Page 54 of The Honeymoon Affair

There would be better days. I was sure of it.

I hoped they’d come quickly.

When everything was finally agreed between us, we sent the document to our solicitors and told them we didn’t want to change a thing, although in conversations long afterwards, we laughed at the fact that both our legal representatives had suggested we could do better out of our agreement. But we didn’t waver. I was proud of both of us.

To my surprise, Charles then brought up another subject. Whatever about our personal lives, he said, we were good for each other professionally, and what did I think about being able to work with him again now that we had all the messy personal stuff out of the way. He didn’t feel the same connection with the other agents he’d met as he did with me. And he knew that no matter what he might have said in the past, I always had his best interests at heart.

This time I was completely unprepared. I thought he was enjoying meeting different agents, but of course I was pleased that none of them seemed to measure up to me. Nevertheless, I’d already told myself that working with Charles would be impossible. And although I believe in making the impossible possible, I wasn’t sure how good an idea this would be. At the same time, I had to admit that keeping an author of his calibre at the agency would send an excellent message. I didn’t want him to go back to Saxby-Brown, or, even worse, to one of the big conglomerates. He wasn’t a conglomerate type of person. I told him I’d think about it. In the end, despite my uncertainty, I agreed. After all, I had a possible streaming deal for one of his books and I didn’t want to lose it. So we stayed together professionally, and it’s been surprisingly smooth sailing ever since.

The boundaries, which were very strict at the start, have become a little more fluid as we live our new reality. And if sometimes we stray into more personal moments, we’re always very clear that I’m his agent and he’s my author and the personal is really just the professional with the edges rubbed off a little.

We were, for a time, the perfect married couple.

Now we’ve become the perfect break-up couple.

I feel tears prick the back of my eyes. It’s just the emotion of remembering everything we’ve gone through, but I don’t want him to notice. I get up and walk over to the window. A dusting of frost means that the garden sparkles beneath the light.

‘Thanks again for doing the decorating.’ He comes to stand behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘You know I’m grateful for everything you do for me. And I very much appreciate that you’re taking this book and running with it. I know you’ll make it a real success.’

‘No pressure,’ I say.

‘I always put pressure on you,’ he says. ‘I can’t help it.’

‘I put pressure on myself. I remember you coming to my office all those years ago and me telling you what might or might not happen, and you listened and nodded and put your career in my hands, and I felt huge pressure to deliver.’

‘I didn’t know any better.’ He smiles.

‘We’re a good team,’ I say. ‘Despite everything.’

‘Of course we are.’

He turns to me and I turn to him, and I don’t know how it’s happened, but we’re kissing each other just as we used to kiss. I can’t deny it’s wonderful. It’s happened before, in moments of celebration, but each time we’ve pulled away from each other very quickly. This time I don’t want to pull away at all.

I wonder if we should get back together.

I wonder if he thinks so too.

Chapter 15

Iseult

The writer wrote alone and the reader read alone and they were alone with each other.

A. S. Byatt

I’m still thinking about the drug interception as I make myself a mug of coffee and take out a tin of biscuits. We’ve had big hauls before, even bigger than this, and it’s always the same. You want to punch the air and jump up and down and say again how flipping fantastic you and your team are and how great your job is, even on days when you’re outside freezing your buns off.

The last time we intercepted a large quantity of drugs, I was so pumped up that when Steve came home I couldn’t wait to get him in my arms. We made love on the kitchen table, which was probably not the most hygienic thing in the world. Oh well. My table. My germs. All the same, the memory means I give it a quick spray of Dettol before I sit down with my coffee and biscuits, even though the actual event was months ago and I’ve both used and cleaned the table many times since then.

I take out my phone. Charles hasn’t even seen my previous message, so I send another one.

Sorry. Very busy earlier. Is it too late to meet now?

He still hasn’t seen it by the time I’ve finished my coffee. I wonder if he’s sitting at the desk in his study pounding the keys of his computer. I fondly imagined that the manuscript was finished when he typed ‘The End’, but he told me that that’s just the beginning of another phase of rewriting and editing that can take ages. He’ll certainly have to change the big giveaway to the identity of the murderer early on. There’s another bit in the middle I’d change too. I didn’t tell him when I read the manuscript that I’d guessed who it was because of it. I didn’t want to puncture his bubble of joy.

Although I’m usually perfectly happy with my own company, I wish I hadn’t left the pub so early, even though the others probably didn’t stay that much longer after me. I scroll to my mum’s name and try FaceTiming her. I let it ring for ages before deciding she’s not up yet, but as I’m about to end the call, her face fills the screen.

‘Izzy.’ She beams at me. ‘How are you?’

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