1 Oxford, England, Present Day
Oxford, England, Present Day
Lyssa Moore saw the unfamiliar name pop up on her email listings and contemplated it thoughtfully.
Nowadays, she was always slightly wary about opening a message from an unknown source, fearing viruses or unwanted solicitations to buy anything from dodgy timeshare flats to super-expensive coffee that had travelled through an animal’s digestive system or some such thing.
On the other hand, as a self-employed person, she couldn’t afford not to check it out.
Who knew – perhaps ‘Elizabeth-intd’ might lead to work?
She was sitting on the sofa in her third-floor flat in Riverside House, a small suite of apartments on the far outskirts of the Osney area, and through the open doors of the French windows that led out to a small balcony, she could see the River Thames (or Isis, as the university city of Oxford insisted on calling it) shimmering away in the warm June sunshine.
Absently, she followed the progress of one of the small river-cruise boats, full of happy tourists, that was winding its way towards Port Meadow and Wolvercote.
For all the years she’d lived in the area, she’d never yet taken one of those scenic picnic cruises and made a mental note to do so.
Freida would no doubt tease her about it, but her best friend would almost certainly agree to join her and probably bring along an illicit bottle of something to pep things up.
Tearing her eyes away from the attractive scene outside, she forced her mind back to business.
Much as she wanted to go out and enjoy the brief British summer whilst she could, sunbathing or window-shopping wouldn’t pay her bills.
On the plus side, she’d just finished the first draft of the story she was ghostwriting for a television soap star who was clearly looking for a second string to add to his career bow.
She had sent it off last night and now faced a nervous wait for his reaction.
From her past experiences of ghostwriting, she was expecting the usual litany of complaints, woes and demands for rewrites, so any distraction from that could only be welcome.
Biting the bullet, she clicked on the email heading and opened it, relieved to see that it was indeed a legitimate message and hadn’t sent her computer into some sort of meltdown.
(One of her friends in London had recently been the victim of one of those hacks whereby she had to agree to pay a sum to get her computer unlocked, so perhaps she could be forgiven for being just a little bit paranoid?)
She tucked her long legs more comfortably beneath her and balanced the laptop on one bent knee so that she could read it more easily.
As she did so, the cushion beside her suddenly indented as, with a flash of black-and-white fur, her cat, Bibliophile (Bibbie or Bibs for short) jumped up and landed beside her.
She reached out to stroke his furry back, which arched appreciatively, and was instantly treated to his usual lawnmower-like purr.
A handsome tom, he was all black except for his two forepaws, which were white, and a white ‘champagne glass’ on his chest. She knew he wasn’t hungry, as she’d filled his bowl that morning, and within moments he’d kneaded a comfortable spot on the cushion and curled up to go to sleep.
She turned her attention back to her laptop.
Hello, I got your name from one of your previous happy clients, so I hope you don’t mind me contacting you out of the blue like this.
I was hoping you’d be available for a project I’ve had in mind for quite some time now – it’s a biography of a now deceased famous relative of mine.
I read and really enjoyed the job you did for Helena Vernier a couple of years ago.
I thought it was honest, powerful and moving, and I believe you’d be just ideal for what I have in mind.
I’ll be in Oxford tomorrow, and was hoping we could meet up for lunch.
I’ve taken the liberty of booking a table for 12.
30 at the Ivy in High Street – my treat, naturally.
If you can’t make it, that’s fine, but I’m hoping that you can.
If not, we can always reschedule. Many thanks.
‘Huh,’ Lyssa said, staring at the screen thoughtfully, not quite sure what to make of it.
She remembered the biography she’d written for Helena Vernier, of course, the flamboyant opera singer who’d wanted her memoirs written shortly after retiring from the stage.
It hadn’t been the easiest of projects, for she’d sometimes found the singer’s mood swings and temperamental nature rather overwhelming.
But she’d stuck to her guns when she’d had to, and she thought the singer had come to admire her for standing up to her, when the occasion warranted it.
The result had been a book that had been well received by both the singer’s fans and literary critics alike.
And, naturally, it was very flattering to hear that the mysterious Elizabeth had supposedly read it and enjoyed it – if indeed she had done so. More likely she had just been buttering her up.
But there were several things about the message that made her uneasy.
To begin with, why didn’t she sign off with her full name?
Was it so that she, Lyssa, wouldn’t have the opportunity to look her up on the internet and check her out?
And although she said she’d got Lyssa’s name from a previous client of hers, why hadn’t she mentioned who it had been?
Again, was it so that Lyssa couldn’t double-check the claim?
And why did she not mention the name of her deceased but famous relative?
It all sounded rather secretive. Of course, it could be that the so-called ‘famous’ relative wasn’t that famous at all – at least, not to a wider audience.
Perhaps the unknown Elizabeth knew full well that his or her fame might be confined to a small and select number, and didn’t want to put her off before she’d even had the chance to pitch her project.
Lyssa smiled as she remembered one potential client who was so enthused about a dead uncle’s lifelong collection of biscuit tins that he’d been positive the public was just panting for a full-length coffee-table book about the novelty items, complete with lovingly rendered colour photographs.
Luckily, a little tactful chat about the cost of self-publishing had dampened his enthusiasm.
She glanced longingly out of the window again, and putting the laptop down on her own (book-free) coffee table, allowed herself to be lured outside on to the small patio.
The city centre would be crowded of course, but here, about halfway between Folly Bridge and the Osney allotments, it was much quieter.
She leaned her bare arms on the sun-warmed railing of the balcony and looked out across the river.
The green willows moved in a gentle breeze, and a family of swans was being fed by some students who were lazing about at the river’s edge.
Behind her, one of Oxford’s many clocks chimed the hour.
Lyssa, at the ripe old age of thirty-four, now considered herself a veteran of the city and took it for granted that the clock would be either early or late and, with a smile, pulled herself away from the seductive scene outside and back to the sofa.
She retrieved the laptop and reread the message, still not sure about it.
The Ivy was certainly not some shady down-at-heel eatery in one of the city’s backwaters, so she had no serious worries about attending the appointment on her own; but that famous adage about there being no such thing as a free lunch niggled away at her.
What if it was just a hoax or a practical joke of some kind?
She could turn up and find that there was no such reservation booked.
Well, so what? It would hardly be a disaster.
She could head for Blackwell’s and browse for a few hours, surrounded by books, books and more books.
Which was not exactly a fate worse than death.
Afterwards she could head to Waterstones and have lunch in the café there – it would be no match for the fare at the Ivy, but, again, so what?
Annoyed with herself for vacillating, she clicked on the reply button and sent a brief message to Elizabeth-intd saying that tomorrow at 12.30 was fine, and that she was looking forward to meeting her there. She hit the send button with a flick of her finger and closed the laptop decisively.
If she tried hard, she could convince herself that she’d just taken the first step to securing her next project and thus could treat herself to a little time off.
And a stroll down to her local café for a cappuccino and a salad sandwich didn’t seem that excessive an indulgence.
She might even save the crusts for the swans.
‘I don’t know, I think you’re right. It all sounds a bit iffy to me,’ Freida Jones said, some hours later. ‘Want me to come with you as back-up?’
‘Who do you think you are – Morse or Lewis?’ Lyssa shot back, grinning.
Her best friend laughed. ‘Neither. I see myself more as one of those fabulous women in American television shows who can shoot a grape off the vine at thirty feet, whilst wearing high heels and putting a good-looking man in his place all at the same time.’
‘Multi-tasking. I like it,’ Lyssa said approvingly, watching Freida from across the small dining table as her friend scooped up the last of the salsa.
At the age of thirty-three, but looking at least six years younger, Freida looked as if she could indeed have auditioned for that television part, being black and beautiful and with a sing-song Welsh accent that captivated you the moment you heard it.
Had she been an actress, of course, and not the owner of a small but flourishing estate agency business in St Aldate’s.