Page 76 of Slow Burn Summer

Her phone buzzed in herpocket, startling her. A video call from Charlie. She stared at his name on the screen, her finger hovering over “Accept,” before she declined the call. She longed to talk to someone about all the things that had been happening and, in truth, Charlie was the person she wanted to speak to. He’d know what to say, what to do, but she was having a hard time shaking her lingering anger with him. Her feelings about what had happened between them had tangled themselves around the complicated trust issues she’d been left with in the aftermath of her marriage. Charlie had categorically told her that the L.A. chapter of his life was over, yet it had only taken his ex-wife to open the door and he’d run through it. She knew it wasn’t as straightforward as that, and she wasn’t proud of the messy, mixed-up thought processes his decisions had raised in her head, but it was what she was. She’d backed away to protect herself and she wasn’t ready to lower her guard, but now she was out on a limb with none of her usual support system, just when she most needed someone.

She was just trying to summon the wherewithal to haul herself off the floor, when she heard a noise she didn’t recognize outside the door. She braced instinctively, holding her breath. Had he come back? Raising her head slowly over the counter, she squinted toward the door, then jumped to her feet. Someone was hosing the door down, making light work of the cleanup job. She waited until they’d finished, then flung the door wide to say thank you.

“I saw what happened,” the woman standing there said.

Kate recognized her as the owner of the Chinese restauranta couple of doors down; she’d seen her taking her kids to school most mornings. She’d trailed a green hosepipe along the shopfronts in order to clean Kate’s door, and was now directing the spray toward the gutter, job done.

Kate nodded, overwhelmed by the kindness of a stranger.

“Thank you,” she said, more of a tearful whisper than she’d have liked. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

The woman smiled, shy, and shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

Kate really wanted to lunge in for a hug, because, in truth, she badly needed one herself. “I’m Kate,” she said instead. “I live upstairs.”

The woman laid her hand on her chest. “Yushu.” She looked away, distracted as one of her children appeared in her doorway and called out to her in Chinese. “Kids. I better go,” she said, smiling again.

Kate wrapped her arms around herself and nodded, watching her neighbor walk away. “Thank you again.”

Yushu probably didn’t realize it, but that single act of neighborly solidarity was exactly what Kate needed to stiffen her backbone. Walking back inside the shop, she flipped the sign over toOpen, bolstered by the kindness of a stranger.

45

“Anytime on Thursday is fineto return them,” Kate said, waving off a group who’d turned up in need of emergency TV-themed fancy-dress outfits and left the shop in head-to-toePeaky Blinderschic. It had been her busiest day by far; she was glad to finally close the door and flick the bolt across. Her eyes skimmed the street scene, pretty certain balaclava man wouldn’t put in an appearance while other people were around.

Her social media alert pinged on her mobile in the back pocket of her jeans as she headed upstairs, and then again, and again. She slowed on the steps, not reaching for her vibrating mobile, because these days her phone going frantic was a sure sign of incoming trouble. Dropping onto her sofa, she screwed up her face ready for impact and pulled her phone out. As long as it wasn’t about Liv, it was okay.

So, it wasn’t about Liv, but it wasn’t okay either. Far from it. One of the big gossip sites had run a huge piece speculating on H’s identity, listing their top-ten authors in the frame against their odds, none of whom were even male. And, of course, the article covered every last salacious detail of her own involvement, including snippets of her TV and radio interviews and snapshots of distressed readers who felt duped and lied to. All of it was damning, but none of it was new,until she reached the last paragraph, where her mouth fell open and stayed that way.

Elliott’s ex-husband Richard remained tight-lipped on the situation when we reached out to him for comment:

“Out of respect for our daughter, I do not wish to comment on my ex-wife’s erratic behavior in recent months, despite her having recently broken into and entered my home whilst I was out of the country. I hope she’s receiving adequate support and the help she clearly needs at this time.”

Kate read and reread it, then huffed and read it a third time. “You absolute bastard,” she spat, incensed. It was hardly refraining from comment, was it? In one short paragraph Richard had called her erratic, accused her of burglary, and suggested she was in need of medical intervention. “No comment is two bloody words,” she muttered, furious at the nerve of the man.

Clicking on social media confirmed what she’d expected: his non-comment was all over her author pages and many others besides, keeping the fire well and truly burning under the speculation and scandal.

This really is the story that keeps on giving

someone posted, with a row of laughing faces.

It really is like being chopped into small pieces and fed to the lions every day,she thought, but stopped herself from typing. She cringed when she realized some big-name writers mentioned in the article had already taken steps to publicly rule themselves out as the secret author, people whose books she’d read and admired over theyears. A chunk of her self-respect quietly broke off and dissolved into her bloodstream at the idea of them being hassled for comment, solidifying her determination that H should never reveal his identity. One person sitting on the bench of shame was more than enough.

At least the book itself hadn’t been targeted, she thought, checking the online reviews as she did every day. No one could deny the quality and beauty of the story. Or they hadn’t, up to now.

“Oh, fuck right off,” she whispered, reading the most recent review from Disgruntled of Devon.

Shame on Darrowby. If I hadn’t bought this as an ebook I’d have set fire to it.

Twenty-nine people had already liked Disgruntled’s comment, and it had only been posted that day.

MargoInManchester had also hopped online to vent her annoyance.

I queued for a signed copy of this book by the fake author. I’ve re-gifted it to my boss for her birthday, because I hate her.

Kate gasped out loud at the whip-smart venom, and the fact that more than sixty-five people had clicked “like.” There were more, but she turned her phone off and dropped it face down on the sofa.

She’d been hired to quietly represent H’s book, and the way things were going the publisher would be asking her for their money back, citing breach of contract. They’d asked for a ghostauthor and ended up with a circus, and whether she liked it or not, Kate was the clown. People were laughing at her, adding the by-now familiar #calamitykate hashtag to their posts. And still she said nothing in public, keeping her fingers out of the piranha tank.

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