Page 24 of The Honeymoon Affair

I’m conflicted about him being away, because this is a high-profile event and it would be good, on many levels, for him to be here, but it’s actually more important to get some work out of him, especially as even a synopsis is like trying to prise an oyster out of its shell. But I got him to record a video of his best wishes to George and Xerxes, which Graham plans to show later. I had to make him record it three times, because the first two had the gorgeous Caribbean Sea in the background (once directly, once reflected in a mirror) and I didn’t think a video of him apparently living it up in the tropics when he was supposed to be in the grip of his muse would go down well in dark, gloomy London, where Graham, and Charles’s editor, Sophia, are waiting impatiently for his manuscript.

Anyhow, his video is excellent – he can totally turn on the charm when he wants to – and I’m relieved he’s working hard, so I can allow myself to relax a little and enjoy myself tonight. I have two other authors here, and they deserve some of the time and attention that Charles seems to monopolise whenever he’s around.

Penny Blackwater is one of the new wave of writers from Northern Ireland who’ve been taking the literary scene by storm; she’s been shortlisted for a few literary prizes, and although she hasn’t actually won anything yet, I’m very hopeful. Her debut was great, but her next book is even stronger, so my fingers are crossed. My other author, Avery Marshall, writes quirky literary comedies that sell really well and that Graham Weston himself particularly likes. In fact, I see the two of them together now, talking animatedly, and I make my way over, glass of champagne in my hand.

‘Two of my favourite men,’ I say as I join them. ‘How are you both? What a fabulous night, Graham. Your father must be delighted.’

Although George handed over the reins of the company to Graham years ago, he continues to take a keen interest in the book world and loves nothing more than to be in the company of ‘his’ authors.

‘He’s thrilled,’ says Graham. ‘It’s lovely to have so many of our best-loved authors here. And quite a few of them brought to us by you, Ariel.’

‘Always glad to find the right home for them.’ I smile.

‘Is Charles around?’ Avery, tall and thin and looking very much like a stick of liquorice in his tuxedo, raises an enquiring eyebrow.

‘He’s sequestered himself while he writes his latest,’ I tell him.

‘I didn’t think he was the sequestering sort.’

There’s always been a bit of needle between Avery and Charles, possibly because the first time they met, Charles pretended he didn’t know who Avery was. The second time, Avery had won the Wodehouse Prize for comic fiction, and Charles congratulated him so effusively I knew he didn’t mean a word he said.

I smile now at Avery and tell him that Charles always locks himself away when he gets to a certain point in a novel.

‘I’m delighted he did the video, though it would’ve been nice to have him with us in person,’ says Graham. ‘He was our first Booker winner after all.’

Their only Booker winner, though I don’t say that out loud.

‘And I’m your Wodehouse winner.’ Avery raises his glass.

‘Indeed you are.’ Graham clinks his against it, and so do I.

‘Xerxes did really well this year,’ I remark. ‘Your sales have been excellent.’

‘Thanks to Avery here,’ says Graham. ‘Black Ivory was a fantastic seller for us.’

Avery smirks.

‘And, of course, poor Maura,’ adds Graham. ‘Her dying so tragically was a real boost to sales.’

Maura Mulholland, one of Ekene’s authors, wrote mid-list sagas. When she died earlier in the year while on holiday in Italy, her latest book and her entire backlist went stratospheric. Ekene was thrilled. Though obviously sad about Maura’s passing, she conceded that it was great publicity.

The book world can be very harsh.

I see Penny Blackwater alone on the other side of the room and excuse myself. I don’t like to see her by herself, although Penny is one of those people who would be perfectly happy on a desert island. Being alone, even in a throng of people, doesn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Here long?’

‘I arrived a minute ago,’ she replies in her distinctive Derry accent. ‘There’s a big crowd.’

‘I guess it’s a kind of pre-Christmas party event,’ I say.

‘Oh, aye. I was delighted to get dressed up.’

‘You look fabulous.’

She’s wearing a gold lamé dress that clings to her perfect figure, while her long blonde hair is twisted into a loose plait that hangs down her back.

‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘So do you.’

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