Authors: Jill Mansell
‘And this is my study.’ Having given her the guided tour, Orla now threw open the last door along the landing. ‘Where I write.’
Millie still had no idea why Orla had invited her here today, but she was certainly enjoying herself. Lunch, Orla had said, and a kind of proposition. Since she knew Orla was feeling guilty about helping her to lose her job, Millie guessed she was about to be offered some form of part-time work—typing or filing, maybe—to make up for it.
The study was entirely functional, with a state-of-the-art computer installed in one corner. Filing cabinets lined one wall, bookshelves another. The blinds were drawn, shielding Orla from the temptation of gazing idly out at the view. The revolving chair in front of the PC was old and tatty, and looked deeply uncomfortable.
‘I know,’ said Orla. ‘It's the lucky chair. Six pounds fifty, twelve years ago, and after half an hour sitting on it, your backside's gone numb. But it's my favorite chair for writing on.’
The bookshelves were stuffed with copies of Orla's novels; hardbacks, paperbacks, trade paperbacks, and foreign-language editions, hundreds of the things in every size and color.
‘And this is how you plan out your work?’ Millie peered up at the series of charts pinned around the walls. Every chart was covered in a mish-mash of names, arrows, and biographical details, and a different colored felt pen had been used for each of the characters. Beneath these descriptions, chapter headings were listed and cross-referenced, enabling the various plot lines to be meticulously followed and worked out.
‘God!’ Millie exclaimed. ‘I had no idea. This is like a military campaign.’
She’d naively imagined that writers just sat down and wrote whatever came into their heads.
‘I know, I know. That's exactly what it's like.’ Orla heaved a sigh, ‘Rigid, regimented, all planned out from the first paragraph, right the way through to the bitter end.’
Millie was still busy marveling at the fine detail.
‘And there was me thinking you just made it up as you went along.’
‘Good heavens. Be spontaneous, you mean?’ Orla smiled slightly and lit a cigarette. ‘Sit down each morning wondering what might happen next? Not having
the faintest idea
how the story might turn out?’
There was an unfamiliar edge to her voice. Thinking she must have offended Orla, Millie flapped her hands and said hurriedly, ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m a complete idiot and I don’t know the first thing about writing a novel! Of
course
you have to plan it out—’
‘But the thing is,’ Orla cut in, ‘I don’t.’
There it was again, that edge. Millie looked at her, confused. She’d completely lost track of this argument.
‘It's what I do,’ Orla went on, ‘because it's what I’ve always done. But it's not actually compulsory.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Millie nodded apologetically. She was beginning to wish she’d stayed at home and practiced her juggling.
‘Look, sit down.’ Abruptly pulling a sheet of paper from her desk drawer, Orla directed Millie on to the uncomfortable swivel chair. ‘And take a look at this. Then maybe you’ll understand.’
She stood in front of the window, smoking furiously and tugging at the cuff of her lilac, Bohemian-style shirt.
As Millie began to read the photocopied review of Orla's last novel, she shuddered in sympathy. The reviewer had stormed in with all guns blazing, criticizing the style and content of the book, and gleefully poking fun at the characters. The newspaper review was headlined, ORLA LOSES THE PLOT, and went dramatically downhill from that point. No critical stone was left unturned, and the agony didn’t end there. Cruel references were made to Orla's personal life. She was selling out, writing on autopilot, churning out rubbish that was an insult to her fans purely for the money and probably in order to shore up her marriage.
‘This,’ the review scathingly concluded, ‘is the very worst book I have ever read. But at least I was paid to read it. Unless anyone you know is prepared to pay you, I suggest you do yourself a huge favor and leave Orla Hart's latest apology for a novel firmly up there on the shelf.’
‘My God,’ Millie gasped, staring at Orla. ‘That is so
mean
.’
‘One way of putting it.’ Orla's tone was casual but there were tears glistening in her eyes. Vigorously she stubbed out her cigarette.
‘Do you know this man?’ According to the byline, the reviewer was one Christie Carson. The accompanying photograph was of a bearded, thin-faced, sardonic-looking male in his fifties. ‘I’ve
never even heard of Christie Carson.’ Outraged, she said, ‘And he's so
ugly
.’
‘The hairy weasel.’ Orla was fiddling frantically with her cigarette packet, clearly desperate for her next fix. ‘No, I’ve never met him. But I like to think he smells like a weasel too. Nasty, spiteful, jealous little man. He's one of the new Irish writers,’ she explained, because Millie was still mystified. ‘Forever banging on about literature and integrity and truth.’ Her lip curled in disdain. ‘Oh, he's a right smug intellectual, always being nominated for some award or another, but he doesn’t make as much money as I do. They try and pretend they don’t care but they’re actually eaten up with envy.’
‘But that's exactly why you mustn’t let this upset you.’ Millie rattled the photocopied sheet of A4 at her. ‘Don’t give him the satisfaction. Just ignore it!’
‘And count my money,’ Orla suggested dryly. She raked her fingers through her hair. ‘Easy to say, not so easy to do. The next time you’re ripped to shreds by a vindictive stranger in a national newspaper, why don’t you ring me up and tell me how easy it is to ignore. Sorry,’ she waggled her diamond-encrusted fingers in apology, ‘but you have no idea how much it hurts. I worked bloody hard to write an entertaining book and this is what I get in return, some beastly little man telling me my plots are unbelievable, my characters far-fetched, and my writing style about six rungs lower on the ladder than Jackie Collins's.’
Trying to help, Millie said, ‘But you must get nice letters as well, from people who’ve enjoyed your books.’
‘I get
loads
of nice letters.’ Orla's voice began to rise. ‘But they don’t
count
. It's nasty stuff like this that counts…
this
is what keeps me awake at night—’
‘That proposition you said you had for me.’ Millie intercepted her in mid-rant. ‘Would it by any chance have something to do with this Christie Carson?’
‘Funny you should mention it,’ said Orla, puffing away on her next cigarette. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you want me to write rude letters to him? Gun him down in the street? Wait until he's gone away for a few days and post prawns through his letterbox?’
The faintest of smiles flickered across Orla's face.
‘I wouldn’t waste prawns on a man like that. Maybe rotten fish heads.’
Alarmed, Millie said, ‘It was meant to be a joke.’
‘You don’t have to murder him.’ Orla held open the study door. ‘Come on, let's go downstairs. We’ll talk about it over lunch.’
‘Promise me I don’t have to seduce him,’ said Millie.
They ate poached salmon, baby new potatoes, and a roasted red-pepper salad.
‘So you see?’ asked Orla when she had finished outlining her plan. ‘All you’d have to do is be yourself.’
‘I don’t get it.’ If she did, Millie thought it was the weirdest idea ever. ‘You want your next book to be the story of all the things that happen to me in the next… how long? Six weeks? Six months? Year?’
‘No time limit. Just as long as it takes before we reach some kind of happy ending.’
Mad. Seriously mad.
‘So that would make it like my autobiography?’
‘Biography,’ Orla corrected her. ‘And no, I’d be writing a novel. The whole thing would be fictionalized. But I’d be paying you to provide the plot.’
‘What if I can’t?’ Millie started to laugh, because the prospect was so ridiculous. ‘I mean, it is quite likely, you know. I’ve no boyfriend, I’ve sworn to steer clear of men for the rest of the summer,
and I have about as much social life as your average Pot Noodle. I hate to say this, but your novel wouldn’t be exactly action-packed.’
Orla wasn’t laughing. She shrugged and jutted out her lower lip.
‘Maybe not, but at least no one would be able to call it fanciful and far-fetched and ridiculously over the top.’
Millie blinked.
‘You’re prepared to do all this because of one bad review.’
‘Actually, I’m doing it for all sorts of reasons. First of all, I think you’d be great material,’ said Orla. She held her glass of Frascati up to the light, admiring the way the sun glinted off it. ‘Think how we met, for a start. Then there's your gorgeous wallet story… and losing your job… and getting another job working for the handsome guy your best friend has a mad crush on—’
‘Okay, okay,’ Millie said hurriedly. She wouldn’t have called her wallet story gorgeous.
‘Secondly, I’d be getting out of the planning rut. I wouldn’t know what was going to happen next, simply because it won’t
have happened
yet! So no need to agonize over the plot,’ Orla said joyfully. ‘And you have no idea how great that would feel. I’d be free!’
Orla was right; Millie had absolutely no idea how great that would feel—the last piece of fiction she’d written had begun, ‘Dear Great Aunt Edna, Thank you so much for the lovely pair of shorts you knitted me…’
‘Go on,’ she urged Orla. ‘What else?’
Orla flew into the sitting room, returning moments later with a copy of her latest paperback. Holding it face-out, so Millie could see the instantly recognizable cover, she said, ‘See this? It's an Orla Hart blockbuster. Actually, it's the thirteenth Orla Hart blockbuster, and so far we’ve sold one and a half million copies. Which is fantastic, of course, for both me and my publishers. Because as far as they’re concerned, I’m their star battery chicken. Every year they take it for granted that I’ll just churn out another book.’
‘Egg,’ said Millie.
‘Golden egg,’ Orla corrected her with a faint smile. ‘In fact, a jewel-encrusted, solid-gold Fabergé egg the size of a sofa. Which is why, when I wanted to change my writing style a couple of years ago, they wouldn’t let me. They sweet-talked me out of it, in case I dented their precious profits. But this time I’m going to do it, I’m going to ditch the bonkbuster trappings, the clichés, the whole Orla Hart format. I’m going to write a proper
literary
novel, just to prove to all those bloody sneering critics out there that I can!’ As she spoke, she jabbed viciously at the review she had brought downstairs with her. ‘And sod anyone who cares more about the money than they care about me.’ She paused, then added calmly, ‘And that goes for Giles too.’
Blimey.
Millie nodded, impressed. Orla was using the opportunity to punish Giles for having had an affair. Maybe it was also her way of testing him. If this change of direction were to fail, Orla wanted to know if he would continue to support her.
For richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health.
‘You’d have to change all the names,’ Millie warned.
‘Darling, I know that. I thought we might call you Gertrude.’
‘Still seems a bit drastic.’ Millie gazed reflectively at the unattractive photograph of Christie Carson above his byline. ‘Couldn’t you just phone him up, shout “Wanker!” and tell him he's got a nose like a Jerusalem artichoke?’
He didn’t, but Millie never let the facts get in the way of a good insult.
‘Nose? Ha, willy more like. And don’t think I haven’t been tempted.’ Orla poured them both some more wine before settling back in her white rattan chair. ‘I hate that man, I really hate him for writing all that horrible stuff about me.’ She paused, then fixed Millie with a look of weary resignation. ‘But what I hate more is having to admit to myself that in some ways he's right.’
Before Millie left two hours later, Orla scribbled out a check for five thousand pounds and stuffed it into her hand.
Oh my giddy aunt. Five thousand
pounds
.
‘Really, you don’t have to,’ Millie protested, not meaning it for a second. How awful if Orla said, ‘No? All right then, I’ll have it back.’
Happily she didn’t.
‘Rubbish.’ Orla was brisk. ‘This is a business arrangement. It's only fair.’
It was, Millie decided happily. It
was
fair. Except…
‘I’m a bit embarrassed. What if you end up with a book where the girl spends her whole life watching
EastEnders
, shaving her legs, and trying to eat chocolate without getting it on her clothes?’
Despite years of practice, she’d never mastered the art of biting a Cadbury's Flake without crumbly bits falling down her front.
‘Exciting things will happen,’ Orla said soothingly. ‘And if they don’t, we’ll jolly well
make
them happen.’
‘Gosh.’
‘All you have to do is report back to me once a week.’
There was no denying it; this was easy money. Easy peasy.
‘And tell you everything?’ asked Millie.
‘Everything.’
‘Do I have to be called Gertrude?’
Orla patted her arm.
‘Darling, we can call you anything you like.’
‘Oh well, in that case,’ Millie brightened, ‘could you also make me look like Lily Munster?’
IT WAS WEIRD, GETTING ready for a date-that-definitely-wasn’t-a-date. Millie felt it was only polite to have a bath before meeting Hugh Emerson. But she didn’t dare dress up, in case he thought she was trying to impress him. He was a widower, a recent widower, and the very last thing he was interested in was getting hit on by some eager female desperate for a boyfriend.
Not that she was eager or a desperate Doris, but since they’d never met, Hugh wasn’t to know that.
Damn, thought Millie, pulling a face at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror, this would all be so much easier if only I hadn’t seen that photo of him in his wallet.
Or if I’d seen the photo and he’d been ugly.
Except then, of course, she might not have been seized with that shameful urge to ring his number and speak to him again.
His wife just died, his wife just died. Millie forced herself to run this cheery mantra through her brain as she pulled on a pair of white jeans, beige espadrilles, and a khaki tank top. Ha, see,
that's
how much I’m not bothered about making a good impression. Dragging a brush through her white-blonde hair, she hoped he wouldn’t assume it was dyed. Oops, and whatever happened, she mustn’t
mention
that word, the dreaded d-word.