Page 7 of Carbon

“What’s not to be sure about? You’ve written a book; now it’s time for other people to read it. Two options—get an agent and a traditional publishing deal, or go the DIY route. Personally, I think that one looks more fun. Nobody telling us what to do, and we can sort out all the publicity ourselves.”

“Publicity?” My heart sank at the thought. “And what’s this ‘we’ business?”

Angie shoved the papers aside and perched on the edge of the desk. Her smile worried me, and that gleam in her eyes? She only got that when she came up with one of her brilliant ideas—the ones that always ended in disaster, apologies, and when we were a few years younger, getting grounded. Like the time when we were ten, and she wanted a puppy. Mother said no, dogs were dangerous, so Angie decided we’d prove otherwise by borrowing our old caretaker’s Great Dane and taking it for a walk. It knocked Angie over, then I got my hand tangled in its lead while it rampaged through Mother’s rose garden. After that, we weren’t allowed so much as a goldfish.

And now her grin grew wider.

“Daddy wants us to get jobs, right?”

“Right.”

“So, you become a writer, and I’ll be your assistant. Daddy’s always harping on about how important it is to have a good grasp of the English language. It’s perfect.”

No, no, no, no, no. A thousand times no. “No way. I mean, most writers don’t even make money.”

“Augusta, Augusta, Augusta.” She placed both hands on my shoulders. “This isn’t about earning money. It’s about keeping access to the money we already have. Just think about it—you get to carry on doing what you love, and I’ll... Well, I can post stuff on social media for you. Answer your emails, that sort of thing.”

My heart gave a little flutter. In a way, her crazy plan made sense, and the thought of being able to write all day rather than actually speak to people filled me with a sense of relief. Apart from... “I don’t want people knowing that story came from me.”

“Why? Aren’t you proud of it?”

After two rewrites and the mountain of advice I’d got from the editor I secretly hired? “Well, yes, but...” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “It’s got sex in it. Mother would look at me all funny.”

Angie giggled. “It’s not like you’re a virgin. You were married, for crying out loud.”

For all of three days. “That’s different.”

Angie rolled her eyes, suggesting the difficulties were all in my head. “Okay, new plan. We’ll tell her I wrote the book, and you’re my assistant. She already spends her life moaning about my serial dating habit, so she’d totally believe it.”

“But what about everyone in the village? Your friends?”

“My friends will love the idea of me being a writer. I can sign books for them and stuff. And the people in the village talk behind their hands every time I walk into the pub, so what’s new? You never know—one of the old biddies might read your smut and have a heart attack.”

“It’s not smut!”

She waved at the screen. “Really? Michael’s naked backside?”

“I toned it down a bit.”

“Come on, if we’re going to do this, you have to let me read it.”

Okay, so it wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had. No, that honour went to the time seventeen-year-old Angie snuck out to a party late one Saturday evening with the lead singer of a local band Mother had banned her from seeing. I’d got a panicked phone call the next morning, whereupon I had to drive a hundred and fifty miles to pick her and her tattooed beau up from Manchester, still drunk. Mother caught us sneaking in, with Angie dressed up as the Green Absinthe Fairy complete with half a bottle of the vile green concoction, and we both got grounded for a month.

A tiny white lie regarding the true origins ofHe Called Her Nameseemed tame in comparison. Besides, it wasn’t like I’d sell many copies, would I? If nothing else, I was a realist about my chances of success.

Only it didn’t quite turn out that way.

Fast forward five years, and twenty-seven-year-old me still hadn’t found herself a boyfriend, but I, or rather Sapphire Duvall, had become a bestseller nine times over. It turned out sex really did sell.

Too bad I still wasn’t having any, apart from that one glorious night with Mr. Midnight. Mother kept attempting to meddle in my love life, just as she always had, and Angie had never stopped chasing anything with two well-muscled legs and a six-pack.

And now Mother expected me for lunch. If it was just the two of us, I’d be amazed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” I asked, no, begged Angie.

“Sorry. I’m meeting the events planning guy for the launch ofThe Dark Night. You know, for the masquerade ball?”

A sigh escaped. “I forgot.”

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