Chapter Twenty-Nine
The next day
‘Twist in the Tale: Frank’s new love wrote Lexy’s book!’
‘The Write Stuff – Lexy’s ghostwriter steals her hubby!’
‘Why it matters that Lexy didn’t write her own memoir: we want our idols to tell us the truth’
‘Who is Caroline Macintosh – the girl who’s told Lexy’s story and taken her man?’
‘What am I going to do?’ Caroline sobbed, turning away from the computer screen. ‘I signed a confidentiality agreement! No one was supposed to find out that I wrote Lexy’s book! I’m going to be in such trouble with Bailey and Hart!’
Frank, who was sitting next to her on the sofa, enfolded her in a comforting embrace.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ he said, cuddling her, spouting the standard words that men used to calm down crying women.
‘How can it be all right?’ she wailed. ‘What’s going to happen? What am I going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see what Lexy’s editor says. When is he ringing?’
‘Twenty minutes,’ Caroline said into his shoulder. ‘With her agent. It’s a conference call.’
‘It’s going to be all right,’ Frank repeated. ‘Look, you haven’t done anything wrong. You worked so hard to get that book written, and they love it! Everyone loves it! Didn’t he tell you everyone at the publisher really enjoyed it? And the agent did too?’
Caroline nodded against him. His hand cradled her head, stroking her hair.
‘This isn’t anything to do with you,’ he said soothingly. ‘You just got caught in the crossfire. How did people even find out it was you? I thought no one was ever supposed to know!’
‘They weren’t,’ Caroline said, pulling back and wiping her eyes. ‘I mean, everyone who thought about it would assume Lexy’d have some help writing a book, but you never actually admit there was a ghostwriter. There was a pop star who said she wrote a book last year, and it turned out that someone else got paid to write it. It sold tons, and I don’t think her fans really cared at all.’
‘And how did people find out she hadn’t written it herself?’ Frank asked again, a question upon which Caroline wished he wouldn’t focus quite so hard.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think she thanked her ghostwriter in the acknowledgements and people recognized the name, because the ghost had written books of her own.’
‘But that wouldn’t happen with you,’ Frank said naively.
‘Yes, I haven’t had anything published under my own name,’ Caroline said, rather irritated that he had needed to make that comment. ‘And Lexy on the Loose isn’t even out yet. When J. K. Rowling did a crime novel under a pseudonym, there was a weird tweet that hinted at it from someone who knew her lawyers, and people put the pieces together from that. It was a really odd situation.’
Frank was frowning.
‘I can see why someone would want to break that story,’ he said slowly. ‘I mean, the crime books would sell much more if they realize that it’s her who wrote them. But this is different. I don’t get why anyone would want to make it public. It doesn’t help anyone at the publisher, does it?’
‘No, of course not! Quite the opposite!’ Caroline agreed quickly. ‘Especially with you and me being in the press – those pictures of us picking up the kids –’
Frank heaved a deep sigh.
‘Look, Caroline,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I’m really confused, and I’ve made no secret of that. I have a wife, and I said vows to her, and I meant every word. But after what she’s done . . . when it came out that guy visited her at our London flat before she went off to Switzerland, and she hasn’t bothered to text me once, not even to ask how the kids are!’
It had been a great stroke of luck for Caroline that Deacon’s first visit to the Chelsea flat had been documented by a lurking paparazzo. The later one, where he had bribed the Deliveroo driver and obscured his features with the big food box, had gone unnoticed, but the photographer had sold to a tabloid the pictures of Deacon entering the building and talking to the doorman; the paper had used them to imply that Deacon had been given access to Lexy’s apartment. It had been an extra nail in Lexy’s coffin as far as Frank was concerned, bolstering his conviction that she was having a full-blown affair with Deacon.
‘I should go back to London,’ Caroline said, squeezing his hand and then letting it go. ‘I’ll start packing this afternoon. My being here’s just making things worse for everyone.’
‘It isn’t, though,’ Frank said, leaning forward, propping his hands on his knees. ‘We’ve talked about this already. You make me feel better. I’d be so lonely without you. The kids are really happy you’re here – they think you’re family by now. And Lexy’s abandoned us, hasn’t she? So why should you go?’
Caroline looked at him, wondering if he had any idea how he truly felt about her. She doubted it. He had just said how confused he was, and yet when she gave him the opportunity to ask her to leave, he had turned it down, just as she had hoped. She was giving him what he had always wanted: the wife at home, doing her own work but still an essential part of the family, not just someone who came and went in a cloud of perfume and glamour and film crews.
‘I’m not asking for anything,’ she said gently. ‘I think we just need to live day to day and see how things go. And I don’t want to leave, I honestly don’t. But I also don’t want to put you in a difficult position. I mean, Lexy’s due back the day after tomorrow!’
Frank lifted his shoulders and let them fall as heavily as if he were carrying weights strapped to his back.
‘That’s what Jason says. I wouldn’t bloody know. Haven’t heard a word from her, have I?’
‘What will you do if Lexy gets in touch?’ she asked. ‘I mean, not “if” – she will, of course, one way or the other . . .’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I really don’t.’
The landline rang, and they both jumped, as if it were Lexy calling, as if they’d summoned her by speaking her name. Frank answered it.
‘It’s for you,’ he said to Caroline. ‘That call you were expecting.’
She noticed that his expression, on realizing it was not his wife on the other end of the line, was a complicated mixture of relief and sadness.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, giving Caroline the handset. ‘I’m going to work out. Come down to the gym afterwards and join me?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said, flashing him a smile and switching the handset to speakerphone as she sat down at the desk.
‘Caroline? It’s Gareth,’ her editor said grimly. ‘Miranda’s here too.’
‘Hi, Caroline,’ Miranda said, sounding no more cheerful than Gareth. ‘Well, this is a total bloody shitstorm, isn’t it?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Caroline said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Gareth heaved a deep sigh.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not a thing. We’re drafting a press release as I speak, saying that naturally Lexy, as a novice, needed some practical help putting a book together and that she asked you, as a blogger she admired, to work with her collating dates, organizing the book structure, etc. It turns out it was a very good thing you hadn’t written a book before, eh? We might be able to get away with it by highlighting your lack of experience, making you look like just an assistant.’
‘So, are you and Frank an actual couple, Caroline?’ Miranda asked bluntly.
‘It’s much too early to say anything like that,’ Caroline said, managing not to let any anger show in her voice at the ‘assistant’ comment. ‘I’m just helping out with the kids and seeing how things go.’
‘I can’t even with this,’ Gareth said, and from the squeak of leather shifting it sounded as if he was slumping in his chair. ‘We have a book coming out about Lexy settling down after a wild ride, and her ghost is fucking her husband! The publicists are going mental! Why didn’t we just do a bloody novel instead?’
It was Miranda’s turn to heave a huge sigh.
‘I know,’ she said, sounding weary. ‘Do you mind if I vape in here, Gareth? I really need a smoke. There’s just been so much crap with celebs not writing their own novels recently and getting bad press for it – or they actually try to write them, God help us, and of course they’re always terrible . . .’
‘Tell me about it,’ Gareth said ruefully.
‘So we thought a memoir would be safer,’ she continued, ‘and God knows Lexy’s got enough stories to tell! It wasn’t like Caroline even needed to pad it out.’
‘The bloody ironic thing is, it’s a great read!’ Gareth said in a very annoyed tone, and although she had already been told this, Caroline beamed with pleasure. Authors, it turned out, could not hear too much praise of their work.
‘I mean, this whole thing’s so messed up!’ Gareth moaned. ‘We both had huge doubts about you, Caroline – that’s not a secret, we were very open about it at the time. Lexy insisted, which is also bloody ironic, but she was right. You’ve turned out something that’s honestly much better than I thought it was going to be, and on deadline to boot. You did a really good job, and now you’ve gone and fucked up your own bloody work! It was going to be hard enough pushing a book about Lexy finding true love with you living with her husband. But now we’ve got to deal with the media screaming about her not even writing the book, and here’s your name coming up all over again! How the fuck did that even happen?’
‘Do we know who leaked it to the media?’ Miranda asked.
‘NFI,’ Gareth said. ‘But it wasn’t anyone at Bailey and Hart, I can tell you that. We’ve done tons of ghostwritten books and no one’s ever breathed a word. They know better than that. Apart from anything else, it almost always fucks with the sales figures. It’s not in our interest to tank a book, is it?’
‘Same with us,’ Miranda agreed. ‘No one at my agency would say a thing.’
Gareth drew in a deep breath.
‘Look, Caroline, the main reason for this call is to say that we had you under option to write a follow-up book for Lexy,’ he said, ‘and obviously that’s not going to happen. We’ll send you an official letter to that effect. But that doesn’t mean the confidentiality clause isn’t still in effect. You know that, right? You can’t say a word about this to anyone, or even drop the smallest hint on social media. You keep your mouth shut and let us push the official line, that you helped her out a bit with structure and research, blah blah. I’ll email the press release over to you now so you can see exactly what we’re saying.’
‘Of course,’ Caroline said, sounding as heartfelt as possible. ‘I won’t say a word about it.’
‘Not on your blog either,’ Gareth warned, his tone almost threatening.
‘I haven’t said anything!’ she protested. ‘You can check it out right now! I haven’t updated it for a while. And you can check my Facebook and Twitter too!’
‘Oh, we have, believe me,’ Miranda said. ‘I got Campaspe to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb first thing this morning. You’re clean as a whistle.’
Of course I am! Caroline thought. I’m not stupid! I called the pap agency on Gabriela’s mobile and put on an Eastern European-sounding accent so if anyone ever tried to track down the number, it would look like she did it . . .
She didn’t truly think anyone would go that far; it wasn’t exactly a matter of national security. But she read enough crime novels to know how easy it was to trace calls, or to pay someone at a phone company to look up the name in which a number was registered.
‘So how do you think the press got this info, Caroline?’ Miranda asked, with a certain edge to her voice that Caroline couldn’t quite interpret. It might have been accusatory, or it might have been something else entirely.
‘The only thing I can think of is phone tapping,’ Caroline answered, delighted to be able to give the answer that she had formulated in case anyone asked this very question. ‘I was here the day Frank locked Lexy out, and all the paps saw me come in. If one of them wondered who I was and managed to find out, they could have been tapping my phone for the last month. And we’ve been back and forth a lot about the edits, haven’t we?’
‘Hmn. Well, it’s a theory,’ Gareth said.
‘Look, it is what it is,’ Miranda chimed in. ‘Lexy’s coming in to Bailey and Hart as soon as her plane lands tomorrow, and we’ll see what damage control we can do on all of this. Caroline’s assured us she isn’t in breach of the confidentiality clause, and you’ve told her she obviously won’t be writing any more books for Lexy – as if it needed saying. We’re done here. I’m going out for a real fag, okay?’
‘You wound me,’ Gareth said. ‘I thought I was real fag enough for you, darling!’
Miranda snorted. The leather chair squeaked again, presumably as Gareth leaned forward to terminate the call.
‘Okay, Caroline. Good work on the book,’ he said. ‘Excellent work, actually. Oh, the irony! Bye.’
He hung up before Caroline could say ‘Goodbye’ in turn, but she couldn’t really blame him. Her relationship with Frank alone was enough to make Lexy’s editor irritated beyond all measure.
There was a hollow feeling in Caroline’s stomach. She had, however, been hoping – stupidly, she could see that now – that Gareth might have added that, if she had any ideas for books of her own, he’d be very interested in hearing about them. But clearly that had never been even the remotest of possibilities.
In the pocket of her jeans, her mobile started to vibrate. She pulled it out and saw, with a surge of mingled surprise, excitement and terror, that Miranda was calling her. Had Lexy’s agent guessed that it had been Caroline who had told the press about having written Lexy’s book? But why wouldn’t she have accused her of it five minutes ago, if that was the case?
‘Caroline? Hi. I’m outside now, there’s no one around,’ Miranda said, audibly taking a drag on her cigarette. ‘So, look. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s been going on, okay? No need to confirm things one way or the other. But what I’m seeing here is an author who’s very much in the public eye at the moment, who’s got a lot of self-promotional skills – which, believe me, is key in publishing nowadays – and who can turn a book around really fast.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Caroline said, confused, thinking that Miranda, standing outside the offices of Bailey and Hart, was looking at a writer she knew.
‘I mean you, for fuck’s sake!’ Miranda said impatiently. ‘Can you write another book as quickly as possible? Ideally a novel with a thinly disguised Lexy character in it – think The Devil Wears Prada. Your character is the innocent heroine, she’s the crazy bitch. You couldn’t be her ghost, of course. Maybe you’re the nanny. Or a secretary.’
‘Oh, wow,’ Caroline breathed. ‘You think I could—’
‘You’d have to get it right,’ Miranda said. ‘But the tone could be very like the book you’ve done already.’
Another drag on the cigarette.
‘I couldn’t rep you myself, of course,’ she said, to Caroline’s great disappointment. ‘Or give you to someone else in the agency. That’d be too messy, and Gareth would never forgive me. But there’s someone I used to work with who’d be perfect for this, really commercial, and I owe her a massive favour. No one needs to know I connected you two.’
‘That would be amazing—’
‘Have a think about it, sit down, see if you can knock out a chapter or two ASAP. And an outline. Publishers’ll want to see that much before they’ll give you a contract. But this’d come with a whole raft of built-in publicity, and they always love that in a proposal. You’d have to do a lot of interviews to promote the book, so you’d have to be okay with all of that . . . think it over, I need to go for a meeting with another editor here in a few minutes, so I need to go—’
‘I want to do it,’ Caroline said breathlessly. ‘I want to be a full-time writer. That’s always been my dream.’
‘Easier said than done! But you’ll make more money from this than you did for Lexy’s book, that’s for sure,’ Miranda said. ‘Her name’s Naomi, the agent I know. I’ll give her your info. And if you want this, I’d get going right away. Sit down and start it now. Today. Ideally, the book’ll come out while the scandal’s still fresh in everyone’s minds.’
‘I will! Thanks! Thanks so much!’ Caroline babbled, before realizing that she was talking to a dial tone. Miranda had hung up.
Caroline put the phone slowly down on the desk, her gaze moving gradually around this room, which had become her cosy nest. Frank’s office was furnished with capacious chestnut leather sofas, a coffee table made from a gilded antique door mounted under a sheet of glass, a huge flat-screen television on the wall, and framed photographs of Frank playing for Kensington and for England, holding high the FA cup, rendered in tasteful black and white, hanging on the walls. The interior designer had made it as much den as office, much cosier than the sprawling living room downstairs, and it was one of his favourite places in the house.
With the children tucked up in bed and the door locked, Caroline and Frank had had sex on one of the sofas last night, taking it as slow as they could, Caroline straddling him, working away with her newly strong, muscled thighs, Frank’s fingers between her legs making her come over and over again as he watched her face contort in pleasure, his dark eyes huge. Just the memory of his hands on her, his soft gaze delighting in the pleasure he was giving her, his cock inside her, hard as a pole, refusing to quit, holding out as long as it could, made her legs twitch together, her centre start to dissolve to a liquid thick and rich as honey. And after they were done, they had walked slowly up to bed together, holding hands, and cuddled in Caroline’s bedroom, spooning for a few hours, until Frank slipped away, as he always did, so that Laylah and London would find him in the master bedroom if they got up early and came to look for their dad.
The sex with Frank was the best Caroline had ever had in her life, as was the relationship she had with him. But if she wrote the book Miranda had proposed, Caroline would sacrifice all of that in one stroke. Frank would never stay with a woman who had published a tell-all about the mother of his children, dragging them even deeper into the tabloid mud.
However, if she didn’t, it was by no means guaranteed that she would eventually find an agent for any other books she might write, let alone get them published. This was her big chance to get her name out there, to write a novel that would reach as many people as possible, show readers that Caroline Macintosh’s name on a book meant a really good read.
And wasn’t this where Caroline had been heading all along? Why else had she tipped off the paparazzi agency that she would be picking the kids up with Frank, and told the media that she was the ghostwriter for Lexy’s book? Caroline had pushed hard to get herself into the news; Miranda hadn’t needed to tell her that publishers loved a book proposal that came with built-in publicity.
In one of the framed photographs of Frank playing football that hung on the wall opposite her, Caroline made out her own reflection, the shape of her head and torso floating, superimposed, over the silhouette of one of Frank’s teammates. Her physical transformation had happened so fast that sometimes she barely recognized herself in the mirror. This was one of those times; the slim-cheeked young woman in a V-necked blouse with smooth straight hair falling around her face looked enviably poised and composed, very different from how Caroline was currently feeling.
She was hugely conflicted. After all, she had been secretly trying to get pregnant during the last few weeks; but looking back, hadn’t that been completely insane of her? She had got wildly carried away, so excited that Frank wanted her that she had jumped right into the fantasy with both feet, seeing herself as the mother of his kids, living here with him, having Lexy’s life. It was the dream she had been incubating ever since she’d visited The Gables for the first time.
Caroline watched as her reflection pursed its lips together, thinking hard. Ever since that first meeting with Lexy, Caroline had been calculating odds and options, working out potential moves far in advance. She hadn’t even known that she was capable of this kind of planning; but then again, wasn’t it very similar to writing a book, plotting it out in advance, like the outline for the novel that Miranda had suggested she write? Ideas for the story were already burgeoning in her mind, seeds germinating in fertile dark soil; she could feel them twist and turn and grow.
Caroline was realizing that having Lexy’s life was actually a twofold proposition. The husband, the home and the family were half the balance, but the other half was her thriving career, which had required Lexy to put so much of her private life on public display. Frank would certainly not want to replace Lexy with a woman who had the same need for publicity as his wife did.
The trouble was that, now she felt relatively attractive, Caroline did have the same need for publicity. Every time she saw her name in print or online, she felt as excited as if she’d taken drugs. Her heart raced, her head span, she felt light and dizzy, and she wanted more. Since the paparazzi photos had broken, she had set up a Google alert for her name and had been glued to her phone. She didn’t care, it turned out, about the snarky journalese pointing out that she was less attractive than Lexy, the comments that called her a homewrecker and a slut.
They knew her name. They were talking about her. That was all that was important. She, who had been nothing, a dowdy, plump drudge picked out by Lexy partly because she was no competition, nicknamed Ghost Mouse for a good reason, was now, in a way, Lexy’s equal!
Caroline knew she wasn’t a great beauty, but she looked pretty enough in the photographs, a woman who it was plausible for Frank to be dating, her hair done, her skin clear. Lexy had forgotten to cancel her offer of her credit card to Caroline for her beauty treatments, and Caroline had happily continued with them at her ex-boss’s expense; after all, Lexy had allowed Caroline to be paid a very meagre sum for working all hours on the book to which Lexy was going to affix her own name.
On meeting Lexy, Caroline had craved what she had: fame, fortune and Frank, the three Fs. But not even Lexy, Caroline was beginning to realize, had managed to hold on to all of those things.
So if Caroline couldn’t have all of them, she wondered, which would she be prepared to sacrifice?