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COPYRIGHT
This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins website address is:
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This paperback edition 2000
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998
Copyright © Sue Welfare 1998
Sue Welfare asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780006514312
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2016 ISBN: 9780007401154
Version: 2016-08-03
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated, with fondest memories, to the late Mr C. A. Woolley and Mr Glyn Howells, dedicated educators, who encouraged my enthusiasm for books and words and who, at different times, both offered the sage advice: ‘Work more and talk less.’
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Keep Reading
About the Author
Other Books By
About the Publisher
1
‘Letitia strode into the room, naked except for her bull whip and boots.
“I’ve come for you, Tony,” she murmured between full pouting carmine lips.
On the leather sofa, bound hand and foot, Tony Vincetti trembled.
“Oh, please don’t hurt me, Letitia,” he whispered, the sweat rising in glistening beads on his top lip.
They both froze as they heard the doorbell ring.’
‘Not in my book, they didn’t,’ Dora Hall whispered, pushing her glasses back up onto her nose. She erased the final sentence from the computer screen, then stretched, waiting for the machine to digest the latest morsel before leaning forward to switch it off.
Beside her, the intercom buzzed more insistently, followed closely by a thin, high-pitched voice through the speaker.
‘Dora, are you up there?’
Dora pushed the swivel chair away from the desk and yawned. It was extremely tempting to say no. Instead she pressed the call button.
‘Come up. Sheila, door’s unlocked.’
She padded into the kitchen, scratching and yawning deliciously with every step. Oscar, the resident ginger tom, mewled the lament of the wildly over-indulged and leapt onto the cooker, while she plugged in the kettle and lit a cigarette. Opening the fridge, Dora prised a carton of milk off the shelf and sniffed it speculatively.
A few seconds later Sheila, her sister, pushed open the kitchen door. She peered around and sniffed, looking rushed. Sheila inevitably looked rushed.
‘Oh, you’re in here, are you? I thought you told me you’d stopped smoking? You’ve left the street door on the latch again. Don’t know why you’ve bought that security thing, anyone can just walk up –’
Dora hunted around for the teapot. ‘I nipped across to the shop first thing.’
Sheila’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not like that, surely? You’re not ill are you?’ She picked her way across the kitchen and stood a wicker basket on the table amongst the debris of breakfast, letters and open books. Oscar headed towards the cat litter tray.
Dora glanced down at the grey dressing gown she was wearing and shook her head.
‘No, I’m fine. I’ve been up for hours. I’ve been working on the computer this morning. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘You said quarter past ten,’ Sheila said flatly, tapping her watch for emphasis. She looked wounded, tipping her head accusingly to one side.
‘I did? I can’t remember saying quarter past ten. What was supposed to happen at quarter past ten?’
Sheila sniffed again. ‘I’ve been hanging around outside the post office for ages. Anything could have happened.’ She paused and pulled her suit jacket straight. ‘Absolutely anything.’
‘What was it I missed this time?’ asked Dora, noncommittally. ‘Tea?’
Sheila sighed, picking at a small dry stain on her lapel. ‘Just a quick one and then I’ve really got to get on. I told the vicar we’d go to his coffee morning today. Oh, and I’ve brought you these for that cat.’ She pulled a neatly tied bundle of newspapers out of the basket and added it to the chaos on the breakfast table. ‘I’d put us down for the washing up.’ Sheila ran her tongue over her teeth. ‘Too late now, of course. I’ll have to ring up and apologise when I get back.’
Dora fished two mugs out of the cold water in the sink.
‘I didn’t realise you’d promised anybody. I thought you said we were just going to raid the cake stall and rootle through the bring and buy. Why don’t you go into the sitting-room? I’ll bring the tea through.’ As she spoke she ran hot water over the remaining plates in the sink and added a squirt of washing-up liquid. It bubbled instantly and hid the debris of last night’s supper under a reassuring explosion of suds.
Sheila nodded, pointedly ignoring the grubby tea towel Dora had tucked over her arm, and the miasma emanating from Oscar as he strained triumphantly over the cat litter.
Obtusely Sheila stepped across the little hall into the adjoining room, barely bigger than a broom cupboard, that Dora used as her office. Dora scrubbed the rings off the cups, watching as her sister peered myopically at the blank computer screen.
‘So, how’s the translation coming along?’ Sheila’s high-pitched voice betrayed a rich mosaic of resentments.
Dora dropped two tea bags into the pot.
‘So-so, it’s a bit slow at the moment. How are the kids?’ She could see Sheila running a finger along her book shelves.
‘Not too bad, Jason’s getting his grommets next month,’ Sheila said distractedly. ‘Do you really read all these books?’
Dora carried the tray through and balanced it on a little table wedged between her desk and the office armchair.
‘Why don’t we go in the sitting-room. Sheila? You hate that armchair.’
Sheila shook her head, finger still working along the spines of the books arranged from floor to ceiling on the wall near Dora’s desk.
‘I prefer it in here, it’s the only room you keep tidy. There’s cat’s hairs everywhere on that settee.’ She paused. ‘We’re having a fund raiser next week, maybe you could sort out some of these you’ve finished with.’ Her stubby finger tapped on one spine. ‘I read about her in the paper. She’s going to be in Smith’s.’
Dora picked up her mug, gathering her dressing gown around her knees as she folded herself onto the swivel chair.
‘Who is?’
‘This Catiana Moran woman, she’s doing a book signing. I saw a bit about it in the Fairbeach Gazette. I think it’s one of the ones I brought –’
Sheila hurried back into the kitchen, reappeared carrying a newspaper, and began to thumb through the pages. She turned the paper back on itself and handed it to Dora.
‘There we are. What’s on in Fairbeach, half way down –’
Dora stared at a small grainy photograph.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, swallowing down her surprise, and folded the paper alongside the tray. There was a familiar face on the front page. ‘My God,’ she whispered, scanning the headline. ‘I didn’t know Jack Rees had died.’
Sheila pulled a face. ‘Who?’
Dora slipped on her glasses. ‘Jack Rees, the MP?’ She glanced down the column.
‘Oh, him.’ Sheila’s face registered her disapproval. ‘Jumped-up nobody, him. His dad was a fishmonger in Railway Road, mum used to work in the Co-op.’ She sniffed dismissively and turned her attention back to Dora’s shelves.
Dora stared at the picture of Fairbeach’s famous son. There were few modern political giants from the fens, which had made Jack Rees all the more special – a true Fen tiger, a local hero who had dedicated his life to improving things in his home town. His features were so familiar that it felt as if she was looking at an old friend. She felt a peculiar little flurry of loss, while, across the room. Sheila pulled out one of the books.
‘You’ve got an awful lot of that woman’s stuff here,’ she observed, peering at the photograph of a lascivious wet-lipped nymphet draped provocatively across the front cover. ‘Do you read a lot of this sort of thing?’ she whispered, turning it over so she could read the jacket.
‘No, and I don’t think it’s really your sort of thing either,’ Dora said. Leaning forward, she prised the novel gently from between her sister’s fingers and slipped it back into the bookcase with the others. ‘And they’re definitely not suitable for a church bring and buy. Here, why don’t you have your tea? How about if I get dressed? I was going into town later anyway, we could go out for some lunch if you like. I’m sorry we missed your coffee morning.’
Sheila gazed back at the unbroken spines of Dora’s Catiana Moran collection.
‘No thanks, I ought to be getting back. I don’t see why you’ve got so many. There’s two of some. Three of this one. Passion in Paris.’
Dora nodded. ‘I get them sent to me by the publisher,’ she said casually, handing Sheila the sugar.
‘Oh, not one of those awful book club things?’ Her sister rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘You really should write and get them to cancel your membership. Do you remember when Dad ordered that boat-building thing out of the Sunday colour supplement …’
As Sheila spoke, Dora surreptitiously slid her notes for the latest Catiana Moran novel under a pile of magazines and sat back to listen to her sister railing against the temptations of a mail-order culture.
Climbing the stone steps to Calvin Roberts’ office, Dora thought fleetingly about his strong jutting chin, his rippling muscles – and sighed – only in her dreams. Her agent was small, round, with a penchant for cheap cigars, Labradors he perpetually called Dido, and propagating geraniums. His office on Northquay, an elegant Georgian crescent that overlooked the tidal waters of the Western Ouse, smelt of all three, and was a brisk ten-minute walk from Dora’s flat in Gunners Terrace.
The girl behind the reception desk grinned at her. ‘Hello, Dora, how are you?’
Dora pulled a wry face. ‘Perfect. Is his lordship in?’
The girl nodded. ‘Just got back from walking the dog. He’s gone upstairs to read his horoscope. Do you want me to buzz him to let him know you’re here?’
‘Yes, you’d better. Can’t have our lord and master caught on the cusp –’
Calvin’s corner office was on the first floor. The opaque glass door bore the legend ‘Calvin Roberts, Literary Agent’ in faded gilt lettering arranged in a semicircle. Dora smiled as she turned the door handle. Calvin cheerfully embraced life’s clichés. His office always reminded her of something out of a Bogart movie.
Calvin was sitting at the desk in his shirt sleeves, his feet up on the windowsill, flicking through an impressive bundle of papers. Apparently deep in thought, he waved her in.
In a basket near the coat stand, the latest incarnation of Dido looked up with world-weary eyes and licked her lips. There was a rolled-up tabloid in the pocket of Calvin’s trench coat. It was still turned to the horoscope page.
‘Hello,’ Dora said, throwing her string bag onto his desk. ‘I hear you’ve found someone then?’
Calvin grinned, and swung round to face her. ‘Yes, yes, yes. She’s starting a promotion tour for the latest book next week.’
‘Calvin, I don’t think it’s supposed to work like this – I would really like to have seen this girl before you hired her.’
Calvin looked hurt. ‘You told me you didn’t want to be involved.’
Dora sighed. ‘I meant with all the admin, not who you picked. I don’t suppose it matters now, does it – the deed is done. Is she any good?’
Calvin grinned. ‘I think so. Just wait till you see her at work.’
Dora lifted an eyebrow. ‘At Smith’s in the High Street.’
‘You know about that?’ said Calvin, feigning surprise as he lit another fat little cigar.
‘I’m amongst the last by the looks of it. How did you manage to get her in there so quickly?’
Calvin tapped his nose. ‘It’s all to do with contacts, it’s not what you know – the manager owes me a favour.’
‘Better not tell me what. Have you got the kettle on yet?’
Calvin pressed the button on his phone. ‘Gena, can you bring up a pot of tea for myself and Mrs Hall?’
Dora leant over the desk, pushing her finger firmly down on top of his.
‘And if you’ve got any digestives in the tin, Gena, be a dear and bring them up.’ She paused. ‘Have you got a microwave in the office?’
The disembodied voice sounded surprised. ‘Yes, why?’
‘They’ve got some really good profiteroles in the freezer place in the precinct. If you nip out and get a couple of boxes I’ll treat you.’
Calvin extricated his finger and the line went dead.
‘Actually, I’m really glad you dropped in, I was coming to see you on my way home. Have you had the proofs of the latest book to correct yet? The guy at Bayers sent me the new covers over this morning.’ He pulled his in tray closer and scuffled through the heap of envelopes. ‘I’ve got them here somewhere. They’re not bad at all.’
Dora screwed up her nose. ‘Oh, please, Calvin, don’t bother. Wet-lipped lovelies with “Come up and see my etchings” eyes? They’re always the same. And no, I haven’t had the proofs yet.’ She paused. ‘Did you hear about Jack Rees?’
Calvin nodded. ‘Saw it on TV yesterday. Bloody shame, he was a good bloke. I nipped down to the Con Club, lunch time.’ He rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Total bloody chaos down there. Everyone running round like headless chickens. Jack’s a hard act to follow. We’re going to have a helluva job finding someone to fill his boots.’ He took a thoughtful puff on his cigar.
Dora snorted. ‘We? What’s with this “we” business? Have the Con Club finally given you sergeant’s stripes?’
Calvin deadpanned her. ‘Father-in-law’s on the selection committee. Anyway, about Catiana –’
Dora grinned and fished in her coat pocket for a roll of mints. ‘Smith’s next week,’ she said, waving the packet at Calvin.
He declined as she palmed a mint into her mouth. ‘Off the fags again? You’ll get fat.’
Dora threw herself onto the leather chesterfield under one of the windows and laughed. ‘Rubbish, I’m built like a ragman’s whippet. Besides, it won’t matter now that we’ve got a stand-in, will it? What’s she like? That picture in the Gazette was dreadful.’
Calvin grinned. ‘Pure twenty-four carat silicone.’ He held his hands out in an impressive gesture of size. ‘Teeth from ear to ear, big hair. She’s absolutely perfect. I’ve already sent some photographs off to the agony column in that dodgy magazine we signed you up for.’
Dora nodded ruefully. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Oh, and wait,’ said Calvin, warming to his subject. ‘Better yet. I may’ve got her on Steve Morley’s TV show.’
Dora screwed up her face. ‘That magazine thing they do from Norwich at tea time? How the hell can she pull that one off? She writes porn, for God’s sake.’
‘Wait, wait,’ said Calvin enthusiastically, clenching his fists. ‘A stroke of pure genius. As the subject is a bit risqué I’ve told them we need a list of questions up-front. They always pre-record some of it anyway. So, you can write the answers and Catiana can learn them.’
Dora sucked her teeth thoughtfully. ‘She can read as well, can she, Calvin? Good choice, good choice. And how exactly did you arrange this one off? Don’t tell me the manager owes you a favour.’
Calvin grinned, leaning back smugly in his swivel chair. ‘I’ve led young Steve to believe that I can get him one or two big names to give his show a bit of clout. The lad’s hungry, this is his first big break.’
At that moment there was a knock on the door. Calvin called Gena in and then looked across at Dora.
‘I’ve got you a ticket for the recording. You’ll get a chance to judge for yourself first hand. You’re a real stunner.’
Dora raised her eyebrows. ‘I can hardly wait,’ she said, as Gena stood the tray on Calvin’s desk.
Steam rose from a stack of sad-looking profiteroles. Gena blushed.
‘The defrost on the machine down there doesn’t seem to work, so I’ve given them a couple of minutes on full,’ she explained, hovering nervously.
Dora took a side plate from the tray and prised a dripping cake from the heap with a teaspoon – the chocolate bubbled ominously.
‘I’m sure they’ll be just fine,’ she said, ignoring the hiss as the cake landed on the plate.
Parking in Norwich was a complete bitch. Dora arrived late, feeling ruffled after the drive, and slid into a seat at the end of the aisle beside a large woman wearing a duffel coat. The lights in the television studio were already dimming. On the stage below the tiered seating, a small oily-looking man in a checked suit was running through a selection of extremely old jokes. He waved his arms towards the studio audience with gusto, as if he might be able to incite laughter by friction.
The woman in the duffel coat sniffed disapprovingly and began to rummage through her handbag. Further along the row a group of students sniggered, while on the studio floor, the camera crew stalked backwards and forwards around the set, hooked up to their cables and moving like bored fish. The warm-up man faded rather than finished and a polite flurry of sympathetic applause broke out amongst the audience.
A man with a clipboard, finger in his ear, stepped into a spotlight, his face fixed in a rictal grin.
‘Well, good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he smirked with genuine plastic warmth. ‘It’s a real pleasure to welcome you to …’ he glanced fleetingly at his clipboard ‘… tonight’s recording of “Steve Morley Moments”. Now, when Mr Morley comes on I’d like you to give him a really rousing welcome. The cameras will pan around the audience as the music comes on, so we want lots of smiles.’ He pulled his face into an even more exaggerated grimace. ‘Let the people at home know you’re really happy to be here.’
The woman next to Dora sniffed again and then unexpectedly offered her a mint humbug. Dora sucked her way through Steve Morley interviewing a poet with a lisp, a drum majorette troop, a mime artist …
She stifled a yawn. It was the first time she had been to see a television recording and she decided it would probably be the last. The mime artist left to a crackle of applause and a few bars of ‘The Entertainer’ played over the PA.
‘And finally, ladies and gentlemen …’ the unctuous tones of Steve Morley oozed through the loudspeakers from his mock, mock Tudor living room. He stepped forwards, lifting his arms as if he were bestowing a benediction on the audience.
‘… I’d like you to give a really warm Steve Morley welcome to Catiana Moran, the babe of the bed chamber, the first lady of lust …’ Over the PA came the antiquated bumps and grinds of ‘The Stripper’.
Dora leant forwards and let out a little hiss of admiration as Catiana Moran chasséd gracefully across the small stage. There was a flurry of applause that grew into a roar of approval as Catiana stepped into the spotlight.
The woman oozed sexual possibilities. Calvin had been spot-on with his description: she was statuesque with a great mane of tussled strawberry-blonde hair. Her little black dress, barely reaching mid-thigh, glistened over every curve, as if it had been sprayed on. Dora held her breath, while below her Catiana Moran curled herself provocatively onto Steve Morley’s leather sofa and crossed her impossibly long legs.
‘Good evening, Steve,’ she purred, in a voice that seemed to trickle, rich as pure caramel, from somewhere just below her navel.
Steve Morley flushed crimson and began to stutter.
‘Cut, cut,’ snapped the little man with the clipboard. ‘If we can take it from you saying, “Good evening, Steve”?’
Around Dora, the audience seemed to have woken up – all eyes firmly fixed on the reclining form of Catiana Moran.
‘Why not?’ the blonde whispered and repeated her opening line with – if anything – more sexual emphasis.
Steve Morley adjusted his tie and leant forwards, extending his hand. ‘Very nice to have you with us, Catiana. My first question is, can you tell us how you got started writing the books you’re so famous for?’
Catiana shifted position, rolling over on the sofa so that her chin was resting on her hands – the effect was devastating.
‘Oh, Steve, darling, everyone always wants to know that. Haven’t you got anything more interesting written down on your little clipboard?’
Dora mouthed the answers she had written, while the stunning strawberry blonde on the stage recited them. Catiana added extra emphasis to the word ‘clipboard’, imbuing it with a heady erotic frisson.
Steve Morley shuddered nervously and loosened his tie. ‘What about this latest book? Am I right in thinking that you’ve finally decided to go public and promote what the papers are calling “the hottest hot novel since time began”?’
Catiana ran her tongue around her scarlet lips. ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Oh, yes …’
The audience, to a man, craned forwards to see how Steve Morley would cope with this siren.
Dora smiled and picked up her handbag before slipping silently into the aisle. She had to ring Calvin to tell him – for once – he’d got everything just about right. As she got to the exit she glanced back at the stage. Catiana Moran had slipped off her high heels and was stroking one foot over her long, long leg. Every eye in the house was on her. Steve Morley was practically drooling.
‘You said you didn’t even read her books.’ Sheila bustled along the shopping precinct in Fairbeach, clutching her brolly like a quarterstaff.
Close behind, head bowed against the scathing wind, Dora pulled her raincoat tighter.
‘Just call it curiosity,’ she said between gritted teeth, wondering what on earth had possessed her to ask Sheila to go with her to Smith’s.
Sheila snorted. ‘You’re not going to buy anything, are you?’
Dora pushed open the shop door and was struck by the heady aroma of new paper and warm damp bodies.