Читать книгу Zelda’s Cut - Philippa Gregory - Страница 9

Rhett crushed her in his strong grip, his powerful member pressing against her thighs in a forceful reminder of their pleasure of the night before when she had lain whimpering with ecstasy beneath the pounding rush of his thrusts.

‘Do you swear that you love me more than you have ever loved anyone?’ Charity demanded.

‘I swear it,’ he said hoarsely. She could feel him pressing against her more urgently. In a moment, she knew she would succumb –

‘No, melt.’

– melt into his arms

‘No, beneath …’

beneath his desire and her resolve would be lost.

‘I love you more than anyone,’ he promised. ‘If I lost you my life would not be worth living.’

They were the words she had been waiting for.

‘I will be your wife,’ she said. ‘Love me.’

‘Mmm,’ Isobel muttered critically. She sat back for a moment and then typed a new version.

They were the words she had been waiting for. She drew back from him, quickly before the seduction of his body should entrap her.

‘You will never see me again,’ she said icily. ‘You will spend the rest of your life longing for me, longing for another night like last night, aching for my body, crying for my smile. This is the great revenge I have played out upon you. You will never be happy again.’

He would have snatched her to his mouth for a rain of hungry kisses but he was too late. Charity had slipped out of his embrace and was gone.

The last thing she heard was the cry of a man completely destroyed.

‘The end,’ Isobel wrote in quiet triumph. ‘The end.’ She hesitated, looking at the screen. ‘But which end?’

She turned to the bookshelves and pulled out the hidden commercial novels and flicked through to the last pages. They all ended happily. Isobel paused. ‘I can’t do it,’ she said with sudden resolution. ‘Even to work inside the genre, I can’t do it. This is a story about a woman who takes revenge, about a woman taking a decision about the sort of life she wants to live. I won’t have her melting at the last moment. I want her to be free, I want her to leave the man and go.’

She pushed her chair back from the desk and unconsciously unravelled the knot of her hair, ran her fingers through the thick softness of it and then tied it back up. ‘I can’t bear to have her just collapse under a man, after all she’s been through,’ Isobel whispered. ‘This isn’t a story about wanting a man. This is a story about a woman making her own choices. About a woman who has the guts to say that love is not the important thing: the important thing is autonomy.’

She stabbed a grip firmly into the re-made bun, pulled her chair closer to the desk, and with one sweep of the computer mouse, highlighted the tender reconciliation scene and cut it. It disappeared from the screen leaving Charity’s curse on the man she had loved and her disappearance from his life.

‘Quite right too,’ Isobel said with satisfaction. ‘Why should a woman be stuck with a man?’ She paused for a moment, savouring the sense of completion. Then she picked up the telephone.

‘It’s finished,’ she announced to Troy. ‘I’ve done it.’

‘Zelda Vere – well done!’ he said in a whisper. ‘And something’s come up here.’

‘What?’

‘You know the auction date is next Tuesday?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I wanted it finished by then so you could tell them you had the whole book, as soon as it is bought.’

‘One of them wants to meet you.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not unreasonable. They’re talking about investing a lot of money. But it does leave us with a bit of a problem. D’you think you could come up and be Zelda Vere for a day? Say on the Monday?’

‘For how many people?’ Isobel spoke cautiously but she had a great sense of excitement and anticipation at the thought of putting on Zelda Vere’s beautiful clothes and her golden head of hair and that wonderful makeup.

‘I don’t know how many would want to come. You’d have to be prepared for half a dozen. And you’ll have to have a back-story. You’ll have to think who Zelda is, where she comes from. Where she got the ideas for this novel. Why don’t you come and stay the night before, Sunday night, and we’ll spend some time and get our act together?’

Isobel thought quickly. Mrs M. usually came in to sleep if Isobel was away at literary conferences or at book festivals. She generally brought a videotape and she and Philip would settle down for the evening and watch something trivial. He would complain for days after that her company rotted his brain; but his relish for the light thrillers which she chose was undeniable.

‘If I can, I will,’ Isobel said. ‘I’ll have to sort out things here.’

‘I think we need to spend some time on this,’ Troy said. Unusually for him, he sounded anxious. ‘I didn’t look ahead to this. I thought they’d just snap at the book. I didn’t think they’d want to meet you before the auction.’

‘It’s all right.’ Isobel heard herself sounding calm and reassuring. She realised that she was looking forward to being Zelda Vere. She wanted to wear that lovely suit, to be a blonde beautiful woman. She wanted to see her long legs in the gold strappy sandals and to wear the expensive underwear against her skin. She even wanted the firm sensation of the underwired bra pressing against the bones of her chest. She wanted to be that other woman, far away from the tedium and the responsibility of her normal life.

‘I’ll be there,’ she promised. ‘We can do it.’

‘It’s a reading,’ she told Philip. ‘First thing at Goldsmiths College and a discussion about the novel. Apparently someone dropped out at the last minute and they asked me to step in.’

‘Should have thought of you in the first place,’ Philip said. ‘You shouldn’t let people treat you like second best. You shouldn’t be the one they fall back on, Isobel, you should be their first choice.’

‘Well, they’ve chosen me now. The only thing is, I’d like to stay Sunday night, so that I don’t have to rush on Monday morning. I hate that commuter train going into London in the morning.’

‘Away all night?’ he asked.

‘Mrs M. could come in. I’ll ask her.’

‘I suppose she’ll bring one of those ridiculous films and insist on watching it.’

Isobel smiled. ‘I expect she will. She always does.’

‘When would you be back?’

‘After lunch sometime, Monday afternoon,’ Isobel said. ‘It’s an all-day conference. I might stay and listen to the other papers if that’s all right with you.’

‘Makes no difference to me,’ he said ungraciously. ‘I’m not going out dancing after all. I can do the crossword and my exercises whether you’re here or not. What did you think you might be missing? Riding on the motorbike? Cross-country skiing?’

‘No,’ Isobel said quietly.

There was a brief silence. Isobel kept her eyes on the table-top and thought that Philip’s bad temper was as much a symptom of his illness as his wasted legs. She should embrace them both with equal tenderness. She kept looking down until she could meet his eyes and smile at him with real affection.

He was not looking at her, he was reading a brightly coloured leaflet. He nodded at the information and then pushed it across the lunch table towards her. ‘Here, I sent off for this. I thought it would give us a general idea.’

It was a glossy brochure from a swimming-pool company. It showed a seductive picture of a beautiful indoor swimming pool, the lights glistening on the blue water, a bikini-clad girl poised on the diving board.

‘Does it say how much?’ Isobel asked.

Philip laughed shortly. ‘I think if you have to ask the price you can’t afford it. And anyway, it varies in terms of the volume of the pool and whether you have an electric pump and heater or a gas one.’

Isobel felt a familiar sense of dread. ‘I can see you’ve gone into it,’ she said lightly.

‘I just like to know things,’ he said with dignity. ‘I measured up the barn the other day. We could easily fit it in there and even a small sauna.’

‘A sauna!’ she exclaimed. ‘Very grand.’

‘I think it would help my condition,’ he said. ‘The heat. And of course the exercise. I could do my exercises in the water, it would take the strain off the joints, and I would swim. It’d do you good too. You never take any exercise. You drive everywhere. At least I walk once a day, but you only drive to the village. You’ll get overweight, Isobel, flabby. Women always run to flab. We’re neither of us spring chickens any more.’

‘I know.’ Isobel nodded, swallowing the retort that she drove to the village to collect him, to spare him the return walk home; that before his illness she had walked every day. Now she never had the time.

‘There you are then.’

‘So how much do they cost? Swimming pools? About?’

‘We’d get a nice one in the barn and the barn converted with sliding picture windows for under £50,000,’ he said judicially. ‘We could do it a lot cheaper, of course, but I think it’d be a false economy.’

Isobel blinked. ‘We simply haven’t got that sort of money darling.’

‘Not now we haven’t, I know. But when they bid for your new book we’ll have a lump sum come in.’

Isobel recoiled, thinking for one extraordinary moment that he knew all about Devil’s Disciple. Then she realised that he was talking about the literary novel that Penshurst Press had bought for only £20,000.

‘Yes,’ she said, rapidly improvising. ‘I have great hopes for it.’

‘Troy not told you yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘He’s so slow, that man, anyone would think he was doing you a favour.’

‘He’s discussing with the editors.’

‘Lunching out at your expense, more like,’ Philip grumbled. ‘You ought to tell him, remind him who it is that earns the money.’

‘I know I should,’ she said mildly. ‘I’ll talk to him next week.’

‘I’ll see what sort of planning permission we need,’ Philip said. ‘I’ll phone the town hall. Do us no harm to get planning permission and some drawings done.’

‘Perhaps we should wait till we know how much I’m going to earn …’

‘It’d be an interest for me,’ he pointed out.

‘Oh of course then, yes. Let’s get some drawings done.’ She hesitated. ‘They won’t be very expensive, will they?’

‘For God’s sake!’ he exploded. ‘You’re so mean these days, Isobel! We have to spend some money if we want to go ahead with this. If you’re so anxious about it then I’ll pay for the drawings myself. All right? I’ll cash in some shares, I’ll use my own money. Will that satisfy you?’ He stamped to the back door and threw it open. ‘I’m going for my walk,’ he said irritably.

‘I’ll pick you up from the pub,’ she said quickly to the closing door.

‘You don’t need to,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m going up the hill. I don’t know how long I’ll be.’

Isobel let him go. There was no point in running after him. She went to the kitchen window and watched his endearing limping stride carry him slowly to the end of the garden and then out through the wrought-iron gate to the track that wound steeply up the side of the Weald. He would never manage to walk to the crest of the hill, she knew. He would be too breathless and his weakened legs could not carry him up that hard gradient. She watched him with a pity which was so intense that it felt like passion. She wanted to go after him, she wanted him to lean on her, she wanted to support him.

Philip would be back by teatime, she reassured herself. He would be tired out within half an hour and sit down to rest, too proud to come home straight away. As long as he did not take a chill he would come to no harm, stubbornly sitting out the afternoon, wanting to worry her, insisting on his independence. By four he would limp homeward, wanting his tea. He would hate it if she ran after him, he would hate it if she showed how easily she could catch him up, even if she were following him for love. He would even hate knowing that she had watched him go. He did not want pity, he wanted them both to behave as if nothing was wrong. The best thing that she could do for him was to earn the money to buy the things he wanted, and to maintain the life that they had chosen.

Isobel turned back to the study. She could get the full text of Devil’s Disciple formatted and printed out and ready to take to London when she went on Sunday night. She felt that the most loving thing she could do for him was to sell the Zelda Vere novel and earn him the money he needed now.

Troy opened the front door of his London flat almost as soon as she rang the bell. ‘This is getting a bit tense,’ he said, leading the way from the little hall up the carpeted stairs. Isobel followed, carrying her overnight bag. ‘I told one of the publishers they could meet you and now they all want to come. I said they could come here, each of them, at hourly intervals. Half an hour quick chat and then go. So I’ve kept it as short as I can.’

Isobel heard herself give a nervous little laugh. ‘Well, the worst that can happen is they don’t bid for the book, isn’t it? It’s not as if we’re impersonating a policeman or anything. We’re not doing anything criminal.’

‘No,’ he said, slightly cheered. ‘I thought we’d have a practice tonight, a dress rehearsal.’

‘Of course.’

Troy threw open the door to the spare bedroom and Isobel went inside. The wardrobe doors were open, the plastic covers were off the suits. The makeup was laid out on the dressing table, eyeshadows and liner and mascara to the left, lipsticks to the right, foundation powders and blushers in the centre. The shoes, free of their shoe trees, were standing side by side at the foot of the bed.

‘You got it all ready!’

‘It just seemed the right thing to do – preparing the star’s dressing room.’

Impulsively, Isobel turned around and kissed him. He held her lightly for a moment and she had a sudden surprising sense of his nearness, of the intimacy of his touch.

‘Now get out of that dreadful skirt and into Zelda’s lovely clothes and we’ll get started,’ he said briskly.

She hesitated for a moment, waiting for him to leave, but he had turned aside to the wardrobe to slip the suit off the hanger. He was so matter-of-fact, so uninterested that she felt that it was all right to undress before him. It was as he said, like being an actress, like being a star. He was her dresser; he was not a lover watching her strip.

‘It’s your fault it’s an awful skirt,’ she said stoutly, pushing the elasticated waistband down over her hips. ‘I wanted to take the suits home.’

‘Zelda stays here. I take care of her clothes. You can go and buy yourself some new things if you need them. But not too glamorous. You two have to stay separate.’

Isobel stepped into the pink skirt and carefully pulled it up, zipped it up, and settled it on her hips with her hands in the odd coquettish gesture that all women in snug skirts naturally adopt.

‘Nice,’ Troy said. ‘And the jacket?’

‘I need the new bra,’ Isobel said. ‘It won’t fit right without it.’

‘Oh, of course,’ he said. ‘Top drawer on the right.’

Isobel opened the drawer. He had unpacked all the underwear and folded it meticulously on scented liners. There was also a new silk nightdress.

‘What’s this?’ Isobel asked.

‘I couldn’t see Zelda sleeping in a pair of cotton pyjamas, so I bought her something a bit silky.’

‘Thank you,’ Isobel said. ‘You’ve been to a lot of trouble.’

‘I enjoyed it,’ he said simply. ‘I liked getting the things just right, and I loved the makeup. All those little bottles, it’s just like the little pots of model paints I had when I was a kid.’

Isobel hesitated, wanting to take off her bra but feeling shy.

‘I’ll get us a couple of glasses of champagne,’ Troy said. ‘Help the alibi along. Zelda always drinks Roederer, I think. I got some in.’

Isobel dressed swiftly while he was gone and when he came back she was seated before the mirror pulling the skullcap over her hair.

‘It would be miles easier if I did go blonde,’ she said.

Troy put the cold glass of champagne on the dressing table beside her. ‘Absolutely not. You’d be too alike, and anyway, I like having her hair waiting here, along with her clothes. I looked in last night and she was like a ghost waiting to be raised.’

Isobel sipped her glass, and then ducked her head and pulled the wig on.

‘Careful!’ Troy snapped. ‘You’ll tear it! Here! Let me.’

‘It’s so tight!’ she complained.

‘Hold it at the front while I pull it down at the back.’

Isobel held the fringe as firmly as she dared while Troy heaved from behind. Slowly the skin stretched and then encased her head. She pushed the hair back from her face and looked into the mirror. A face halfway between Isobel and Zelda looked back at her, with Isobel’s tired skin and dark-shadowed eyes and pale lips, but Zelda’s glorious mane of barmaid blonde.

‘Put some makeup on quick,’ Troy urged her. ‘Shall I do it? I was watching what she did.’

‘Oh yes please.’ Isobel tipped her head back, closed her eyes and gave herself up to the pleasure of his touch. He cleansed her skin with the same gritty, sweet-smelling cream, and then wiped it clean, patted it with toner and then moisturiser and then stroked on the foundation cream with tiny sensual sponging gestures, intruding like a lapping kitten into the corners of her eyes, sweeping like the wing of a bird across her cheeks.

‘Don’t open your eyes,’ he whispered, his lips very close to her ear. ‘I want to do the lot.’

She stayed completely still, as he commanded, her eyes closed, the sensitive skin of her cheeks, her temples, recognising the warm breath of the powder, the soft brush of the blusher. Her eyelids were soothed by the soft stipple of the eyeshadow, pressed by the application of false eyelashes, and then slicked by the wet line of the eyeliner.

The touch of the lipstick brush on her lips was like a hundred small, slow kisses. She felt her soft lips dragged gently one way and then another in a slow, tantalising, dabbing gesture.

Then the soft tissue was laid over all her face and patted gently down.

‘Et voilà!’ Troy said, his voice husky. ‘And Zelda is with us.’

Almost unwillingly Isobel came out of the darkness which had been filled with such passive sensuality, and found herself looking into the radiant face of Zelda Vere.

‘You are beautiful,’ Troy said. His face was beside hers, looking over her shoulder into the mirror.

‘She is,’ Isobel reminded him.

‘Well, you are her now. So you are,’ he said. ‘I feel like a magician. I made you. I painted you like a doll and here you are. Coppella.’

The two of them gazed and gazed at the image they had made for long moments.

‘Now,’ said Troy. ‘To work. We’ll go into the sitting room.’

Isobel reached for her glass and got to her feet.

‘No! No!’ Troy exclaimed. ‘Don’t rush. And Zelda never picks up her own glass. Someone will carry that for you. You move slowly, and elegantly, as if you were paid by the minute.’

Isobel walked slowly to the door.

‘More hips,’ Troy said.

‘I’d look ridiculous,’ Isobel argued, pausing at the door.

‘Of course. All rich women look ridiculous. But who would ever dare to tell them? Sway your hips. Think Marilyn Monroe.’

Isobel set off down the corridor towards the sitting room, conscientiously swaying her hips. Her high heels snagged slightly in the thick pile carpet. She did not feel glamorous any more, she felt incompetent. She turned at the doorway and met Troy’s encouraging smile.

‘Nearly,’ he said. ‘Look. Watch me.’ With both glasses held steadily in each hand he walked towards her, his weight well forward, his hips tilted, each step a little dance movement as he flicked his hips to one side and then the other. ‘The hips go sideways, the legs go straight on,’ he said, announcing a discovery. ‘And it’s a narrow path, the feet go along a line. Try again.’

Isobel walked back to the bedroom.

‘Brilliant. Once more for luck?’

She walked the length of the corridor and then returned, moving like a model on a catwalk before his judging eyes.

‘Perfect,’ he concluded. ‘Now. Go in and sit down.’

Isobel was gaining confidence, she swayed across the sitting-room floor, chose to sit on the sofa and spread herself along it, long legs outstretched, leaning diagonally back against the cushions. She crossed her legs at the knee, stroking the pink skirt downwards. She allowed one mule to drop slightly, showing the arch of her foot.

‘That is very sexy,’ Troy said with deep approval. ‘I knew you had it buried in you, Isobel. God help us all when it comes seething out.’

She giggled. ‘I don’t seethe.’

He clapped his hand over his mouth. ‘My fault. I shouldn’t have said Isobel. Zelda, I should have said – Zelda, you look wonderful. You are a woman full of seething sensuality. Here’s your champagne.’

‘Thank you,’ Isobel drawled. She put her hand out but did not stretch towards him. She made him walk to her and give her the glass.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now tell me about your early life.’

‘I was brought up in France,’ Isobel started, telling the story she had devised on the train. ‘My mother was a cook to a family of ex-pats in the South of France. I don’t want to release their name. I was educated at home, so there’s no record of me at any French school. At eighteen I became a secretary in the family’s wine business. At twenty-four I made a brief, unhappy marriage to a Frenchman and when I left my husband I did a number of jobs, all of them clerical, temporary. I’ve always written, I’ve always kept a diary and written short stories but this is the first novel I have ever completed. It took me ten months to write. I got the idea from a newspaper cutting, I can’t remember quite where, and from the stories that the French maids used to tell me about strange goings-on in the neighbouring chateaux.’

‘Excellent,’ Troy said, pouring them both some more champagne. ‘And your parents?’

‘Both died in a car crash twelve years ago, leaving me very well off. With my inheritance I have travelled all round the world.’

‘Any other family?’

‘I was an only child. Books were my only friends,’ Isobel added. A wink from Troy commended the addition.

‘And where d’you live now?’

‘I was travelling. But now I am going to buy myself a flat beside the Thames in London. I have a great affinity for ports, being such a traveller.’

‘Romantic interest?’

‘I feel I must preserve my privacy.’

‘But your passionate love scenes, are they all imaginary?’

‘I have known deep desire. I am a woman of passion.’

‘Age?’

‘Forty-six?’ Isobel hazarded.

‘Go for forty-two,’ Troy commended. ‘D’you drink or do drugs at all?’

She shook her head. ‘I have a horror of drugs, but I drink champagne and mineral water. Never coffee, only herbal tea.’

‘Beauty routine? Writing routine? Lifestyle?’

‘Cleanse, tone, moisturise,’ Isobel recited. ‘I write every day in a fountain pen in special French exercise books. I read in the afternoon in either French or English. I am very disciplined. I prefer to travel by train so that I can comfortably work and watch the scenery.’

‘Lonely?’ Troy asked.

For a moment, surprised by the question, her face came up and she met his eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, in her real voice. ‘Oh yes.’

Troy flicked his gaze away, determined not to hear the note of true desolation. Isobel looked away as well. She had not meant him to know. She had not meant ever to know it herself.

‘I mean, despite all this foreign travelling, d’you have no friends?’

Isobel slid back behind the mask of Zelda Vere. ‘I meet people and talk to them, perhaps intimately. But then they go on their journey and I go on mine. From now on I shall live for my writing.’

‘Do you think you are a good writer?’

Zelda Vere leaned forward. ‘What the world needs is storytellers,’ she breathed. ‘People make so much fuss about these so-called literary novels which are read by maybe one or two thousand people. My stories will reach millions of people. People need stories and magic and hope in their dreary day-to-day lives. I happen to have the wonderful talent of being a great storyteller. I may not know about semi-colons, but I do know about life.’

‘Brava!’ Troy cried, applauding. ‘Brava.’

They practised a few more questions and answers before Troy ruled that they should eat before they were drunk on champagne. He would not allow Isobel to keep on the wig or the clothes while they ate. ‘What if you dropped food on her skirt?’ he asked. ‘I want her to wear the pink tomorrow.’

Isobel went and stripped off Zelda Vere’s clothes, and wiped Zelda Vere’s makeup from her face. She came into the kitchen-diner wearing the despised skirt and a baggy jumper, her face plain and slightly shiny from the makeup remover.

‘Hello, Isobel,’ Troy said encouragingly. ‘Here, have a nibble.’ He pushed a dish of olives and nuts towards her and peered under the grill where two dishes in silver foil were starting to bubble.

‘Are you cooking?’ Isobel asked in surprise.

‘I sent out. I’m just warming it up,’ he said. ‘Chicken breasts in pesto and beetroot, with wild rice. Hope you like it.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Isobel replied, thinking of her usual supper at home: plain dishes like cottage pie or grilled trout, lamb cutlets or steak. Philip preferred simple food and only had a little appetite. At the end of a day of writing, she had no energy for shopping, preparing, and cooking.

They ate companionably either side of the worktop, perched on kitchen stools. ‘I turned the dining room into my study,’ Troy said. ‘I so seldom eat at home, it seemed stupid having a room standing empty.’

‘Where do you eat?’ Isobel asked.

‘Oh, restaurants with people, or quite often at parties,’ he said vaguely. ‘Or dinner parties, you know.’

Isobel nodded but she did not know. She was invited regularly to literary parties, but she did not like to go alone, and standing around and talking was obviously unsuitable for Philip’s condition. In any case he hated those sorts of social occasions. The few parties they had attended when Isobel’s career was starting to take off, before Philip was ill, had been uncomfortable for them both. Philip regarded any other author as a rival to his wife, and any attention paid to any other writer as a snub to his wife. He tried to defend her by loudly decrying everyone else’s work. He was shy in a room full of strangers and his shyness took the form of abruptness, almost rudeness. Equally, he felt insulted that people would ask him briefly what he did and yet have no genuine interest in his experiences, in his lifetime’s work in the pharmaceutical industry. Their eyes slid past him to Isobel, they expected him to introduce her and then stand back.

What made this even more galling was that Isobel would never have written in the first place without Philip’s encouragement. In the early days she used to read to him in the evening and he would often suggest a change or a correction. He thought deeply about the things that she cared about. He had skills of critical reading and self-discipline which he taught her. He bought her a word processor and introduced her to it, helping her to make the transition from her old typewriter. He encouraged her to write every day, whether or not she was in the mood. To find that she was now something of a celebrity and he relegated to the position of driver and handbag carrier was quite unbearable. His sudden illness put an end to Isobel’s social success and his descent into second place, and spared them both the challenge of maintaining a husband’s pride when his wife was suddenly regarded as more interesting, more successful and, even worse, a better earner.

Philip’s illness kept him at home, protected him from Isobel’s fame. It kept her at home, too.

‘You could come up to town more than you do,’ Troy remarked.

‘It’s the trains,’ Isobel said easily. ‘And I don’t like to leave Philip too often.’

‘Oh yes, how is he?’ Troy uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured them both a glass.

‘Just the same,’ Isobel said. ‘If things go well tomorrow then perhaps I’ll make enough money to put in a swimming pool. He thinks that would really make a difference. There have been some studies. Heat and exercise in buoyancy can really make a difference, apparently.’

‘And what is it that he’s got, exactly?’ Troy said. ‘Sorry, I feel I should know, but I really don’t. He’s been ill ever since I first knew you. I never really liked to ask.’

He saw how the very question drained her of energy. Her face grew grey with weariness. ‘Nobody knows. That’s the hardest thing about it. He has some kind of neurological malfunction which is rather rare. Nobody knows quite what causes it, it could be genetic, or it could be a virus, or it could be an allergy. What it means is that the part of the brain which activates the big muscle groups, arms, legs, sort of misfires. The messages don’t get through. So the muscles weaken and waste. The real struggle is to keep mobile. Swimming would be ideal, and he does exercises and walks every day. He’s very brave.’

‘What’s the prognosis?’

‘That’s part of the difficulty. Nobody knows for sure. Some people just get spontaneously better – about a third of people get better. About a third get very bad and then stay there. And the final third get weaker and weaker and then die. We know now that he’s not got the worst case, he won’t die. But we didn’t know that for the first two years.’ She made a little grimace of pain. ‘That was the worst time, but in a way it was a good time. We were very passionate together, because every day was precious. We really felt that we were on borrowed time. But now …’ She broke off. ‘Now we don’t know how he’ll be over the next few years.’ She made her voice cheerful. ‘He could stay the same. Or he could get better, you see. He could get better tomorrow. He won’t die. It’ll probably be like this forever.’

Troy looked across the worktop at her with compassion. ‘But it means that you’re only fifty, and married to a man who won’t ever take you dancing.’

‘Dancing’s the least of it,’ she said quietly.

There was a brief silence and then Isobel found a smile from somewhere. ‘There’s no point grieving over it,’ she said briskly. ‘I made my mind up to it years ago. I was sure he was going to die when he first had it. I promised myself then that if he was spared, if we were spared, that I would be happy. I would make him happy. This is so much better than it might have been.’

‘Oh yes,’ Troy assented emphatically, privately thinking that it was not.

At eight thirty in the morning Troy called Isobel; but she had been awake for an hour, listening to the unaccustomed noise of the London street, nursing a hangover, and wishing she felt free to go to the kitchen and make herself a cup of tea.

He opened the bedroom door and presented her with a cup of pale green liquid smelling of straw. ‘Herbal tea,’ he said. ‘To get you in the mood.’

‘I’m terrified,’ Isobel said.

‘You’ll be wonderful. You were wonderful yesterday and that was only a practice.’

‘And there’ll be no-one who has ever met me? No-one from Penshurst Press?’

‘Penshurst!’ He waved them away. ‘They don’t have the kind of money we’re looking for here. They’re a small-time literary house. We’re playing with the major league here.’

Isobel nodded and leaned back against the pillows.

‘You’re pale,’ he said with sudden concern. ‘Feeling all right?’

‘I have a hangover,’ she confessed. Philip would have been shocked and disapproving.

‘Oh yes,’ Troy said. ‘I’ll get you something. We did go it a bit.’

He disappeared from the bedroom and came back with a small effervescing drink. ‘Here you are. And I’ve run you a hot bath. As soon as you’ve had it we’ll have breakfast and then start to get Zelda ready. She needs to be beautiful by ten o’clock. The first editors are here at ten thirty.’

‘Isn’t that awfully early?’ asked Isobel, who had learned over the years that it was impossible to reach the editors at her publishing house much before eleven in the morning.

Troy grinned. ‘They’re hungry. They’ll be here.’

‘You make me sound like a picnic,’ Isobel remarked.

‘Zelda is,’ he said, lingering on her name. ‘Zelda is a picnic and a dinner and a drink all rolled into one. Zelda is cordon bleu, and everybody wants her.’

Isobel, perfumed, blonde-headed, perfectly made up and dressed in the pink suit with the pink mules, was draped over the sofa at ten fifteen, and at ten thirty the first editors came in. She did not get up from her seat but merely lifted a languid hand to them. The woman shook hands, but the man was so overcome that he kissed the well-manicured fingertips and then sat down opposite her and gazed.

‘How much of this is based on real life?’ Susan Jarvis, the senior editor, asked.

Zelda Vere smiled. ‘It’s fiction, of course.’

‘But I would guess that you have had some kind of experience with a Satanic cult?’ Susan pressed.

Zelda’s gesture indicated an invisible wall before her. ‘I based the novel on my research and my own intuitive sense,’ she said. ‘And on my experiences, of course.’

In this country?’ Susan hinted.

‘In this country, and abroad.’

‘Of course Zelda’s great talent is telling a great story,’ Troy intervened, speaking to Charles, the junior editor.

‘It is a great story,’ he concurred. ‘May I say, Miss Vere, what a great story it is? And what a great all-round package – if I can use the word – you are? I think we can do great things with you.’

‘What sort of things?’ Troy asked encouragingly.

‘Oh, we’d be looking at a major advertising campaign in all the media including television. We’d be looking at a major author tour in five, maybe six or seven, cities. We’d be submitting this book for the appropriate prizes, extracts in suitable magazines, a big publicity campaign and a big push in the non-book outlets in particular.’

‘Non-book outlets?’ Isobel asked, confused.

‘Supermakets,’ Troy said briefly. ‘More than bookshops.’

‘You would sell my book in supermarkets? Like cans of beans?’

Troy’s eyes snapped a warning at her. ‘Miss Vere, Justin and Freeman Press would undertake to place this book where it would sell the most copies. That’s what we all want.’

‘Of course we’d try for the bookshops,’ Charles said feebly. ‘But the great strength of this book, as we see it, is the common touch.’ He turned back to Zelda Vere. ‘You really know how the ordinary woman thinks. It struck a chord with all of us at Justin and Freeman. I gave the manuscript to my secretary and to my wife, and I can tell you, I knew, when those two ordinary women came back to me and said that they saw themselves in this wonderful story, that we had a winner on our hands.’

‘Both very normal and at the same time very bizarre,’ Susan confirmed. ‘That was what attracted me: the bizarre quality of the story. And, more than anything else, fresh; but absolutely central to the genre.’

‘And which genre is that?’ Troy asked.

Susan looked at him as if there could be no doubt. ‘Survivor fiction,’ she said bluntly. ‘This is a survivor fiction novel. We couldn’t make it work any other way. This is Zelda’s own story, fictionalised and told in third person – though we may need to see an editorial amendment there – but this is the real-life story of a woman horrifically abused who survives and revenges herself.’

Isobel felt her hand tighten on the stem of the champagne glass. ‘But if it were real life, if it were true, then Charity would face dozens of criminal charges.’ She stopped herself, realising her snap of irritation was quite unlike Zelda Vere’s slow drawl. ‘I’m sorry. What I meant to say was – it can’t be offered as a true story. Not possibly. Can it? Because Charity kidnaps two children and burns down a house, and bankrupts a business and blackmails a politician, and scars a woman.’

‘I assumed there was a fictional element,’ Susan said briskly. ‘And we’d make that clear. But this is a survivor fiction, isn’t it? There is a core of truth, and that a terrible truth.’

‘Yes,’ said Troy.

‘No,’ said Isobel.

Troy crossed the room and took her hand and kissed it. Under the warm touch of his lips she felt the warning pinch of his fingers. ‘She’s such an artist she does not know the truth she has told,’ he said firmly. ‘She’s still in denial.’