stared at Dora incredulously. ‘Fire Lillian? Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a pussy cat. Okay, so she made one slip, but she’ll be fine, trust me.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘They could have come round to Gunners Terrace for a quote, you know.’
Dora picked at the posy on the table. ‘They did, but I was out all day after the TV interview –’ She stopped, letting her mind toy with the chain of events. ‘Josephine Hammond was prowling around on the doorstep when I got home, looking for Catiana. What I don’t understand is why she didn’t come back –’ Comprehension dawned. ‘You rang her up, didn’t you, Calvin?’ she hissed. ‘You rang the papers and fed them this entire story.’
Calvin lifted his hands. ‘I thought I’d defuse the situation. I knew you were upset, so I set up an interview at my office, so they wouldn’t come a-huntin’. I told you about it at the funeral, remember? Everyone is very curious about Lillian. And there’s no such thing as bad publicity. I just gave them a brief statement before they started to sniff for something bigger. I mean, isn’t that what we hired Lillian for? She’s paid to take your flak.’
Dora glanced down at the interview Lillian had given. ‘So, who wrote her script this time?’
Calvin looked uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to do it –’ he began.
Dora slapped the paper down in front of him and pointed to a line half way down the second column. ‘“I really love living in Fairbeach. My agent, Calvin Roberts, has got me this lovely little flat on Anchor Quay now I’m getting successful.”’
Calvin choked and grabbed the paper out of her hands. ‘Where does it say that?’ He read it and looked up at Dora apologetically, struggling to regain his composure. ‘She likes people to like her. She just wants to be helpful. She tells them what she thinks they want to hear.’
Dora gave him an icy stare. ‘That’s exactly why she has got to go, Calvin. She looks right but –’ Dora shivered, thinking about Catiana Moran sitting in Smith’s, surrounded by all those ordinary, dull people, in her sleek copper dress, lips drawn back in a carnivorous smile. She should have guessed that something so beautiful might well be dangerous. ‘Hiring Lillian was a bad move. I want my life back.’
Calvin beckoned the wine waiter over and ordered two brandies.
‘Look, Dora, you really can’t let this faze you.’ He shook out his napkin and arranged it across his lap. ‘Let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s the latest book coming along?’
Dora snorted. As far as Calvin was concerned, the matter was already closed. How could she make him understand that Lillian Bliss’ arrival had been like a hand-grenade exploding in her life? Calvin looked at her, expecting an answer. ‘Is this some sort of therapeutic attempt to make light conversation? I haven’t written a single word since the break-in.’
He blew a silvery plume of cigar smoke across the table. ‘It’s understandable you’re a bit upset but it’ll pass. Trust me. The publishers are desperate for the next one. July you said, but if you can get it to them early –’
‘Oh, right, so they’ve got plans for a best seller, have they, now we’ve got Lillian to push the books? I don’t think so. I really don’t think I can do it.’ She took a deep pull from the brandy balloon, feeling a flutter of annoyance settle alongside her sense of ill-ease as the alcohol hit her empty stomach.
Calvin leant forward and rested his fingers lightly on her arm.
‘Don’t get so touchy. I’m just pointing out you have contractual commitments. You’re losing sight of reality here.’ His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You and I both know Lillian’s just an actress. Catiana Moran isn’t real. This will all blow over.’
Dora shook her head to clear it, feeling the warm glow of the brandy easing into her bloodstream. ‘Not if you keep wheeling Lillian out into the spotlight,’ she said softly, ‘she’s trouble.’
Calvin groaned and swirled his brandy. When the waiter stepped up to the table he ordered for them both while Dora sat staring out of the rain-streaked windows.
Jon Melrose had advised her to check her security – and that was before the letters had arrived. He’d looked very good, hadn’t he? She’d always thought he had beautiful eyes. She encouraged his face and the sound of his voice to float up inside her head as an antidote to Calvin’s indifference and found it as effective as Novocain. It surprised her just how much detail her memory had stored. Just as she was thinking about how Jon’s hair curled into the curve of his neck, she realised that Calvin was still speaking, and she struggled to snap back to catch the words.
‘I’m totally bloody lost without it …’
Dora reluctantly shook away the compelling image of Jon Melrose sitting on her sofa. ‘I’m sorry, Calvin. I was miles away. What did you say?’
Calvin’s face clouded. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. You’ve really got to get a grip, Dora. I was saying, the bastards who broke into the office stole my filofax, off my bloody desk. The only thing they took, I mean, it’s my lifeline, that thing.’
Dora stared at him. She hadn’t seen her diary recently either. Maybe Sheila had tidied it away; she would check when she got home.
‘Never mind your filofax, what are you going to do about Lillian Bliss?’
Calvin groaned. ‘Look, I didn’t invite you to lunch to have this conversation over and over again. I wanted to see how you were. I understand that you’re upset – I’m upset – but there’s the bigger picture to consider. I’ve been talking to the commissioning editor this morning. As far as he’s concerned we’ve hit pay dirt.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Shame you can’t get the new book done more quickly. There’s an awful lot of interest.’
Dora turned the brandy balloon round in her fingers. ‘I’m not sure I really want to do any more.’
Calvin sighed theatrically. ‘You’ll feel differently when I show you the new draft contract. Why don’t you come round and take a look at it?’
Dora shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she muttered.
Stealthily, the waiter slipped their plates onto the table.
Calvin picked up his fork. ‘Stop sulking. Let’s try and talk about something else shall we?’
Jon Melrose had looked better than Dora remembered him, threads of laughter lines gathering around his dark eyes, broad shoulders – she shivered and glanced up at the restaurant clock. Eight o’clock, seven or so more hours to go.
Calvin’s mouth was opening and closing rhythmically. Between words he pushed slivers of salmon into it.
‘… What a bastard I thought, what a smug, self-satisfied bastard.’
‘Who?’
‘What?’ Calvin stopped mid-chew, his face flushed. ‘Guy Phelps, the guy they’ve chosen to stand for Jack’s seat in the by-election. I met him at the Con Club last night.’ He picked a stray piece of lettuce out of his teeth. ‘You’re spending too much time on your own with that bloody cat. It was all over the breakfast news this morning.’
‘Guy Phelps?’
Calvin
