Wild Fiction

‘It’s a masterpiece,’ she said to him. Her voice was professional and clear. She placed her hands on the desk and leant forward showing him some cleavage. She watched him stare at her breasts and then continued. ‘You know the author. You met him the last time we were here. His name’s on the front of manuscript and he deserves to be published. Not because of who he is but because of the quality of his work. He’s dedicated the better part of five years to completing this story: A story that takes place over the course of a few weeks during one of England’s hottest and driest summers. Once you’ve read it you’ll agree, I guarantee it, that this book will be on The Times best-seller list as soon as it’s published.’
He was struggling to look her in the face; his eyes kept on dropping to her exposed breasts. She stood up and pulled her shoulders back slightly. The outline of her breasts accentuated against her thin waist. Smooth brown legs dropped like saplings from under her short black skirt. She flashed a row of pearly white teeth at him.
‘The other manuscript you left here a few days ago,’ he said and then paused. ‘I’m afraid that it wasn’t very good.’
‘He did that completely by himself with no input from anyone else and no revision,’ Rebecca said. ‘This one’s been completely revised and edited by a team of highly skilled professionals. You’ll see the difference immediately.’
His eyes fell to the manuscript on the desk in front of him. He picked it up and turned it over in his podgy little hands. His red face and vinous veined nose nodded up and down in tacit agreement.
‘Would you like to come to dinner with me this evening and discuss the matter further,’ he asked her breasts.
‘Once the book is printed and ready for distribution I’ll go anywhere and discuss anything with you,’ Rebecca was still smiling at him.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Then let me read this and we’ll see what we can do. I’m sure there’s some very good stuff... eh... some very good prose in here. You know we get a lot of junk these days, a lot of melodramatic pulp that we can’t publish.’ He dropped the manuscript in the middle of his desk.
‘Trust me, you won’t regret publishing this novel,’ she said leaning forward over his desk again and tapping on the front of the manuscript with her forefinger. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ she said in almost a whisper. She pulled her breasts back, swirled on her toes, and headed for the door.
‘Hang on,’ he said from behind her. ‘How will I get hold of you?’
She pulled her mobile phone out of her bag and waved it at him. ‘The number’s on the front of the manuscript. SMS or call, I’ll be waiting.’

Chapter 67

The author scowled at her when she walked in the door. He was sitting at the breakfast counter. A knife, with a blob of butter hanging off the end of it, hovered over a piece of granary bread.
‘What have you done with my story? I know you printed it out. I know you have it in manuscript format. I could tell that by the amount of paper missing from the printer. I also know that a couple of my backup disks are missing and the rest have suddenly become unreadable.’ He set the stem of the knife against the counter and held his hand in a fist around it. The blob of butter slid, slowly, down the blade.
‘How much sleep have you had?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she replied.
‘You look a bit tired.’
‘I look fine. I don’t look in the least bit tired so don’t try to manipulate how I appear in the reader’s mind. I’m young, I can go without a night’s sleep and still look great.’
‘I still have an influence on how this story ends. You might have the manuscript but you can’t cut me out of it. Fullroy is still on the loose and he wants your blood. You’re the one who betrayed him, not once but twice. I’d be very careful who you make enemies with this close to the end of the book. You may find your immortality a little more tenuous than you had imagined.’
Rebecca stiffened. She had completely forgotten about Fullroy. The drama of Conrad and James dying and Genevieve’s miscarriage and hospitalisation had shadowed it. Then her fury with the author and obsession to finish the story and get it published to save her and Genevieve.
‘Where is he?’ she asked.
‘Nobody knows,’ the author answered his lips curling up at the edges in a sadistic smirk. ‘The police suspect that he may think the bonds are still here and try to come back for them. They’ve told me to be extra vigilant and call them if I notice anything peculiar or out of the ordinary.’ The author looked down at the knife and tipped it up the right way just before the butter fell on his hand. He spread it across the piece of bread in neat meticulous strokes.
‘Did they tell you exactly what might be peculiar or out of the ordinary?’ Rebecca asked.