Page 8 of The Plot Twist

‘Yes, well that’s because you’re a man. Try walking home in a dress and high heels and then see if you need a coat check.’ Allie didn’t mean to sound so caustic, she just really wanted to know how long she was going to be stuck outside, making small talk with a stranger.

The man shrugged and pushed himself up from his slouching position allowing the streetlamp to cast its light across his face.

‘I know who you are!’ Allie said, suddenly, and then was immediately embarrassed to have made it so obvious that she had been studying him. But he didn’t seem the least bothered, as if he was used to this happening. He put his hand out towards her. ‘Martin Clark,’ he said, ‘and you are?’

‘Erm, Allie Edwards.’ Allie wondered if he would notice how sweaty her palm had become during her race down the corridors and if she could get away with wiping it on her dress. She did a surreptitious wipe down, hoping that the darkness of the alleyway would hide the movement. He took her hand without seeming to notice anything amiss.

‘I didn’t realise Brinkman’s published you.’

Martin Clark had been a huge crime writer in the 1990s. Every one of his books had topped the charts and Allie was sure that at least one of them had been made into a Hollywood movie. Something her dad had made her watch one long Sunday afternoon in her youth. And then, like so many writers, he had disappeared without a trace, and she couldn’t recall him publishing anything recently. Allie shuddered at this fate. Martin made a noise that sounded halfway between a groan and a laugh. ‘I’m not sure I can claim to be published by anyone anymore.’

Allie looked at him curiously, wondering just what the great Martin Clark was doing hiding out in the back alley behind a publishing party.

‘You’re not under contract with them?’ she asked. ‘I thought they were really picky about only inviting authors who are actually being published that year? I only just scraped in, by the way, in case you were wondering.’

Martin Clark didn’t look like he was wondering anything of the sort. He looked down at the cigarette still smouldering in his hand and then lifted it to his lips, taking a long drag.

‘Anyway,’ Allie began, beginning to feel very awkward and wishing that someone, anyone, would open that door and rescue her from this conversation. She was just starting to think about trying to find her way back around to the front of the building and starting all over again when Martin suddenly spoke.

‘Do you know how soul-destroying these parties are?’

Allie opened her mouth to respond, but Martin ploughed on.

‘Having to make small talk, having to listen to speeches telling us how much we’re allvalued.’ He said the word ‘valued’ as if it was something filthy. ‘How important we all are. And all the while knowing that they’re only interested in how soon you can deliver your next manuscript.’

‘Actually,’ began Allie, ‘I do know.’ She leaned her head back against the wall and stared up at the sky. ‘It’s been almost twelve months since my last book was published. I’ve missed three delivery deadlines, and I’ve now promised my editor I’ll have something for her to read in the next few days. And do you know how many words I’ve actually written?’

Martin turned to look at her, his interest piqued by her confession.

‘None,’ she confirmed. ‘Zero. Zilch. That’s how many. And the worst thing is? I don’t even think I can write anymore. At least certainly not the type of books I used to write.’

Martin’s eyes began to sparkle, a ghost of a smile playing about his lips.

‘Don’t laugh,’ she snapped at him. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘Sorry.’ He held his hands up in defense. ‘I was only smiling because it’s exactly the position I find myself in.’

‘You too?’ Allie looked at him in surprise. ‘But you’re Martin Clark, international bestseller.’

Martin fixed her with a glare. ‘And when exactly did you last see my name on the bestseller lists?’

Allie looked down at her feet, not liking to admit that this was exactly the thought she had had not five minutes before. She shifted from one foot to the other, noticing that the toes in her left foot were now almost completely numb.

‘A while ago,’ she eventually admitted.

‘Exactly.’

They stood in silence for a moment.

‘So, tell me, Allie Edwards, what’s your genre?’

‘Romantic comedies,’ she said as defiantly as she dared. ‘I bet you’ve got a lot to say about that,’ she said with a challenge.

‘Don’t stereotype,’ he warned, waving his finger at her. ‘There’s probably quite a lot I could learn from your books.’

‘I doubt it,’ she huffed. ‘Especially as I can’t seem to write them anymore.’

He cocked his head in interest. ‘Can I ask why not? Surely you’re just the right age to be using your own romantic entanglements as inspiration.’ He held his hands up. ‘Or am I not allowed to say things like that these days?’

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