Wishful Thinking Page 6

  Melissa looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink in the three days since Jess had last seen her and she suddenly felt very sorry for her. She’d stopped off at Starbucks and bought her favourite coffee as she did practically every morning. It was a gesture Melissa had grown to take for granted, although she always reimbursed Jess later. But when Jess gave it to her this morning, Melissa looked ready to burst into tears.

  “Thank you, Jess.” I hope you had a good Christmas?”

  Jess shrugged. “It was…you know – colourful.” She thought about it for a moment. It seemed so much longer than three days given what had happened to her. She almost felt like a different person now.

  Kamia and Sam looked at her expectantly but Jess refrained from saying anything further. She wanted to hear what Melissa had to say.

  “Well mine, as you can probably guess, was less than average. In fact it was something of a nightmare.” She took a long draught of her coffee through the spout in the lid. That was unusual as she normally tore off the lid and drank it from the cup, claiming spouts belonged on baby cups only. “I’ve thought and thought about this and considered every possible alternative. I’ve discussed it endlessly with my uncle and his advisers but we can’t find a solution. Portman Publications is in trouble and we need to downsize - radically.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed as they digested the news.

  “I take it we’re talking redundancies,” Jess said briskly, surprising herself. The other two looked too terrified to open their mouths.

  Melissa looked at her with something like gratitude and nodded. “It’s either that or half-salaries - but I’m still in consultation. I just wanted you to know that the future isn’t exactly looking rosy; our signings are dwindling – everyone’s going to the big stables that can afford the advances and are nudging all the smaller publishers out of the way. If it’s not that, it’s the Internet and this whole ‘self-pubbing’- as they so fondly call it - which is partly responsible for the e-book revolution. I don’t want to be all doom and gloom but I must tell you that, should you want to, you are free to start looking around for other openings. It will be very hard for me to decide who should go – you’re all so good in your own areas but I’m aware that you share your expertise with each other all the time - and, needless to say, each one of you will receive glowing references. Naturally, I’ll keep you all informed, but I wanted you to be prepared. We’re looking at the end of February.” Melissa picked up her coffee again as if to indicate that the meeting was now over and her three editors returned to the outer office.

  Once outside Sam and Kamia immediately began commiserating with each other and speculating the worst. Sam had a disabled wife to take care of while Kamia, together with her brother, was supporting both her parents and a younger sibling. Jess didn’t feel equal to competing with them and busied herself at her desk. The last thing she wanted was to lose her job, but her situation was probably easier than her colleagues. Being a lone parent she would be eligible for certain benefits while she looked for another position and the respite would give her more time with Ben. But she did not want to be caught in the poverty trap of single parenthood and dependency, even though she felt she was barely a step ahead of that ignominious status at the moment.

  She threw herself into her work to blank out other concerns. She was proofing and editing a ghost-written autobiography – it seemed celebrities never wrote anything themselves anymore, even though the words on the page were purported to be their own. The problem was the writing from the commissioned ghost-writer was so poor that Jess needed virtually to rewrite it from scratch. She might just as well have been employed as the ghost-writer in the first place! And that, of course, was when the idea struck her.

  Galling as it was, she knew she had Katya to thank for it.

  ****

  Amber slept well that night. It was a drug-induced sleep, but nevertheless deep and restful. Both Christian and Adam managed to sleep properly too and awakened the following morning feeling far more refreshed and positive. Christian dreamt he was skiing and woke up thinking about the snow and Jess and groaning at the aching need aroused by the dream. He was irritated with himself that he still hadn’t succeeded in putting her out of his mind. I can’t sit around here all day in crimbo-limbo-land babysitting Amber – I need to be busy, he thought. I’ll call Tom and see if he can set something up to take my mind off things.

  He wandered into his office, but instead of picking up his phone, he switched on his computer and once again called up Google maps, tapping in those possible postcodes. He’d narrowed it down to a long, residential road somewhere between Acton and Ealing with a number of larger buildings, some houses converted into small flats, others purpose-built blocks owned by housing trusts, or the local council. The postcodes matched one of five or six buildings, which all looked similar and which were all depressingly dreary. How was he ever going to find Jess in such a warren? But worse still, how could that sweet girl and her son actually live in such a place?

  She worked for a publisher, he remembered. He closed his eyes to try to recollect the name or whereabouts. He was sure she’d mentioned the name – it sounded vaguely familiar at the time. A woman! She worked for a woman called…what was it? Miranda? Marissa? How many women ran London publishing houses, he wondered.

  He snatched up his phone and pulled up his manager’s number. He received an answer on the third ring. “Tom, I need your help. You remember that guy you hired to look into Amber’s little problem last year? I need his name.”

  “What the hell, Chris? What’s going on? If you’re in some sort of trouble, I need to know.”

  “Relax! I’m not in any trouble – I just want…to follow…something up. This girl I met – I need to find her.”

  Tom sounded wary. “A girl? That sounds like trouble to me, Chris. Who is she? I’ll have her taken care of.”

  “It’s nothing like that, Tom. Trust me. Get me this guy’s number – please.”

  Two hours later, when Steve Grayson walked into his study, Christian remembered why Tom Powers had earned his nickname of ‘The Powerhouse’. Grayson, a former Metropolitan Police detective, was quiet, unassuming and brim full of confidence. He took control from the moment he entered, asking all the questions and dismissing everything he felt was irrelevant. His mind seemed to work like a computer. He didn’t care about Christian’s reasons or feelings – he cared about plain facts and delivering the necessary information in record time. He promised Christian results within 48 hours.

  ****

  Jess finished her editing job well ahead of schedule but didn’t check it in immediately or offer her help to the other two. Instead she spent the morning following up on the research she had started the night before. Using Katya’s blog as a starting point, she began tracing the story of Wishful and its rise to fame. Her particular focus was on Amber Rayne. If you can’t beat them, join them, Jess thought.

  But Amber’s life story, from what she could uncover, did not make pleasant reading. I don’t think I could bear to write this woman’s biography if she paid me in gold, Jess thought sadly. No wonder no one has done it before. She seemed almost destined to go the same tragic route as so many other highly talented young singers before her.

  “It looks like Plan B, then,” Jess muttered under her breath. She looked up the ‘Good Rest Ye’ hotel to check the directions and ensure she would find the right exit for it off the motorway – not a route she felt willing to traverse again in any hurry, but one she felt she should.

  She saw to her surprise and then amusement that the proprietors’ names were not registered as ‘Goodchild’ but as ‘Goodison’. The naïve attempt at disguise only made them more endearing. She presumed they had altered their name in order to avoid the wrong kind of clientele. Goodchild, Goodison or whatever, they had shown her great kindness and refused to accept any payment. The need to show her gratitude had been weighing heavily on her mind and as tomorrow was Saturday, she planned to retrace
her journey of the previous week and take them a few small gifts by way of thanks.

  *

  She managed to go astray three times on her way to the hotel, despite carefully following her satellite navigation system’s confident directions. Either she took the wrong turning or the little hotel was even more off the beaten track than she had remembered. When she pulled into the forecourt, she was surprised to see it filled with vehicles. The front entrance was ablaze, the hotel clearly fully open for business.

  When she and Ben entered, a very efficient-looking receptionist greeted them.

  “Good afternoon. Welcome to ‘Good Rest Ye’. Do you have a reservation?”

  “Oh…um…no. I was just hoping to see Mr and Mrs Goodchild for a moment.”

  The woman eyed her suspiciously. “I’m afraid they’re busy with a function at the moment. You’re not a guest, are you?”

  Her look and doubting tone made Jess cringe with embarrassment. She wanted to grab Ben’s hand and run, but instead took a deep breath and lifted her and Ben’s gifts onto the reception desk.

  “No. We just wanted to leave these to say thank you for their kindness last week. If you could please see that they get them?” Jess slipped the little cards from her and Ben underneath the wrapped gifts and then led Ben quickly back out of the hotel.

  “Aren’t we going to see Chris?” Ben asked once they were outside the door.

  Jess had to fight back her tears. What a waste of all that nervous energy. “No, darling. I told you he probably wouldn’t be there. Let’s just go home before it gets dark.”

  Ben nodded. “The snow’s all gone anyway. It doesn’t look as nice.”

  ****

  Fake snow lay all around the Surrey mansion and three snow machines were being set up for later. The party planners had been decorating the place since early morning and the predominantly white decorations lent a bridal look to everything. Amber decided she could get up to greet the guests after all – most of whom she had invited anyway. In fact she seemed to have made a complete recovery. Christian just wanted to escape the bustle of the planners and the caterers who were unloading crate after crate of champagne. The snow made him think about the beautiful woman with shining eyes, rosy cheeks and the sweetest pink-tipped nose he had ever seen. The magic of that night a week ago seemed like a dream now. But it was one of those haunting dreams, those impossible-to-shake-off dreams that refused to be forgotten.

  He was not in the mood for this party. Everything that had happened in the past week had turned all his thoughts and feelings upside down. Just when he thought he had managed to set things back to normal some great cloud of dissatisfaction washed over him. The dissatisfaction was something he recognised intimately. Another missed opportunity. One of those times he would one day look back on and ask himself: I wonder what would have happened if…? How many of those had he known in his life? When would he ever recognise the signs?

  He checked his watch. He wanted to call his parents before the party started, knowing it would be impossible to do so later. But he knew they were busy that afternoon with a local function and didn’t want to disturb them. On the other hand, he didn’t want to leave it until tomorrow. He felt like touching base now. One thing being around Amber did was make you feel acutely aware of your own mortality!

  “Hey mum! I’m just getting ready for my party and I wondered how yours had gone – is it over?”

  His mother mumbled something about going somewhere more private and the line went quiet for a full two minutes. When he next heard her voice, she sounded much more relaxed. He visualised her reclining in a comfortable chair and putting her feet up somewhere – probably in the tiny sitting room off the kitchen and almost certainly with a cup of tea in front of her. They made small talk for a while and she amused him with anecdotes about her afternoon party.

  “Oh by the way, you remember that nice young woman who turned up here just before Christmas? The one with the little boy?” His mother asked.

  His breath caught in his throat and he sat upright in his chair. “Yes of course. What about her?”

  “She came by this afternoon to bring us a little thank you present. Wasn’t that sweet of her?”

  “What did she say?” His heart began thumping painfully inside his chest.

  “Oh, we didn’t actually see her, darling. She just left some gifts for us at reception. Chocolates, you know and the sweetest basket of flowers from the little boy. What was his name?”

  “Ben.”

  “Yes of course. He signed the card himself. Very sweet.”

  “She left a card? What did it say?” He sat bolt upright and fully alert, but his mother began to sound rather too relaxed and sleepy.

  “Oh, just thank you – you know the usual.”

  “Mother! Did she mention me?”

  She sounded surprised by his question. “Well yes, of course. She asked us to convey her gratitude to you and to say, umm…”

  He heard her cover the phone to speak to someone in the background, probably his father. He wanted to shout down the phone in impatience.

  “Mother?”

  “I’m sorry darling, your father needs me – there’s some problem in the kitchen. Shall I call you back?”

  “No! I want to know what Jess said in her note.”

  “Oh just, you know, that she was sorry not to be able to thank you in person and hopes you are well. The usual niceties, but she expressed them very well. But then she would, of course, wouldn’t she, being a writer?”

  “A writer? She works for a publisher.” It disturbed him that his mother knew these things which he didn’t. Had he really been so unobservant?

  “Well yes, because she’s interested in writing; don’t you remember her saying that? She does ghost-writing and editing - that sort of thing.”

  “I remember her saying she was thinking about training to be a teacher because she didn’t like her job…”

  “Well she does have a child to support. It’s a very practical solution. I don’t think writers make any money these days - except for that…Harry Potter woman – didn’t you meet her once? Oh but then she wouldn’t need a ghost-writer, would she? I really must go, darling. Your father needs me. Have a wonderful party tonight. I’ll be thinking about you and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Wait, mother! One last thing. Did she…” he paused and took a deep breath, searching around his desk drawer for a pen and some paper. “I suppose she didn’t leave a phone number?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact she did. And I’ll be calling her tomorrow to say thank you for the presents. I’ll tell her you asked after her. Happy New Year, darling. Talk to you tomorrow.” And maddeningly, frustratingly, she hung up.

  8

  “So where did he go?” Ben asked, eyeing his mother over his mug of warm milk.

  “Who?”

  “The old man with the hundred noses. Where did he go?”

  Jess smiled. She’d been telling Ben a story her grandmother had told her when she was very young and her own reactions had been very similar. She claimed to have looked out of the window on New Year’s Eve and seen a man with a hundred noses walking past the house. “He went out with the old year,” she told Ben solemnly.

  “Yes but where did he go? Did he go to his own house? And what happened when he sneezed? I bet he needed lots of tissues when he had a cold.”

  Her smile turned to laugher. “He wasn’t real, Ben. I told you it was just a story she liked to tell me every New Year’s Eve – I don’t know why. She said he left with the old year – in fact I think she said his name was Old Year and then a young man with a brand new nose arrived and he was New Year.”

  Ben put his hand to his own nose as if checking it for size. “If you had a hundred noses, you wouldn’t have room for your mouth, would you?”

  “You’d have to drink your milk through your belly button,” she teased, lunging at Ben and tickling his tummy. “Now it’s bed time for you. If you are not asleep in ten minutes
, I won’t wake you up to see the fireworks at midnight.”

  Just as she was ushering Ben into his small bedroom, she heard a knock on the door. She wrinkled her nose, wondering which one of her neighbours it was and what they wanted. It had to be someone from inside the building as a visitor would have had to ring the bell downstairs. She threw open the door and gasped in surprise.

  Christian Goodchild stood before her, holding a bottle of champagne and a bunch of long-stemmed white roses. He looked truly amazing in a white dress suit - though with the tie askew - which accentuated his tanned skin more strikingly than ever, and looking every inch the superstar as he smiled down at her. It was Ben who came to his senses and spoke first.