Page 73 of Slow Burn Summer

SUNDAY TIMEScolumn by Muriel Blackstock to accompany the removal ofThe Power of Lovefrom theSunday Timesbestseller list.

Passing through the airport this morning, I stopped by the bookstore to check out what’s being touted as this year’s hot read for my Greek sun lounger. Three celeb-turned-fiction authors, a couple of TV tie-ins, and an ex-politician’s wife’s scandalous memoir. So far, so normal. And then an entire stand dedicated to the summer’s runaway success story,The Power of Loveby debut author Kate Darrowby. Published in hardback, Darrowby took part in an ambitious TV and radio launch campaign, regaling the nation with humorous anecdotes about her misadventures in pubic topiary and a viral search for her husky-eyed first lover. It’s since been revealed, however, in rather tawdry circumstances involving an Aussie surfer and a family-size trifle, that Darrowby isn’t actually the author after all—just a jobbing actor hired to pose as such. All rise the publishing industry’s newest invention, the ghost author.

Readers will be familiar by now with the use of ghostwriters behind celebrity authors, but is this a step too far for them to stomach? Given that the messy scandal has now resulted in the loss of itsSunday Timesbestseller status, perhaps an AI ghost would have been a more appropriate choice. Certainly a more discreet one.

Oh, and for those wondering, Marian Keyes came to Greece with me in my suitcase. I sobbed into my souvlaki.

40

“Bloody smug-arsed Muriel-shit-for-brains-scumbag-Blackstock!”Liv hurled the paper down in disgust after reading the article out loud to Nish and Kate. “Get Charlie on the phone, wake him up in L.A., and ask him where exactly in your contract you agreed to being stabbed repeatedly in the back by every journalist and keyboard warrior in the entire fucking country?”

Nish placed a mug of coffee on the table in front of Kate. “She’ll calm down in a few minutes,” he murmured under his breath, as they watched Liv stomp. “This whole book thing has got her really worked up.”

Kate nodded, miserable, aware thatthis whole book thingwas her fault.

“You know where this belongs?” Liv strode back to the table and grabbed the paper with both hands. “I’ll show you.”

She ripped the page out and marched into the garden, Kate and Nish close behind her, until she reached Nish’s carefully managed compost heap. They stood in the Sunday-morning rain and watched as she flung the page on top of the pile, then reached for the garden fork and speared it viciously through Muriel’s face. She stuck her foot on the fork and turned the compost pile over until the page disappeared altogether.

“That’s better,” she said, straightening up, red-faced with effort, leaving the fork sticking into the compost heap.

“Come back inside,” Kate said. “You’re getting drenched.”

“It was worth it,” Liv said.

Kate caught Nish’s eye and saw concern crease his forehead. He was a glass-half-full kind of guy; it took a lot to push his buttons.

“I’ve been thinking about booking a holiday,” he said, once they were all back inside. “What do you think, love? I have enough time off accrued at work, we could get the kids away for a couple of weeks. Stevie could do with it now her GCSEs are over, and you’ve been working flat out on those bridesmaid dresses.”

Liv frowned, as if her husband was speaking a language she didn’t understand. “Shut the shop?”

“I can watch it for you,” Kate said. “In fact, I’d like to, it’d keep me busy. God knows I could do with something to occupy myself at the moment.”

“I can’t leave you alone in the middle of all of this going—” Liv stopped mid-sentence and reached out to grip the mantelpiece. “Nish, I don’t feel right.”

The color drained from her face like bathwater down the plughole, and Nish and Kate both lunged forward as she lurched sideways, catching her before she fell and hit her head on the fire surround.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Kate said, fast and panicked. “What’s happening to her?”

“I don’t know,” Nish said, stricken, cradling his out-cold wife in his arms.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Kate said, her mobile already in her hand. “Oh Jesus, Nish, is she breathing? Please tell me she’s breathing, I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to her because I—”

“Just make the damn call, Kate, she’s breathing,” Nish snapped, cutting her off mid-sentence.

She nodded, her hands shaking violently, her voice shaking almost as badly when she spoke to the first responder, who assured her they’d get an ambulance routed to them straightaway.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Kate said, kneeling beside her sister, picking her limp hand up and rubbing it hard. “Come on, Liv, wake up, you need to wake up now. Please, Liv, please wake up.”

She’d only seen Nish cry once before, on his wedding day. To see his fearful tears now was unbearable. Thank God the kids were at his sister’s for a few school’s-out-for-summer celebratory days with their cousins.

“Did her eyelids just flicker?” Nish said, after what felt like hours staring at Liv as the sound of a distant siren grew closer.

Kate felt her sister’s fingers move in her hand, and gasped. “She moved, Nish, she moved! I think she’s coming around.”

The ambulance turned onto the drive, and Kate jumped up. “I’ll let them in.”

The crew bustled in with some urgency, asking direct questions as they took stock of the situation. One knelt beside Liv, who in that same moment opened her eyes and squinted up into the paramedic’s face.

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