Page 23 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘I’m sure you’ll write something great,’ I tell him. ‘Especially if you follow my advice and turn to crime.’

‘I couldn’t write anything like the woman you gave me,’ he says.

‘Because it’s too difficult?’ I ask.

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Because . . . because it’s not me.’

‘Why don’t you write literary crime?’ suggests Celeste. ‘After all, John Banville did and they’re bestsellers.’

‘I haven’t read his crime output,’ says Charles.

‘It’s not as fast and twisty as Janice Jermyn,’ I tell him.

‘You’ve read them?’

‘A couple.’

‘But they’re not as good as Janice?’ Charles’s face lights up.

‘Not for me,’ I say. ‘But then I’ve never read any of his other books, so maybe I’m just a hopeless what-d’you-call-it, who hasn’t a clue about art or culture.’

‘Philistine,’ supplies Celeste.

‘Those Philistines get a bad press,’ I say.

Charles smiles.

The band, which had briefly stopped playing, starts up again, and we have a short debate on reggae music and culture in which we all agree that the music is great, although Charles insists you can’t compare it to Mozart or Wagner or even (and he grimaces as he says this) Strauss.

‘I like Strauss,’ I say. ‘He was easier to play on the piano.’

‘You can play the piano?’ He looks surprised.

‘Badly,’ I admit. ‘I stopped after the Grade 4 exam.’

He looks impressed all the same.

‘So not a total philistine after all,’ I add.

‘I never thought you were.’

But he did. He does. I can tell. And although Celeste is more knowledgeable than me about the literary world, he probably thinks she’s a philistine too. He’s definitely up his own arse. And yet he can suddenly look quite lost. Mostly, it has to be said, when we start talking about popular culture and streaming services, stuff that he appears to know very little about.

That’s the thing about holidays, isn’t it? You get to meet people you’d never normally meet. They distract you from your day-to-day life. And then, thankfully, you never see them again.

Chapter 7

Ariel

You know what I did after I wrote my first novel? I shut up and wrote twenty-three more.

Michael Connolly

I’m at the Globe in London, where Graham Weston is hosting a reception to celebrate his father’s ninetieth birthday. George Weston founded Xerxes sixty years ago, so it’s a double celebration. Xerxes are good at celebrating things. They had a fiftieth birthday bash the same year I won an industry award. My cup was overflowing with joy and my champagne glass was overflowing with Veuve Clicquot. It was a great night: Snow in Summer, Charles’s third book, had just been published after a tortuous writing experience, and he was seen as the glittering jewel in the Xerxes crown.

It doesn’t seem like ten years ago. Life, and the industry, has changed a lot since then.

There are lots of well-known Xerxes authors here. Unfortunately, Charles is a notable absentee, being holed up in the Caribbean working on his next book, the deadline for which is the end of the month. He’s been writing and rewriting for over a year without getting anywhere. However, when he’s totally immersed, he can get a messy first draft down on paper quite quickly, so I’m keeping my hopes up while also being terrified that he won’t have anything at all.

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