Carbon

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. Ten hours after Mr. Midnight left me speechless in the summerhouse, Angie snapped her fingers in front of my face.

“What’s up? I know you daydream a lot, but you’ve been staring at the same spot on the wall for half an hour. That’s weird, even for you.”

She wasn’t wrong, but I’d never been taken from behind by a stranger in the early hours of the morning before. That sweet spot between my legs still ached as a reminder. “Just pondering a new plot line.”

Or even an old one—the way my impetuousness had combined with alcohol and a sexy stranger to bring one of my scenes to life. At least, he’d felt sexy. For all I knew, he could have looked like Frankenstein’s monster crossed with an Orc. It wasn’t as if I saw his face. What on earth had I been thinking? Oh, that’s right, I hadn’t.

“Well, ponder faster. I need you to take a look at cover designs for The Dark Night, help me with some interview questions, and take a few photos of me for Sapphire’s blog. And don’t forget Mother’s expecting you for lunch at one.”

“She is?”

“I put it in your diary last week and reminded you yesterday and the day before.”

She motioned to my MacBook, sitting on the desk opposite hers. My calendar stared back at me, filled with all the appointments I tried to ignore in favour of my precious writing time.

“What’s she got planned? Tell me she hasn’t brought that colour lady back again.”

Three weeks ago, my mother had asked me to join her for afternoon tea, only for an overly enthusiastic lady who looked like a packet of Skittles had thrown up over her to try and force her dubious fashion choices upon me over scones and crustless sandwiches. Apparently, Mother thought the jeans and jumpers I tended to live in weren’t appropriate for a lady.

“She was a bit cagey about the reason, but she said you need to dress up.”

“Are you coming too?”

“No, I told her I had to go out.”

“Couldn’t you have said I needed to go with you?”

“I tried, but she gave me that look. You know, the one where she summons Satan and channels him through her eyes.”

“Yes, I know it.”

Somehow, Angelica got away with more than I did. Her exuberant personality combined with the way Mother favoured her firstborn meant she’d always been granted more leeway. As the second twin, the one who’d popped out by surprise after a trainee midwife missed me on the ultrasound, I’d been playing catch-up to my mother’s expectations my whole life.

Father, on the other hand, adopted a more hands-off approach to parenting. As long as we didn’t bother him, he mostly left us alone. I say mostly, because it was he who’d decreed that any children of his would work for a living no matter how much money we happened to have.

The day after his colleague’s daughter maxed out her credit card and threw a tantrum at the office when it got declined in Harvey Nichols, he’d sat Angie and me down for a little chat.

“No child of mine is going to sit on her backside while the rest of the world slaves away. You both need to get jobs.”

It was a fair point, seeing as we’d graduated from university six months ago, but Angie acted like Father had ordered her to become a cat food tester or a shark wrangler.

“But, Daddy, I’m so busy. I’ve got tennis lessons, and lunches to attend, and I promised Mariella Huffington I’d help organise her wedding.”

“And all those things cost money. Who pays for them?”

“You do, Daddy.” She plastered on the smile that usually got her anything. “And I’ve always been grateful for that.”

“So grateful you almost got thrown out of university for turning up drunk to your lectures. No, you’ve got to get a job. Full time, part time—I don’t care, but you need to learn some responsibility.”

“But—”

“No excuses. You’ve got three months, and then I’m turning the bloody tap off.”

When he strode out of the living room, Angie sat down on the couch and groaned. “This is the worst idea he’s ever had. Is he trying to ruin my life?”

“He’s kind of right. And besides, we might find something we enjoy.”

Even as the words left my mouth, I crossed my fingers at the lie. Not only did I hate having to speak to strangers, which meant the mere thought of most careers sent me into a panic, the writing time I’d grown to appreciate after university would vanish. Three months. I had three months to finish my book before it became ten times more difficult.

So, the next morning, I set to work.

“What are you doing?” Angie asked two weeks later. “You’ve done nothing but type for the last fortnight.”

“Uh, filling out job applications?”

“What kind of jobs?”

She sidled around my desk, and I grabbed at the mouse to minimise chapter thirty-seven of He Called My Name, but instead of switching to the copy of my CV I’d knocked together, I accidentally played a rather dirty video of Michael Douglas in Basic Instinct.

Angie hooted with laughter. “You filthy woman!”

“It’s not what it looks like. This is...er...research.”

“Research? Into what? Are you finally going to try dating again?”

“No!”

“Don’t sound so shocked. It’s a reasonable question.” She crouched beside me, and her voice softened. “It’s been two years since Rupert died.”

“I know, but that’s not it.”

“What, then?”

How did I explain my worries that any man I found wouldn’t live up to the ideals I’d created in my head? “I’m just not ready; that’s all.”

“So you’re using Mr. Douglas as a substitute? You know, to...? Because I’m not usually one to judge, but in the middle of the day with your sister in the room...” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I can get you something to take care of that problem.”

Could I go any redder? “I told you; it’s research.”

I had fingers, thank you very much, and I knew how to use them.

“Research for what?”

“I’m writing a book, okay?”

“On what? Porn?”

“If you must know, it’s a historical romance. I was just watching for...uh...pointers. Since it’s been so long, as you kindly reminded me.”

“A book?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I know; it’s just... I guess I’m surprised.”

“I did spend the last six years studying English.”

“Do Mother and Father know what you’re doing?”

I stifled a laugh. “Of course not.”

My father only read non-fiction, while Mother stuck with women’s magazines and the occasional memoir. The idea of them reading the naughty bits and realising they came from my head? Yes, I’d rather walk across glowing coals.

“Come on then, let me have a look.”

The mouthful of tea I’d just taken almost flew across the keyboard, but I managed to choke on it instead. Angie thumped me on the back until the coughing subsided.

“What was that all about? Me reading your book? What’s the point in writing it otherwise?”

“I guess I figured the only people who might read it wouldn’t know me. That I could stay anonymous.”

“Are you planning to publish it?”

“At the moment, I’m just trying to finish it.”

“But then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead, okay? The bit I enjoy is the writing.”

Angie sat down at her own computer in the little lounge we shared upstairs, the one that had been our playroom as kids, and I thought she’d lost interest. But the next day, she dumped a huge pile of print-outs on my old walnut desk.

“What’s all this?”

“More research.”

I stared at her, then glanced at the pile, expecting to see a picture of a stripper after my excuse yesterday, but the top page was filled with tiny print.

“Research on what?”

“Publishing. I did it for you.” She shrugged. “Sure beat ringing around friends and begging for a job to keep Daddy happy.”

“Uh, I’m not sure...”

Truth be told, the idea of publishing scared the crap out of me. Sure, I had the goal of finishing this book, but I’d poured my heart into those pages, and I didn’t want my nearest and dearest to see inside.

“What’s not to be sure about? You’ve written a book; now it’s time for other people to read it. Two options—get an agent and a traditional publishing deal, or go the DIY route. Personally, I think that one looks more fun. Nobody telling us what to do, and we can sort out all the publicity ourselves.”

“Publicity?” My heart sank at the thought. “And what’s this ‘we’ business?”

Angie shoved the papers aside and perched on the edge of the desk. Her smile worried me, and that gleam in her eyes? She only got that when she came up with one of her brilliant ideas—the ones that always ended in disaster, apologies, and when we were a few years younger, getting grounded. Like the time when we were ten, and she wanted a puppy. Mother said no, dogs were dangerous, so Angie decided we’d prove otherwise by borrowing our old caretaker’s Great Dane and taking it for a walk. It knocked Angie over, then I got my hand tangled in its lead while it rampaged through Mother’s rose garden. After that, we weren’t allowed so much as a goldfish.

And now her grin grew wider.

“Daddy wants us to get jobs, right?”

“Right.”

“So, you become a writer, and I’ll be your assistant. Daddy’s always harping on about how important it is to have a good grasp of the English language. It’s perfect.”

No, no, no, no, no. A thousand times no. “No way. I mean, most writers don’t even make money.”

“Augusta, Augusta, Augusta.” She placed both hands on my shoulders. “This isn’t about earning money. It’s about keeping access to the money we already have. Just think about it—you get to carry on doing what you love, and I’ll... Well, I can post stuff on social media for you. Answer your emails, that sort of thing.”

My heart gave a little flutter. In a way, her crazy plan made sense, and the thought of being able to write all day rather than actually speak to people filled me with a sense of relief. Apart from... “I don’t want people knowing that story came from me.”

“Why? Aren’t you proud of it?”

After two rewrites and the mountain of advice I’d got from the editor I secretly hired? “Well, yes, but...” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “It’s got s*x in it. Mother would look at me all funny.”

Angie giggled. “It’s not like you’re a virgin. You were married, for crying out loud.”

For all of three days. “That’s different.”

Angie rolled her eyes, suggesting the difficulties were all in my head. “Okay, new plan. We’ll tell her I wrote the book, and you’re my assistant. She already spends her life moaning about my serial dating habit, so she’d totally believe it.”

“But what about everyone in the village? Your friends?”

“My friends will love the idea of me being a writer. I can sign books for them and stuff. And the people in the village talk behind their hands every time I walk into the pub, so what’s new? You never know—one of the old biddies might read your smut and have a heart attack.”

“It’s not smut!”

She waved at the screen. “Really? Michael’s naked backside?”

“I toned it down a bit.”

“Come on, if we’re going to do this, you have to let me read it.”

Okay, so it wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had. No, that honour went to the time seventeen-year-old Angie snuck out to a party late one Saturday evening with the lead singer of a local band Mother had banned her from seeing. I’d got a panicked phone call the next morning, whereupon I had to drive a hundred and fifty miles to pick her and her tattooed beau up from Manchester, still drunk. Mother caught us sneaking in, with Angie dressed up as the Green Absinthe Fairy complete with half a bottle of the vile green concoction, and we both got grounded for a month.

A tiny white lie regarding the true origins of He Called Her Name seemed tame in comparison. Besides, it wasn’t like I’d sell many copies, would I? If nothing else, I was a realist about my chances of success.

Only it didn’t quite turn out that way.

Fast forward five years, and twenty-seven-year-old me still hadn’t found herself a boyfriend, but I, or rather Sapphire Duvall, had become a bestseller nine times over. It turned out s*x really did sell.

Too bad I still wasn’t having any, apart from that one glorious night with Mr. Midnight. Mother kept attempting to meddle in my love life, just as she always had, and Angie had never stopped chasing anything with two well-muscled legs and a six-pack.

And now Mother expected me for lunch. If it was just the two of us, I’d be amazed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” I asked, no, begged Angie.

“Sorry. I’m meeting the events planning guy for the launch of The Dark Night. You know, for the masquerade ball?”

A sigh escaped. “I forgot.”

“I’ll be back by five. We can catch up before my date this evening.”

“Another date?”

“So many hot guys, so little time.”