Chapter 25
After promising to keep in touch with Sonya, I leave The Blackwell Arms. In the quiet cocoon of my car, I pause to unwind from the intensity of our conversation, but Sonya’s dark hypotheses embed their claws into me.
Sighing, I check my phone. A missed call from Beth and a message from Natalya to our group chat await me.
Please can we meet?! I need to talk all things literary agent. Maybe at the pub, if that’s okay? Sorry Katherine, I know you don’t drink, but this calls for more than a cup of tea! x
My eyes widen at the words literary agent. I suspect this can only mean good news for Natalya’s writing career. Instantly, my mind goes to Katherine and how she will react, but she’s already replied saying she will be there.
Even though visiting another pub is the last thing I want to do, I confirm my attendance.
By the time I arrive at The Admiral, Bramblethorpe’s most popular (and only) pub, the empty glasses around Natalya indicate she’s on her third gin and tonic.
‘Janine, you made it!’ she cries, throwing her arms around my neck. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. Having the opinion of a real writer is going to make such a difference!’
As Katherine’s cheeks colour, I do my best to gloss over Natalya’s carelessness. ‘I can’t wait to hear what this is about,’ I say, eyeing Natalya’s half-finished G & T and Katherine’s water. ‘Anyone want a drink?’
When Katherine and Natalya shake their heads, I head to the bar and order a gin and tonic for myself. While the barman makes it, I spot a young couple in a corner booth, talking deeply. The man’s hands rest on the woman’s stomach, round and full of life.
‘I remember all that excitement with my first,’ the barman says, spying what I’m looking at as he hands over my drink. ‘Back before I knew the pain of sleepless nights. There’s nothing like that tiredness, is there?’
The question embeds like an axe in my chest, the comment made all the crueller by the barman’s unwitting, friendly smile. I don’t know how to react. Offended that he thinks I look exhausted enough to be caring for a newborn or devastated that he assumes I am a parent.
‘How much is that?’ I reply curtly, paying and walking away before he sees my hurt.
I take a long gulp of my drink to steady myself before joining my friends.
‘So, what have I missed?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. Nothing yet, anyway,’ Natalya says, barely able to contain her excitement. ‘I was waiting until you got here to tell the story. Basically, you know how a few weeks ago, I told you I’d sent a draft of my crime novel to a few literary agents?’
Katherine and I both nod.
‘Well, one messaged back. Sophie Hyatt. She wants to read my full manuscript.’
My lips stretch wide, impressed but unsurprised. Natalya is talented, and Sophie Hyatt is known for discovering the next big thing.
‘This is huge!’ I cry, throwing my arms around Natalya. It takes me a few seconds to realise that I haven’t reached out to hug someone in so long. It feels nice. Alien, but nice.
Pulling back, I turn to Katherine.
‘Wow,’ she says, two pink dots colouring her cheeks. ‘Well done, Natalya. I’m happy for you.’
I watch as Natalya hugs Katherine gratefully.
There’s friendship to the move but tension, too.
However much Katherine meant her congratulations, I know that there’s no pain quite as sore as watching someone else living your dream.
Every time I see my sister and her daughters, there’s an edge of torture to it.
‘What’s Sophie said?’ I ask, taking a sip of my drink when they pull apart.
‘Just that she loved the idea and can’t wait to read the rest of it. Then she – well, this is where I need your advice,’ Natalya says, chewing the corner of her lip. ‘Sophie asked about my future book ideas.’
‘That’s a good sign,’ I say. ‘Publishers will want to know if you’re a one-hit wonder, or if you’ve got more ideas in the bank.’
‘Sophie said that, too. The problem is, I don’t have any more ideas. Not fully formed ones, at least, and not ones Sophie liked.’
‘Did she say that to you?’
‘Not exactly, but when I went through stories I’ve made notes on, she was silent. That’s when I told her about Alexa Clarke.’ Natalya dips her head, shamefaced.
I look from Natalya to Katherine and back again. ‘Am I missing something?’
‘I said one of my ideas is to write about the disappearance of a local woman and how it impacts a community,’ Natalya explains.
‘I told Sophie about what’s happening here, and she loved it.
She said people love reading about how people turn on each other in trying times.
Plus, she said a novel inspired by a real-life case would be a great hook for promotion. ’
‘If Sophie’s talking like this, that’s great,’ I reply. ‘She clearly sees a future for you as an author.’
‘I know, it’s amazing! It’s just…’ Natalya bites her lip, looking as young as she is underneath the heavy eyeliner.
‘Is writing fiction about someone who’s actually missing ethical?
I mean, the story I pitched is exactly what’s happened to Alexa Clarke.
Missing wife, mysterious clues, a husband the police think is a suspect. ’
‘Is that what Otis is now?’ I ask, but Natalya barely hears me.
‘The worst part is that Sophie asked how the story would end and I… well, I said it ends with Alexa Clarke dying.’
I’m not prepared for the effect Natalya’s words have on me. It’s like a ghost passes through my body. Of course, a part of me has wondered if Alexa could be hurt – or even worse – but to hear it out loud, as if it’s been confirmed, makes me shudder.
‘I feel awful,’ Natalya confesses. ‘I’ve essentially killed Alexa Clarke.’
‘Stop,’ Katherine says. ‘Unless this is you confessing to her murder, you’ve hardly done that.
You’re just using reality as a source of inspiration, something all writers do.
Besides, who gets to decide what’s ethical and what isn’t?
Publishers think it’s ethical to release a book pretending someone famous has written it just to sell a few extra copies.
If they’re happy to dupe the general public, they can’t suddenly grow a conscience and say you can’t write about a real crime. ’
‘Uh-oh,’ Natalya teases. ‘Not this rant again.’
‘I’m right to be angry after spending years working for something that probably won’t happen because I’m not a self-appointed social media guru,’ Katherine snaps.
A blush singes Natalya’s cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Katherine. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Katherine inhales to steady herself. ‘No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t get annoyed. I just don’t want you to give up on your dreams because of a few insecurities, that’s all. Besides, being creative means pushing boundaries. If that means blurring the line between fiction and reality, then so be it.’
‘I guess,’ Natalya replies, but she still looks uncertain. ‘I’d set the book somewhere different and change parts of what happened, too. If I do that, maybe people in Bramblethorpe won’t mind?’
‘Maybe they will, maybe they won’t – who knows? I’m not sure I’d tell anyone about it yet, though. Murdering Alexa, even in fiction, won’t win you any village brownie points,’ Katherine comments.
‘That’s my worry – will everyone hate me if I copy what’s happened?
People complain when someone writes a bad review of the pub, never mind a book that brings up a potential crime in the village,’ Natalya says, then she looks at me through her hair.
‘What do you think, Janine? Would you write about it?’
It feels as if my body splits in two as I look at Natalya, coming to me for advice, all the while knowing that if Alexa Clarke is dead, something inside me will die with her.
Urging myself to be present, I sit forward.
‘Natalya, you are not the first person to write about a missing woman, and, sadly, Alexa Clarke is not the first woman to go missing. Otis is not the first husband to be suspected of hurting his wife, and this village is not the first place where bad things have happened. These are facts of life. They are building blocks of stories. Most fiction is inspired by real events. Yours just happens to be a little closer to home, that’s all.
If people have an issue with you writing this, maybe they should think twice about spreading the fiction they do when they gossip. ’
‘I knew you’d both understand,’ Natalya says. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
‘Of course,’ Katherine replies. ‘And remember, we don’t know what’s happened to Alexa yet. You could be worrying for nothing.’
‘I don’t know. I mean, the police are back at Otis’s house right now, aren’t they?’
I turn to Natalya. ‘They are?’
She nods. ‘I saw them parked on the road on the way over here. Two visits in two days. That can’t be good.’
‘It could be that they’ve discovered a lead or even found Alexa. Remember, we don’t know what’s going on within those walls,’ Katherine points out.
‘I bet the woman Otis was seen with does. They were spotted in the village. She was driving his car.’
I clutch my drink tighter, praying no one picks up on my tension.
‘Whoever she is, she’d certainly have the insider scoop,’ Katherine agrees. ‘Does anyone know her identity yet?’
Natalya shakes her head. ‘I’ve not heard anything, have you, Janine?’
‘I only know what you know. You’re the ones who give me updates,’ I lie.
‘Well, either way, let’s hope Alexa’s found alive and well soon,’ Katherine says. ‘Right now, all I can say is that a lot of people would owe Otis Clarke an apology if he were found to be innocent.’
Natalya murmurs in agreement, but I can’t find the strength to respond. The more I find out about the Clarkes, the less the word ‘innocent’ seems to apply to their situation.
We chat a little longer about Natalya’s writing, but knowing that the police are with Otis again takes up too much of my brain for me to be a good source of conversation. It’s a relief when we finish our drinks and Katherine suggests we head home.
When we leave the pub, my footsteps slow. A scowling Jim is leant on the wall outside, looking as intimidating as he did the other day. Bernie lounges by his feet, but when he sees us, he runs over, tail wagging. He sniffs us each in turn, and I crouch to stroke him.
‘It’s not like Jim to come into the village,’ Natalya whispers. ‘I thought he was banned from the pub.’
‘He is,’ Katherine mutters in response. ‘That’s what happens when you get into a fight over the cost of a drink.’
‘Maybe he’s catching up on what’s happening with Alexa Clarke, too?’ says Natalya.
‘Or maybe he’s here to cause trouble,’ Katherine replies, tightening her grip on her handbag. When she looks down at Bernie, her mouth twists. ‘Poor thing. It’s probably riddled with fleas.’
‘Bernie here is cleaner than most people in this village, yourself included,’ Jim calls, looking over at us. Natalya stifles a gasp, but I’m too busy playing with Bernie to react. I tickle him under the chin, giggling as his tail wags faster.
My laughter gets Jim’s attention. He watches me, his hard expression indecipherable. My hand comes to a stop near Bernie’s neck. I can feel his pulse beneath his fur, the steady beat highlighting how much my heart is hammering now I’m in Jim’s eyeline.
I’m about to withdraw my hand when Jim calls Bernie’s name. ‘Time to go, Bernie. Leave the woman alone.’
‘He’s no bother,’ I reply, but Jim is already walking away.
Natalya exhales when Jim and Bernie are out of earshot. ‘I swear, that man gets scarier every time I see him.’
‘Jim is certainly a character, isn’t he?’ Katherine replies. ‘I suppose he adds a bit of colour to the village. Although I’m not sure it’s a colour I’d want in my house.’
Natalya snorts, but I don’t join in. My heart is pounding too much from the chill of Jim’s stare for that.
After promising to keep sharing updates on literary agents and Alexa Clarke, we say goodbye and go our separate ways. But before I reach my car, my phone vibrates with an Instagram notification.
Opening the app, I see I’ve received a new direct message.
Janine, it’s Gabby. I didn’t know how else to get in contact with you. I don’t even know why I’m reaching out to you, but I’ve found something and I don’t know what to do. If you’re here to help like you say you are, please meet me. Does tomorrow at 11 work?