Page 7 of The Plot Twist

Thankfully, Jake was obviously done with this social chit chat. He turned to Allie and took her hand firmly. ‘Allie, pleasure to see you again. I’m looking forward to our meeting.’ And then he turned and was gone, obviously a follower of the mantra,never apologise, never explain.

Allie turned to Verity in confusion. ‘Meeting?’ she asked.

Verity blanched. ‘Oh, yes, erm, Jake asked me to set something up. I’ll do that. I’ll send you some options soon.’

‘But why do I need to meet with Jake?’ Allie asked.

‘Allie, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry but I’ve got another author I need to find before the end of the evening, and you know how long that could take.’ Verity gestured to the crowds in front of them. ‘It was lovely to see you, Allie, I’ll email you.’ And with that Verity too disappeared off into the party.

Allie sighed and looked down at her disappointing glass of slightly warm white wine. Realising that she wasn’t going to get a better offer, she downed it in one and decided to go find the bathrooms. At least she had seen and been seen by Verity, even if she hadn’t gone into full on confessional mode. Maybe she didn’t need to email her in the morning, maybe she could explain when Allie went in for this meeting with Jake Matthews that curiously needed to happen.

* * *

Allie stared at her reflection in the mirror. Thankfully she seemed to have found the quiet bathrooms, the ones with no queue. Although wasn’t ittooeerily quiet for a bathroom at a party? Allie glanced around her. Perhaps people knew something she didn’t? Perhaps this one wasn’t even plumbed in? She tested the tap and was somewhat relieved to find running water. She went back to staring at her face. She pulled her auburn, wavy hair into a ponytail and turned in profile; this was the pose in the author photo that had been gracing the back cover of her books for the last four years. She tried recreating the smile but it fell flat and she dropped her ponytail in frustration. She’d lost that sparkle in her eyes – even if no one else had noticed, Allie had. She rolled her shoulders, easing out the burden of expectation: Verity’s, her mother’s, her fans, and weighing most heavily of all, her own. She thought about her dad. How proud she knew he would have been of her success. And what advice he might give her in her current predicament. She gnawed the inside of her mouth as she tried to recall his calm presence, his all-encompassing love for her, for Martha and for their mum. She blinked back the tears. With every year that went by it was harder and harder to recall his voice, harder to remember his words of wisdom. And yet, the one conversation she could conjure at the drop of a hat was the last one they had, of him telling Allie about when he met her mum, about the fireworks he felt and still felt, even right at the end when he was too weak to do much beyond lie in bed. And how he had wished that for Allie and for Martha, that they too would know a great love like their parents had. Martha had got it, she’d found it with Ruth, Allie could tell. Even their mum seemed happy in Spain with her new partner Nigel. But had Allie found it with Dominic? She contemplated this morosely and then turned her thoughts to the wild promises she had just made to Verity and Jake about her next book.

It wasn’t that Allie couldn’t write, of course she could. She’d written seven novels so far, all of themSunday Timesbestsellers, all of them the perfect formula of romance and laughter and happy-ever-afters. But what she hadn’t admitted to anyone until right this moment, and even now it was only to her own reflection, was that she didn’t want to write them anymore. She didn’t want to write sparkly love stories, she didn’t want to hint at passion and seduction, she didn’t want to capture that moment when your breath caught, desire caused your mouth to go dry and the words to stop as the hero kissed your lips. Because she no longer believed a word of what she had written. What was the point in pretending when life wasn’t full of romance and laughter and you had stopped believing in the happy-ever-afters? How could she create these stories when her own world felt dull and colourless? This realisation hit Allie like a freight train running at a hundred miles an hour; she was floored by her own cynicism, her words silenced by her loss of faith in the religion of romance.

Allie poked her tongue out at the mirror, frustrated by herself. She turned to go into one of the stalls. Even if she didn’t actually need the bathroom she needed a moment of solitude, and she definitely needed to adjust the lining of her irritating dress, which was rucked up and uncomfortable. She made a note never to wear the dress again and to donate it to charity as soon as possible. She had just closed the door and turned the lock when she heard the door of the bathrooms opening and the sound of a giggling voice echo around the space. Quietly she set about readjusting herself and she was just about to flush and open the door, because how was the person out there to know that she hadn’t actually used the toilet, and she didn’t want them thinking her a monster, when she heard another voice, a male voice and she froze. Great, she thought to herself, that’s all I need, stuck in a bathroom while a romantic tryst happens right outside my cubicle.

Allie stood for a moment listening, but whatever was happening outside the cubicle didn’t sound like a hookup. There was the sound of rustling and whispering before the distinct sound of someone, the owner of the female voice, inhaling something and gasping with pleasure.

‘Your turn,’ she said, her voice sounding more nasal and congested than it had before. ‘I brought extra, like you told me to.’

There was a long pause before Allie heard a voice she thought she recognised, saying in clipped tones, ‘Not out here.’

The door of one of the cubicles along from her opened, then closed and was locked. Allie took the opportunity to fling her door open, and run, before she could find out who the voices belonged to and exactly how illegal the substances being inhaled were.

She stalked quickly down the corridor, glancing over her shoulder as she did so, hoping to put as much distance between herself and the bathroom as possible before either of the other party could work out that they hadn’t been alone in the bathroom. In her rush, she took a left instead of a right turn and before she realised it, she was lost and probably about half a mile from the party, somewhere down a labyrinth of corridors. She stopped and looked around her, wondering if she could retrace her steps. Actually she didn’t really want to get back to the party, but she did want to find the exit. And she really did want her coat back from the coat check, because this was London, and despite it being summer, it was coat weather by 10pm.

She pushed against a door she thought looked promising and tumbled outside onto the street. Before she could turn back, the door slammed behind her. She quickly scanned the side of the door where she was now standing and immediately noticed two things; firstly there was no handle on her side, and secondly the door looked amazingly solid for such an old building. Not such a promising door after all then.

‘Dammit!’ she shouted and kicked the door, then really wished she hadn’t when the pain jarred through her leg. The strappy silver sandals she had chosen to wear for the party were not designed for kicking in heavy Victorian doors.

‘It’s locked,’ came a morose voice from her left.

Allie swung round to see who was there and saw a man leaning against the wall smoking.

‘So I gathered,’ Allie said acerbically. ‘Any idea how to get back in?’

The man shrugged. ‘I believe this is the door they’re using for catering, so if you wait around long enough I’m sure someone will come through.’

Allie blew her cheeks out in frustration and leaned back against the wall, keeping a good distance from this strange man. Because after all, this might be a swanky publishing party but it was also a back alley in London. She contemplated asking him how long he had been waiting to be let back in and then decided against engaging a stranger in conversation for the exact same reasons – a back alley. London. Late at night.

He, it seemed, had no such qualms – the privilege of being male, Allie thought to herself, quickly sizing him up and wondering if she could take him on in a fight. If she used one of her sandals as a weapon then she might just have the edge.

‘You were at the party?’ he asked. His voice was deep with a hint of gravel in it, probably caused by the smoking Allie thought, looking again at the lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. As she looked more closely, she realised he was older than she had initially thought, definitely in his sixties – more plausible then, that she could beat him in a fight. And he seemed familiar, Allie felt sure she had seen him somewhere before.

‘I was,’ she confirmed. ‘I was trying to find the coat check but it looks like I took a wrong turn,’ she said, indicating their surroundings.

She was rewarded by a bark of laughter. ‘Looks like you did. Personally, I never bother with them.’

‘Parties or coat checks?’

He turned to face her and raised his eyebrow. ‘It’s a fair question, isn’t it, seeing as we’re both avoiding the party.’

‘I wasn’t avoiding it,’ Allie smarted. And now, looking at him face on, Allie was sure she recognised him.

‘I meant coat checks. Although I find nowadays parties are something I can take or leave as well.’

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