Chapter 1
Poppy Taylor was halfway through rinsing shampoo from her hair when her phone began to vibrate angrily against the edge of the sink. Ignoring it, she finished in the shower before shutting off the water.
As she wrapped herself in a towel, the buzzing sounded again.
Someone was impatiently trying to get hold of her, and a sliver of apprehension stirred in her gut. Were her family okay? Her mum and dad would be at home, her sister working nights, but what if there was a medical emergency?
Picking up the phone, she wiped steam from the screen.
It wasn’t a missed call. Instead, there was a notification that she had messages on Facebook. Several, she realised, as she opened Messenger, glancing at the names of the people contacting her. All of them were connected to the book community.
She opened the first one from Karen Castle, a reader and wannabe author who followed her editing business page.
How could you do this to him, Poppy? He trusted you.
What?
She started to reply, to ask Karen what the hell she was talking about, but she could see the woman wasn’t currently online. Instead, Poppy came out of the message, clicking on another one from a prolific book blogger, Anna Blyth.
I’ve just seen what you’ve done. You should be ashamed of yourself!
Poppy’s chest tightened, even as confusion had her frowning.
Further down the list of unread messages that were now stacking up, she spotted a familiar friendly face. Rebecca Kennedy was a bestselling author she had worked with several times.
I don’t know if you’ve seen what Simon Daley is saying about you, but you need to be aware. He’s making some pretty nasty accusations.
Rebecca was one of the good ones. Poppy had always liked her.
Now her stomach dropped. The name Simon Daley immediately set alarm bells ringing and she closed Messenger, instead opening Facebook, dreading what she was going to find.
Simon didn’t just have readers. He had people who listened.
The notifications were already piling up faster than she could read. Names she recognised and hundreds she didn’t. There were mentions, tags and message requests too.
She swiped her finger across the damp glass, her newsfeed refreshing with a jolt.
At the top of the screen was Simon’s face in a paused frame of a video. He looked as he always did: softly lit, a bookshelf behind him and his favourite mug in his hand. His blue eyes were crinkled at the corners, and he wore a sombre expression.
Beneath the recording, carefully worded text read: I didn’t want to do this, but I’ve been left with no choice.
Didn’t want to do what?
She hadn’t spoken to Simon in weeks. Not since their last email exchange about the invoices he had been ignoring.
The video had been recorded just eight minutes ago.
Dreading what she was going to see, Poppy hit play. Her wet hair dripped onto her shoulders, and she was coiled as tightly as a spring as she waited for him to speak.
He took his time, never one to be rushed, his wedding ring catching the light as he raised his hand to wave at his adoring fanbase.
‘Hi, everyone. I’m sorry to bring this to you, but I know you deserve honesty.’
His deep voice, warm and calm, filled her bathroom as he leant closer to the screen. His expression was careful, even slightly sorrowful. It was almost as if he was confiding in a close friend.
‘I’ve been keeping quiet about something for a while. Partly because I didn’t want to create drama… and partly because I believed it would sort itself out.’
The sigh he gave was rehearsed, at least to Poppy’s ears. As if he had been practising in front of a mirror until it carried the right amount of regret.
Her phone vibrated again – another message – and she started to feel nauseous, having a horrible inkling where this was going.
‘The truth is, I’ve had a lot of you asking questions about my new book.’ Simon pressed his hands together, his expression turning grave. ‘Wanting to know about… how can I put it delicately? Certain changes.’
Poppy’s throat was dry. She could already hear it, the implication buried under the gentleness of his tone.
‘I hired a new editor,’ Simon continued. ‘Someone I thought I could trust.’ He smiled regretfully. Again, it looked rehearsed. ‘I won’t pretend I’m perfect. You all know me. I’ll always hold my hands up when I’m wrong. But I know my voice. I know what I wrote.’
Poppy’s fingers were numb around the phone. She had only just got out of the shower, but she was too hot. Sweat beaded on her top lip and trickled down the nape of her neck.
‘I’m not naming her to be cruel,’ Simon said to his audience.
‘I’m naming her because she has continued to contact me, threatening me and demanding payment for work.
’ He paused, eyebrows drawing together in pained disbelief.
‘Not only has she ruined my book, she wants me to pay her for changes she made without my consent.’
That was a lie. She hadn’t contacted him in weeks, having already accepted that she was wasting her time.
Poppy’s vision narrowed, her heart thumping as he spoke his next words, after having the audacity to look down for a moment, as if the revelation was going to hurt him physically.
‘Some of you may know her. Her name is Poppy Taylor.’
It was strange hearing him say her name aloud and it sounded smaller than it should, though the effect was devastating.
For a second, she didn’t move. She couldn’t.
Simon continued to speak, but she no longer heard the words, her own world holding itself very still around her. And as the video ended, the silence was suffocating.
Battling hurt, anger and shock, Poppy struggled to breathe. Then her phone vibrated again.
Another message, but also the notifications were stacking up. Over a hundred of them. She opened the comments section, hands shaking now.
I knew something was off.
Name and shame!!
Women like her get jobs like this and think they know best.
I said from the start it didn’t sound like him.
People were still furiously typing, eager to add their opinion. And now they knew her identity, she saw her name appear again and again.
Poppy Taylor ruined your book.
Poppy Taylor is a fraud.
@Poppy Taylor. You are a bitch.
It was Poppy? I am disappointed. I thought better of her.
The words blurred. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. She was still in shock.
How could you do this to him, Poppy? He trusted you.
She clicked on the commenter’s profile. A woman in her thirties, smiling at the screen, a toddler on her hip.
You should be ashamed of yourself.
That was from an older woman with a crochet banner as a header.
It was the certainty that hurt the most.
They were all so quick to believe Simon and not one of them had asked him for proof. They didn’t hesitate or consider that there might be two sides to the story.
He had spoken and that, apparently, was enough for them.
Poppy continued to scroll, horrified to see her business name pop up.
Screenshots of her website, the one she had built from scratch, were circulating.
It had taken her ages to get the branding right, even longer to build up the testimonials.
Now all of that work she had done making it look professional and safe was being undone.
Don’t hire this woman.
She destroys books.
Total fake.
The comments were sickening and she should say something. Defend herself. But in the heat of the moment, that would be foolish. No. She needed to step back from the situation and decide how to respond.
The bathroom felt too hot, too small, and she sank down onto the closed toilet, the porcelain lid cold against her thighs, as she stared at the screen.
Think, Poppy.
She couldn’t let Simon destroy her career.
Although they knew each other through social media, she had never met him personally. She lived in South East London and Simon in Devon. They were online friends. It was the same with most of the authors she worked with.
The book she had worked on had been the first of his that she had read.
He was self-published and his espionage thrillers featuring the character Roman Killian were successful, with a big readership.
When he had reached out to Poppy wanting to hire her for the launch of a new series, she had been both flattered and excited.
He was older than her – in his early sixties, while she was only thirty-two – and he had a capable and worldly-wise aura about him.
But then she had read the manuscript and the quality of his prose had shocked her. It wasn’t up to the standard she had expected, and quietly, she couldn’t help but wonder if all the offers from the publishing houses Simon claimed to receive, but chose to turn down, were actually real.
She had done her best with the edit, but he hadn’t been happy. If anything, he had been infuriated that she had dared to make corrections to his book. And his last email to her replayed in her mind with nauseating clarity.
You’ve taken liberties, Poppy. You’ve crossed a line. I’m disappointed. I expected better.
He’d written it as if she were the one who had acted shamefully.
Had she really overstepped?
No. She knew she hadn’t. She’d been professional. She’d been thorough. She’d done exactly what she’d been hired to do, and she had tried her best to improve the book without bruising his ego.
As far as she was aware, he had changed everything back to his original manuscript, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was simply someone to blame now his book had failed. His ego simply couldn’t handle it being his fault.
He had never wanted an editor; he wanted a cheerleader. And now she suspected he was punishing her because she had refused to clap.
It was working too. How did she even begin to convince all of these people vilifying her that she had done nothing wrong?
The phone rang and she was tempted to leave it, but then she saw Keira’s name flash up. Did her best friend know?
Poppy’s heart thumped as she answered. Her voice breathless, even though she was still sitting on the toilet lid. ‘Hi.’
‘I need your help to decide on dresses,’ Keira jumped straight in. ‘I have Greg’s work do Saturday night and he says I should go with boring black, but I really want to wear that Karen Millen one I got on Vinted. Do you think it’s too loud?’
Even through the haze of panic in her head, Poppy could picture the dress. Strapless, in bold blues and reds, with a big, floaty skirt. Not very demure, but definitely very Keira.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she managed, trying to roll the tension out of her shoulders.
Keira was no wallflower and she would pull the dress off, enjoying that all of the attention was on her.
Besides, Poppy had no time for Greg, who was far too stuffy and condescending.
It never failed to amaze her that her vibrant, free-as-a-bird friend had chosen to settle down with someone who tried to stifle her.
‘You’re right,’ Keira agreed. ‘My body, my choice. And I want to wear my new dress.’
As she continued to speak, talking about Greg’s dull work colleagues, Poppy clicked off the call screen, dread lodged heavy in her throat as she saw she had even more new messages.
‘Earth to Poppy. Are you still there?’
Hearing her name pulled her back into the conversation. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘What’s up with you?’ Keira complained. ‘You’ve barely said two words. Have you heard anything I said?’
Poppy bit into her bottom lip. Once she admitted what was going on, once she spoke the words aloud, it became real.
She couldn’t keep this to herself, though, and right now she needed someone to tell her what to do.
‘What’s going on, Pops?’
Poppy closed her eyes, the phone clutched in her hand so tightly, it was hurting her palm.
‘Something awful has happened,’ she admitted. ‘And I don’t know what to do.’