Chapter 41
Maeve gave Billy a goodbye hug. He was moving back in with his parents, and his mum, delighted to have him back at home, had already declared she hardly used her sewing room any more so he could turn it into an art studio.
Dane had returned to Hay Hall in the early hours of Monday morning, removing his belongings and most of the artwork. A statement posted on each of his social media accounts explained his version of what had happened on Sunday afternoon. He announced that certain jealous and vindictive people who must remain anonymous had, for reasons of their own, attempted to besmirch his good name. What they hadn’t realised, he went on to say, was that throughout history, great artists had used assistants to help them create their works. Leonardo da Vinci had done it. So had Rubens, Michelangelo and Rembrandt. In today’s world, Damien Hirst famously employed countless assistants. And so do I , Dane modestly concluded.
I make no apology for this. It enables me to create more art for my fans to enjoy. So please take no notice of complaints by ignorant people who don’t understand the ways of the art world; they simply aren’t deserving of your thoughts or time.
I will be taking a short break from the public arena, then I promise to return with more of my creations for your delight.
Love to you all,
Dane xxx
‘He means he’ll be taking a short break until he manages to find some other sucker to do his work for him.’ Billy finished his mug of tea.
‘But have you seen the comments people have been putting under the statement?’ Maeve showed him the ever-growing stream of replies on her phone. ‘Some of them are telling him he’s great, but plenty are taking the mickey out of him. They’re posting terrible stick figures and offering to teach him how to draw a horse.’
Billy laughed. ‘I’m so glad I called him out.’
‘Me too. You were brilliant.’ Dane Cruse might have been the biggest mistake of her life so far, but as Lizzie had pointed out, everyone made mistakes, and as long as she’d learned from it, that was what mattered.
‘Will you thank your dad for all his help, too?’
Matthew had spent hours with Billy last night, creating a website for him that looked smart and professional. Maeve said, ‘I will, but he was happy to do it.’
‘And I wanted to thank Lizzie for letting me stay here.’ Billy was ready to leave, his cases waiting by the door. ‘I thought they’d be back by now.’
‘So did I.’ It had been Lizzie’s idea that whilst Cami was busy working on the book, she and Matthew could maybe make a plan to walk the dogs together. And when Matthew had then explained that he liked to walk Teddy first thing in the morning before starting work for the day, Lizzie had cheerfully agreed. Which, seeing as she was devoted to her late lie-ins, seemed optimistic to say the least.
But when Matthew had called for her two hours ago, Lizzie had been up, dressed and ready to go. And Maeve, who’d been here cleaning the kitchen, hadn’t been able to help noticing that she was wearing eyeliner and a touch of freshly applied – as opposed to left-over-from-yesterday – mascara.
Hmm. If this meant what Maeve thought it meant, she couldn’t say she was happy about it.
Tyres crunched over the gravel as Nella, who had offered to drop Billy at the train station, pulled up outside.
‘Make sure you keep up the swimming,’ Maeve told him as he wheeled his largest case outside.
‘I shall, I promise. And can we stay friends?’
‘Of course! I want to know how everything goes. You have to keep me updated.’
‘You deserved so much better than him,’ said Billy.
Maeve nodded and gave him one last hug. ‘I know. We both did. Things can only get better from now on.’
Nella, jumping out of the car to help him lift his cases into the boot, handed Maeve a battered paperback. ‘Can you leave this on the table for Lizzie? She wanted to read it after me.’
‘This? Looks as if it’s falling to pieces.’ Maeve took it from her and wrinkled her nose.
‘Tell her I woke up at four o’clock this morning and couldn’t stop until I’d finished it.’ Nella puffed her fringe out of her eyes. ‘Trust me, it’s the best thing I’ve ever read.’
*
What was it about words on a page having the ability to sweep you into another world so completely that it felt more real than the one you were actually living in?
It was Thursday evening and Lizzie was obsessed. It wasn’t the first time a book had had this effect on her – she’d always loved to read – but this one was different, because, like Nella, she hadn’t expected to like it. But the twists were jaw-dropping, the main characters were intriguing and the central premise was one she’d never encountered before. She’d actually pretended earlier to be feeling off-colour, to get out of a trip to the Angel. Cami, Nella, Hugo, Tommy and Juliet were all there now, but here she was, curled up on the squashiest sofa in the living room, racing to get to the end of the world’s most gripping, heart-thumping, mind-bendingly unputdownable thriller.
Forty-seven minutes later she reached the end, audibly gasping at the audacious twist on the final page. She hadn’t just read the book; she’d lived it.
What was more, she knew what needed to happen to it. That was, if it wasn’t on course to happen already.
Right, time to get investigating. She looked up the details of the book online and saw that despite its sun-damaged pages and battered cover it had only been published last year. Independently published, too; the author’s name was P. J. Stotten and the publisher listed inside was PJS Books. Lizzie continued digging for information – oh, she did love a challenge – and discovered that the author was equally determined to remain anonymous. There were no photographs anywhere online of P. J. Stotten, which meant he could be a she . . . Ooh, now that would be interesting.
OK, keep going. Her fingers flew across the keys as she checked the Amazon ratings, which were pitiful. There were only eleven reviews altogether, and bafflingly, nine of them were bad. Reading through them, Lizzie discovered why:
The cover was torn. *
The ink on the page was too faint in places to read easily. **
This author’s sentences were too long. I like sentences that are short. More full stops, please! ***
Something wrong with the glue holding this book together – many pages were missing. Would give this no stars if I could. *
Hated this book because the main character has the same name as my ex-husband. Gave up after three pages. Don’t really like reading anyway. *
I wanted a recipe book for Christmas, not this. **
Lizzie’s heart went out to P. J. Stotten as she pictured him – or her – reading through these reviews after having spent months, possibly years, working on such an exceptional yet tragically unappreciated book. It didn’t help matters that the slate-grey cover was frankly dreary and the blurb on the back unenticing, presumably due to the author’s determination not to give any of the plot away. More than ever now, she wanted to track them down and shower them with love and praise.
She kept going, searching for more details, inputting the book’s title and the names of the main characters, and scrolling through people with the surname Stotten. OK, this was getting ridiculous; she should give up, climb out of the rabbit hole she’d fallen into and join everyone else over at the Angel.
Except no, she couldn’t, because she absolutely refused to be beaten.
Twenty minutes later, she tried something different and hit pay dirt.
Stotton. Not Stotten.
It came up on a blog page written by an elderly woman called Bella Bailey who lived in Dorset. Her hobbies were gardening, flower arranging and rescuing abandoned cats. But there, included in an entry written a year ago, was a photograph of her beaming with pride as she held up a pristine copy of One Way to Die .
Surely not. Surely rosy-cheeked Bella couldn’t be the author. That would be insane.
The blog began:
Well, what a perfect day! Had a visit from my lovely nephew, who brought me a copy of his new novel, even though he knows I probably won’t read it, LOL! His last publisher didn’t want him any more so he’s self-published this one and changed his name because it’s a bit different from his previous stories. Anyway, I’m sure it’s the best book ever written, so you must all rush out and buy it, LOL, and make him a millionaire! It’s called One Way to Die (even though I told him there are lots of ways) and his new made-up name is P. J. Stotton. The only disappointing news is that he says there aren’t any cats in it, LOL!
Oh, and here are some photos of my garden, looking lovely at the moment, and of my cats, who always look lovely too, LOL!
The post had been viewed by a total of five people. Lizzie scrolled through the many, many photos of cats . . . flowers . . . more cats . . . herbaceous borders . . . yet more cats . . .
Then she screeched to a halt, because the last photograph contained neither cats nor flowers. It was a selfie, taken by Bella, with her cardigan-clad right arm looming into one side of the photo, of herself and her lovely nephew.
Oh what? You have to be kidding me. It was a cliché, but Lizzie actually felt her mouth drop open like a character in a cartoon. Because the nephew was the ghostwriter Piers Sanders.
Who wasn’t lovely at all.