I lay Titania in my lap. “Ask me what?”
“To write his biography, of course. We all talked about it after you went upstairs and I sent him some of your writing. This morning he said it was very good and that he was going to talk to you about it, didn’t you, Frederic?”
He gives me a smile that’s not quite a proper smile, and shoots Mona a look. I have the feeling he’s annoyed with her. “Yes, I did.”
If he’s annoyed, I’m doubly so. It was a stupid, throwaway suggestion of Dad’s that I write Frederic’s biography and it embarrassed me and Frederic. I bet it was her who brought it up again after I went upstairs. She probably thought she was doing me a good turn. My sisters are so competitive and they’ve never understood why I’m not. Now I’ll have to listen to Frederic politely tell me his publisher won’t go for an unknown writer like me, or worse, fib and say that he’s gone off the idea of publishing his biography altogether, thinking I’ll save face.
“How did you even get hold of my writing?” I ask Mona. “I don’t have hard copies of the books I’ve ghostwritten in the house. Wait, you didn’t give him my essays, did you? Academic writing isn’t anything like creative nonfiction.”
She snorts. “That stuff? Of course I didn’t. I sent him a link to your fan fiction archive.”
I stare at her. My fan fiction archive, began when I was fourteen and updated on and off throughout high school and into my university years. Alternate point-of-view chapters for novels I studied. Offscreen moments for my favorite TV shows. Alternate universe drabbles. Some melodramatic, some smutty, all of them very silly, and all written anonymously under the name Princess_Nightshade. Anonymous, because I didn’t want anyone knowing that I, the serious literature student, could write such self-indulgent fluff.
I sent a piece to Mona years and years ago when we were both hooked on True Blood, a stupid story about Eric and an original character who was essentially Mona and myself in terms of age, background and habits. How did she even remember what my username is? And how could she think it was appropriate to send a link to the archive to anyone, let alone a stranger?
The archive even has—oh god. My stomach twists with shame, and I’m reminded of those last fatal weeks with Adam. I never wanted to feel like that again, but here I am, about to throw up because the archive contains a Notre Dame one-shot detailing my whipping fantasy. Frederic must have seen it. He would have homed in on the works he’s performed in, just as he picked out the dolls of the characters he’s played. How many other stories did I write for his characters? Maybe half a dozen. I look down at the basket of dolls next to me, stuffed full of those same characters, and I want to shove them all away from me.
Frederic addresses Mona. “That Pimms looks so refreshing. Could you please bring us a couple of glasses?”
Mona looks a little miffed that she’s being reduced to a waitress but she shrugs and does as she’s asked.
I watch her retreating back as she heads for the house. As soon as I get my sister alone I’m going to strangle her with a length of embroidery thread. How could she? Doesn’t she realize how inappropriate it was, sending him that stuff?
I start tying off my needlework so I can put it away and find someplace to hide from Frederic. He must think I’m obsessed with him. It’s not him, it’s the stories. I happen to like darker, Gothic tales and those are the roles he’s been cast in. “I’m so sorry about all this,” I mutter as I tie a knot in the thread. “Mona always does the most ridiculous things to get auditions and doesn’t understand why everyone else isn’t the same.”
He regards me for a moment, though I can’t see his expression as my eyes are intent on the silk. “Don’t be embarrassed, Evie, please.”
Too late. “She shouldn’t have put you in this position. It’s rude. You’re a guest here.”
“You’re not interested in the job, then?”
I’m scrabbling round in the basket for my embroidery scissors to cut the thread when he holds them out to me. But he doesn’t let them go until I look up at him, and then I can’t look away. It’s that cobra-mouse effect again. Damn his green eyes.
“I want to talk about it with you,” he says. “You’ve had a first-class education and paid biographical writing experience. Mona’s told me about the sorts of things you’ve written. It’s impressive.”
Please. I can just imagine what she said about those books. Stuffy things about old army officers and second-rate politicians. Yawn central.
He goes on. “I’m not a writer or even much of a reader, but you’ve got a strong voice and a lively turn of phrase. I’d like to discuss the job with you, if you’re interested. It would pay well, and it would look very good on your CV.”
My ears prick at his words, but then embarrassment crests again as I imagine him trawling the archive, reading those stupid stories. Frollo taking a whipped Esmeralda into his arms and kissing her passionately. Hyde running the flat of a wickedly sharp knife down his lover’s flesh. There’s no point wondering if I want the job because I’m about to die of shame.
Then he tells me the name of the publisher his Canadian agent is negotiating a book deal with, and I bite my lip. It would look very good on my CV. The money would be good, too. I’ve been living at college since I was an undergrad but I’ll have my PhD soon and it will be time for me to move out into the real world. I’ve been carefully putting aside the money I make from ghostwriting, but it’s never much.
All the same, I have the feeling he’s humoring me and I don’t like it. “There are people who have a lot more experience than me who would be willing to take the job. People who write biographies
professionally.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you did it as a hobby.”
“No, I didn’t mean—”
The sound of stricken female voices erupts from the direction of the house. The heat seems to be getting to my sisters; they fight like cats in the summer. Frederic glances toward the noise, grimaces, and then turns back to me. “Look, shall we get out of here tonight and go and have some dinner in town to discuss it? I can barely get a word in at the table here.”
Spend the evening alone with a man who’s perused all my most ridiculous fantasies? I don’t think so.
When Lisbet screeches in rage a moment later, he flinches, and I can’t help but smile. “You’re telling me.”
“Is that a yes?”