Chapter Thirty-Nine

17 August, Early Afternoon

‘I say, are you okay?’ Drew looked up from the pile of books he was signing for readers who couldn’t make the afternoon talk. He always enjoyed doing this small but well-attended festival in one of London’s larger garden squares.

‘I’m fine, why?’ He reached for another book.

Brandon Phipps raised one shoulder in shrug. ‘You look a bit haggard, that’s all. Probably the trial coming up,’ he speculated. Drew answered with his own shrug, signing yet another book. Phipps didn’t look that good himself. He seemed to have lost weight, the lines around his mouth were more pronounced and there was something sharp and bitter lurking in the back of his eyes.

‘The trial … Do you ever think about her … you know … Aveline?’ Phipps had his head down, looking at the table piled high with books. He’d already finished his pre-talk signing pile – not Drew’s full table, but still a respectable amount.

‘No,’ Drew replied, slightly puzzled. ‘Been working.’

Phipps straightened up, shaking his head, as if to clear it. ‘The next book.’ He nodded, knowingly. ‘Coming along is it?’

‘Uhuh.’ Actually it was finished, but Drew wasn’t sharing that with anyone yet. It was all too raw. Once he’d begun to write, the thing had inhabited him relentlessly, but he was still a little startled at Phipps’s suggestion that he looked haggard. But maybe he was right?

After a week of bleeding out on the page, he’d raised a spectre in the shaving mirror that wasn’t him, but might be Stren. After that, he’d taken himself in hand, commissioning the pub to supply regular meals and pots of coffee and setting an alarm to make sure he walked on the beach and that he slept.

And now he had it. Stren’s story. Possibly the best thing he’d ever written. The thought gave him a mixture of pain and satisfaction he’d never experienced before. Other people would ultimately judge.

But not yet.

He cast a jaundiced eye over the pile of books that still had to be signed. The publishers had changed their minds about waiting for Christmas and hustled the new hardback out for the summer festival circuit.

Oh shit! He suppressed a groan. One of the festival gofers, a cheerful soul with a well-kept goatee, a tweed tie and a droopy cardigan, was bearing down on him with yet another armful for signing. Pity you can’t get Phipps to scribble on a few. He bit down on the idea before it made it out of his mouth as a joke. That would definitely be taken the wrong way.

This was the third time in two weeks that he’d shared a platform with Brandon Phipps. He guessed that Geraldine might have been behind that, to distance Phipps, in advance, from any mud that might be slung during the trial. Really the guy wasn’t too bad – a good speaker, if a little conscious of his dignity. His new book, a saga of soul-searching and shattered relationships amongst the bombs and ruins of World War Two, that apparently contained a surprising level of sex and violence, was getting good reviews and award nominations, even if it hadn’t yet achieved the higher echelons of the best-seller lists.

Must get round to reading it sometime.

‘Are you going to the thing at seven o’clock? The Festival reception?’

Phipps had picked up one of Drew’s books, and was examining the cover. It had turned out to be a fraction racier than Drew would have liked; the blonde on the cover a little too busty. Phipps replaced it on the table with something that might have been a curl of the lip. Drew didn’t exactly blame him. Maybe they could change it for the paperback? You must remember to ask. ‘What is it, drinks and things on sticks?’

‘Something like that. There’s one every evening, all different. Tonight it’s for aspiring writers – in other words, wet behind the ears wannabees. All with the world’s next piece of great fiction in their backpack, ready to hand to anyone who shows any speck of interest.’ The curl was definitely there now. ‘But I suppose we have to fly the flag and all that.’ Phipps leaned against the signing table. ‘That woman that all the fuss was about, back in May, is going to be there. Celebrity guest.’

‘Fuss?’ Drew had reached the top of the last pile. Once this was done, he was fleeing to the safety of the Green Room, before anyone else wanted him to write his name on anything. Conserving the strength of his writing hand, for signing after the talk.

‘You know, the debut book that went to auction. Four bidders.’ The pitch of Phipps’s voice dropped – awe, mixed with a good dose of envy. Drew could get behind that. Auctions were a pipedream for most. Back in the day, he’d have given his eye teeth for his debut to go to auction. ‘It’s one of those crossover things,’ Phipps was explaining. ‘You know, a kids’ book that can be read by adults – fairy stories with a message. She signed a three book deal in the end with Klonberger for an “undisclosed sum”.’ His tone put the quotation marks around it. ‘Bet it had a good few noughts at the end of it.’

‘Bet it did.’ Drew signed the last book with a relieved flourish. ‘I’ve been in Norfolk, must have missed it.’

‘We’ll be seeing plenty of her, for sure. Mallory Francis – she’ll be all over the tube stations and the bus stops this time next year. All done?’ Phipps pushed away from the table. ‘Green Room? I’m told they at least have decent coffee.’