She turned back to the garden, waved at the huge oak, barely visible from the French windows and said, ‘I imagine that’s where Oliver’s treehouse was supposed to be?’
She swallowed. ‘Yes…’ Her mouth opened but no sound emerged. She tried again. ‘Yes.’
‘Maybe we could build one?’
She knew Ben had followed her, but she didn’t dare look at him. ‘Build one?’ She frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I explained to Ben that we were hoping to run a special feature in the August edition. A children’s party. I thought we’d use some of those sweet play tents your friend makes. Have the children playing old-fashioned games.’
‘But there are no children,’ Ellie said. ‘No husband,’ she forced out, aware of Ben at her shoulder. ‘Didn’t you get my letter? Don’t you understand? I wrote to you, explained everything…’
‘My dear Gabriella, I may not be young, but I’m not stupid. I realised from the moment you floundered so helplessly over the question of your title that it was no more than a
‘You did?’
‘I’m as familiar with Debrett’s as I am with my own copy. If you’d been the daughter of any peer I would have been able to recite your family tree.’
‘Then why-?’
‘Why didn’t I say something?’ She gave a ladylike shrug. ‘I thought it would work with our readers, and I was right. They love it. On the other hand, if it had been a disaster I could have used your deception to pull the column and cancel your contract without having to pay you a penny. Publishing is a hard business. You should not have offered to repay me for the three columns I’ve already published, Gabriella. If I’d been unscrupulous-’
‘If!’It was Ben’s disgusted response that removed the smile from her perfectly painted lips.
‘If I’d been unscrupulous and your column hadn’t been such a success, I might have accepted.’
‘Take your money. I don’t want it!’
For a moment Mrs Cochrane actually looked uncomfortable. But she rallied, said, ‘You know, Ellie-I hope I can call you Ellie?-we both deal in fantasy. In your case, the perfect family, living in a charming home with a charming menagerie of pets. That it’s fiction doesn’t matter. Your writing has enough zap to it to feel like the truth. As I explained to Ben,’ she said, ‘your column has revitalised the magazine. Readers’ letters are pouring in. Ben has shown me the work you’re doing on the herb garden. If you’re planning to use that we’ll run an offer for a herb collection alongside it. The fern offer was a huge success.’
‘Oh. Good.’
‘I had intended to phone you, make an appointment to look at the garden-assuming it actually existed-to decide whether it would do for the children’s party photo-shoot. After I received your e-mail, I decided it might be helpful to call and talk to you. I’m hoping to persuade you to reconsider your decision not to renew your contract.’
‘Ellie will need time to think about it, Mrs Cochrane,’ Ben said, stepping in before she could answer. ‘As I told you, she’s been helping out a sick friend for the last few days.’
‘Of course. But in the meantime can I go ahead and arrange everything with the photographer? Call the model agency to book the children? Some well-behaved dogs?’
Ellie frowned. ‘Models?’
She gave a small shrug. ‘Even if the children hadn’t been fictitious, there’s the privacy issue. We wouldn’t have used them.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ Ben said. Then, with a resigned gesture, ‘Just let me know in plenty of time so that I can cut the grass.’
‘Actually, it might be better left. A lawn full of daisies would be perfect. The children could make daisy chains.’
‘I’d better hold off with the weed-and-feed, then.’
‘Excellent. And I’ll arrange for someone to come and look at the tree, see if we can do something about the treehouse.’ She picked up her briefcase, nodded. ‘Your next column is due at the end of the week, Ellie.’ Then, ‘We do have a contract.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure you have it in time.’
Ellie left Ben to see her to the door. Heard him say goodbye. The crunch of the wheels on the gravel. Collapsed onto the sofa as she heard him return to confront her.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ she said, before he could say a word.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘I just have to perform for you, is that it? Turn on the smile and I’ll pull rabbits out of a hat for you. Provide copy. Even restore my mother’s garden so that you’ll have something to show an agent. Make your name. Help you sell your damned book.’
‘No!’ How had she ever let it get to this? ‘No, Ben. It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t using you. This all started before you got home. It was the house I used-that inspired me.’ There was a copy of the latest issue of
‘I’ve seen it,’ he said, his eyes no longer a sun-filled blue, but the colour of wet slate. ‘And then?’
She didn’t answer.
‘You didn’t stop at the house, did you, Ellie?’
‘No.’ The word was little more than a drawn-out breath. ‘No, I didn’t stop there. You’re right. I used you, but it wasn’t deliberate. Intentional. You just slipped into the role I’d written. Or maybe it was the other way around. You were the man I wanted him to be. Warm, generous…’ She was already in so much trouble that there seemed little point in holding back. ‘The kind of man who’d build his kids a treehouse. Who’d take pity on a rabbit.’ Then, remembering the half-grown red setter in the kitchen, ‘Or a dog.’ So much for the hard man who wouldn’t give a dumb red setter house room. And, gaining confidence, she went on, ‘A man who’d bind up some sorry woman’s knee and give her a lift, even when she was causing him all kinds of trouble. Who’d lead a rag-tag group of refugees through the mountains to safety.’ She’d had time to waste, had surfed the net, read the reports…‘A hero, Ben. Not some fictional character but a man who lives what he is. Knows himself through and through. You walked into my life and filled the vacancy.’
This time the silence went on so long that she forced herself to look at him.
‘Did you really walk into Jennifer Cochrane’s office and try to convince her that you were Lady Gabriella March?’ he asked.
‘I wore my sister’s suit,’ she said. ‘I looked quite…normal. Honestly.’ Then, because it was important, ‘You weren’t in that first column, Ben. Not even in my imagination. I thought you were some doddery old bloke…’ She stopped. No point in dwelling on what he’d turned out to be. ‘I didn’t mean to go through with it. I started writing it as a pastiche, then sort of got carried away. For heaven’s sake, who’d have thought someone would buy it? No one wanted my novel, and I was taking that
She glanced at him, realised that he was trying not to laugh. ‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘It’s okay. Laugh your head off.’ The whole thing was clearly risible.
‘Hey,’ he said, hunkering down beside her. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Why, indeed? You’re clearly in anything but a laughing mood.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s okay. I don’t blame you. The sad thing is that I was going to tell you. Before this…’ she made a vague gesture that encompassed them both ‘…us…went any further.’
‘Oh?’ And somehow he was on the sofa beside her.
‘I’ve been sitting by the river trying to think of a way to explain what happened.’
‘You’ve done that.’
She shook her head. ‘Not just the column, but what happened to my life. How I got to be here.’He took her hand, held it in his, and somehow that made it easier. ‘How,’ she said, ‘if I’d gone back to art when Sean died it would have been admitting that everyone was right.’
‘That he was jealous of your talent?’
‘He wasn’t jealous. He didn’t have my choices. He was gifted, wrote the most incredible poetry, but his father had a small business. In the summer before Sean should have left for university his father had a heart attack and he had to stay and take care of things. No university for him. No gap-year. No time to dream of becoming a poet, a novelist. Just the monthly meetings of the local writers’ circle. He was their star, the one who had poems published
