Chapter Two #2
Leo feigned wiping an exasperated hand across his forehead.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘yes, I do think about settling down all the time, but no, I have no plans to get married. Thanks very much for asking.’ The candyfloss hurtled to the top of the drum.
Olivia couldn’t look at Leo. She knew he had almost been married – once.
‘Do you have any questions about my book?’ His tone was pretend-serious.
‘No, but I really enjoyed it,’ said the woman, flicking her fringe out of her eye. ‘I really love your writing.’
‘Thank you.’ Leo kicked back further in his chair. Cool, calm, devastating. A publisher’s dream.
Leo Greene was an excellent writer, but everyone in the literary world knew his handsome face and relaxed sex appeal garnered him thousands more readers: the way he carried himself when interviewed on television; that look in his eye in publicity photos that had everyone running to the nearest bookshops to buy one of his novels.
Leo was a sexy bachelor of crime fiction, not to be harnessed, not to be snared, but Olivia knew he had come close.
‘Next question?’ said Felicity pleasantly.
A woman stood up. ‘I have a question for Olivia Sackville,’ she said. Beautiful tumbling hair. Italian accent. ‘Where did you get the idea for that scene in the Scottish lavender fields?’ she asked. ‘I really loved that part of the book. Especially the kiss.’
Olivia smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘and thank you for asking.’ She kept her eyes straight ahead. ‘I visited them,’ she fibbed, ‘a few summers ago, and thought it was just the most gorgeous spot.’
‘Lucky you,’ said the woman. Olivia could feel Leo’s eyes boring into the side of her head. The woman sat down.
Another stood up.
‘Hello to Frances Holland,’ she said, rather bluntly. She was also Italian. Deep voice. Red coat. ‘I admire your latest heroine, Betty Brown, so much. Is she based on you?’
Frances laughed. ‘No, not at all,’ she replied. ‘In fact . . .’
The smell of coffee from the anteroom was strong.
There was the faint chime of a teaspoon landing on marble.
Frances finished talking about her heroine’s love of the royal family.
A man asked Anthony if he laughed while he was writing, and did it distract him?
Anthony answered yes and no, while laughing heartily. Then Beth stood up.
‘I have a question for both Olivia Sackville and Leo Greene,’ she said. ‘If that’s OK?’
‘I’m sure that’s absolutely fine,’ said Valentina sternly. ‘Please go ahead.’
Beth looked from Olivia to Leo, then back again. ‘This is a bit out there,’ she said, raising a hand to wiggle her glasses on her nose, ‘but I hope you’ll bear with me . . .’
‘Go on . . .’ nudged Felicity, her blank look expectant with an edge of anxiety.
‘Is it, how many times do we go to the fridge for snacks when we’re writing?’ chucked in Leo, ‘because I can tell you, I go quite a lot – about once every forty-five minutes. How about you, Olivia? Could it be a Snickers on the half hour?’
‘It’s nothing about snacks,’ Beth interjected, as Olivia threw Leo a horrified look. They were playing roles here, she thought. Eloquent authors. Teasing panellists. This was a game, and nothing like the reality she and Leo had once known together.
‘What?’ he mouthed back at her, his eyes twinkling.
The diminutive Beth took a deep breath. ‘It’s more to do with your books. Both of your books. Together.’
‘I don’t get you,’ said Leo amicably.
‘Together?’ Olivia queried.
‘Yes,’ said Beth. ‘My question is actually quite simple. Why did you both write the same scene in your latest books?’
Leo tilted his head to one side, looking puzzled.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Olivia sat up straighter in her seat.
‘Yes, what do you mean by this question?’ echoed Valentina. ‘Olivia writes romance and Leo writes crime, no?’
‘Yes, absolutely they do,’ said Beth, her face beginning to flush. ‘But I was sent both books and I read both of them, one after the other, last week – studied them, if you will – and I noticed something very odd.’
‘Which is?’ asked Leo. His chin was now resting on his fist, the amused, but his eyes told Olivia he might be as unsettled as she was.
‘That the plots may be really different’ – Beth blushed further – ‘Leo’s the cat and mouse of the street detective and the serial criminal, Olivia’s the story of the museum curator and the tycoon’ – she sounded like she was reading the blurbs from the back of their books – ‘but, somewhere towards the middle, you’ve both written the same scene. ’
‘Scene?’ prompted Valentina.
‘Scene?’ questioned Leo and Olivia in unison.
‘Yes,’ said Beth, looking triumphant. ‘You’ve both written the same scene in a restaurant.
You’ve described the same meal.’ Her eyes flicked between the two of them.
She pulled a pocket notebook from somewhere inside her anorak, flipped it open and read.
‘Italian restaurant. Burrata. Bistecca alla Fiorentina, sautéed cabbage and anchovies in garlic and olive oil. Chocolate gelato with an amaretti biscuit. Candles burned down to the nub . . .’ She looked back up at them both, Leo Greene and Olivia Sackville, authors and one-time lovers. ‘And I just wondered why that was.’