she was, in the lap of sun-splashed luxury, with the multimillionaire CJ Exley.
She exhaled. She would so much rather be in Goosebrook with Cal, but work was work. And who was to say he would want her back there with him anyway? They were friends, she knew that much for sure, but the romantic overtures had only ever existed inside her own head.
Because when a man spoke as honestly and movingly as Cal had about the wife he’d loved and lost, it was hardly the done thing to hurl yourself at him, wrap yourself around him like a needy koala and eagerly offer yourself up as a replacement.
‘You aren’t saying anything.’ CJ was looking offended. ‘What’s the problem? Not good enough for you?’
‘Of course it’s good enough. It’s great.’
‘I know, it’s fucking amazing. I just hope you appreciate how lucky you are to be here.’ He gave her a nudge to let her know that this time he was joking. ‘Right, I’m going to take you to my favourite restaurant later, to show you I can be nice sometimes. I’ll leave you to unpack and settle in. Make sure you’re ready by seven, OK?’
At exactly seven o’clock, dressed in a white cotton frock and pink sandals, Mimi rang the bell and waited for CJ to come to the front door.
Nothing.
She called his mobile and heard it ringing inside the house.
Eventually, peering in through the living room window, she spotted him slumped across the ivory suede sofa with his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open.
Was he dead?
Dead drunk?
Who knew?
At the back of the villa, she found a small unlocked window and managed to squeeze through it.
‘Wha . . . whassup?’ With a groan, CJ half opened his eyes.
‘I saw you through the window, thought I’d better check you were still alive.’
‘Just about. What’s the time?’
‘Time for you to take me out for dinner, to show me you can be nice sometimes.’
CJ groaned again and rolled over. ‘I’m not hungry. You go.’
Because sitting alone in a restaurant was always a delightful way to spend your first evening in a new country.
Mimi looked down at him, wishing even more fervently that she could be back in Goosebrook with Cal. Her empty stomach rumbled. Aloud, she said, ‘Fine, I will.’