Chapter 45
“Anytime on Thursday is fine to return them,” Kate said, waving off a group who’d turned up in need of emergency TV-themed fancy-dress outfits and left the shop in head-to-toe Peaky Blinders chic.
It had been her busiest day by far; she was glad to finally close the door and flick the bolt across.
Her eyes skimmed the street scene, pretty certain balaclava man wouldn’t put in an appearance while other people were around.
Her social media alert pinged on her mobile in the back pocket of her jeans as she headed upstairs, and then again, and again.
She slowed on the steps, not reaching for her vibrating mobile, because these days her phone going frantic was a sure sign of incoming trouble.
Dropping onto her sofa, she screwed up her face ready for impact and pulled her phone out.
As long as it wasn’t about Liv, it was okay.
So, it wasn’t about Liv, but it wasn’t okay either.
Far from it. One of the big gossip sites had run a huge piece speculating on H’s identity, listing their top-ten authors in the frame against their odds, none of whom were even male.
And, of course, the article covered every last salacious detail of her own involvement, including snippets of her TV and radio interviews and snapshots of distressed readers who felt duped and lied to.
All of it was damning, but none of it was new, until she reached the last paragraph, where her mouth fell open and stayed that way.
Elliott’s ex-husband Richard remained tight-lipped on the situation when we reached out to him for comment:
“Out of respect for our daughter, I do not wish to comment on my ex-wife’s erratic behavior in recent months, despite her having recently broken into and entered my home whilst I was out of the country. I hope she’s receiving adequate support and the help she clearly needs at this time.”
Kate read and reread it, then huffed and read it a third time.
“You absolute bastard,” she spat, incensed.
It was hardly refraining from comment, was it?
In one short paragraph Richard had called her erratic, accused her of burglary, and suggested she was in need of medical intervention.
“No comment is two bloody words,” she muttered, furious at the nerve of the man.
Clicking on social media confirmed what she’d expected: his non-comment was all over her author pages and many others besides, keeping the fire well and truly burning under the speculation and scandal.
This really is the story that keeps on giving
someone posted, with a row of laughing faces.
It really is like being chopped into small pieces and fed to the lions every day, she thought, but stopped herself from typing.
She cringed when she realized some big-name writers mentioned in the article had already taken steps to publicly rule themselves out as the secret author, people whose books she’d read and admired over the years.
A chunk of her self-respect quietly broke off and dissolved into her bloodstream at the idea of them being hassled for comment, solidifying her determination that H should never reveal his identity.
One person sitting on the bench of shame was more than enough.
At least the book itself hadn’t been targeted, she thought, checking the online reviews as she did every day. No one could deny the quality and beauty of the story. Or they hadn’t, up to now.
“Oh, fuck right off,” she whispered, reading the most recent review from Disgruntled of Devon.
Shame on Darrowby. If I hadn’t bought this as an ebook I’d have set fire to it.
Twenty-nine people had already liked Disgruntled’s comment, and it had only been posted that day.
MargoInManchester had also hopped online to vent her annoyance.
I queued for a signed copy of this book by the fake author. I’ve re-gifted it to my boss for her birthday, because I hate her.
Kate gasped out loud at the whip-smart venom, and the fact that more than sixty-five people had clicked “like.” There were more, but she turned her phone off and dropped it face down on the sofa.
She’d been hired to quietly represent H’s book, and the way things were going the publisher would be asking her for their money back, citing breach of contract.
They’d asked for a ghost author and ended up with a circus, and whether she liked it or not, Kate was the clown.
People were laughing at her, adding the by-now familiar #calamitykate hashtag to their posts.
And still she said nothing in public, keeping her fingers out of the piranha tank.
She panicked at the thought of Liv seeing all this, and messaged Nish to tell him to throw her mobile in the pool if necessary.
He came back with the welcome news that Liv had put herself on a social media ban at his suggestion, and she was currently in the pool with the kids.
He was too kind to be intentionally short or want to make her feel unnecessary, but something in his words left her feeling unbearably lonely.
—
Balaclava man didn’t turn up on Sunday. Whether it was because the shop was closed or he’d had a skinful the night before, she didn’t know, but whatever the reason for his absence, Kate’s relief was immense.
She’d crouched behind the counter from six a.m .
till eight, her stomach in knots and her eyes nailed to the door, then afterward crawled back upstairs to bed and pulled the covers over her head until midday.
Richard’s knife between her ribs had upset her more than she cared to admit.
Not because she still harbored feelings for him, but because their shared history obviously meant nothing to him, and he’d certainly not shown her any respect as the mother of his child, even though he was at pains to suggest otherwise.
It probably wouldn’t have cut so deep if everything else around her was peachy, but as it was, it felt like another kick in the teeth.
The rate she was going, she’d need to ask Richard for his Turkish dentist’s number.
Knowing Liv was safely out of the way for nine days more was a temporary relief, but also a ticking clock.
There was an outside chance balaclava man wouldn’t come back again, and an outside chance that the book being published in the United States wouldn’t increase the scrutiny around her too much, and an outside chance that Liv would come back from Portugal and not be pulled straight back into the drama.
But Kate wasn’t a gambling woman. Outside chances weren’t enough to bet the house on. She couldn’t leave Liv and the baby’s safety in the hands of fate. She needed a plan.