‘Your stepdaughter’s name’s Lucy, isn’t it? And her real father’s currently in prison for domestic—’
‘Whoah, whoah, let me stop you right there, Chloe.’ He put up his hand and looked hard at her. ‘If your readers are expecting a true crime book then they’ll be disappointed. I briefly mention the Hobbs Hill case but this is a sociological study into the nature—’
‘So you don’t think he was wrong, then?’
‘Pardon?’
More people leant forward.
‘His drowning multiple women and nearly your wife’s daughter. From what you’ve just shared with us, you’d say that was a morally neutral act? Correct?’
He looked across at Beth. He assumed she’d be ticked off by the distraction of all this. But her expression was quite the opposite. She was smiling, with a curled finger tapping against her chin. If she had a moustache, she may have twiddled it. She nodded at him, to answer, so he did.
‘Now listen. What happened in Hobbs Hill was utterly wrong. Vile in fact.’ He was gripping the lectern, which felt way too presidential. He folded his hands on the book in front of him instead. ‘But when I say something is wrong I’m obviously speaking from an agreed standard that’s been bred into my DNA after millions of years of evolution. Morality is the air I breathe, but—’
‘But? When it comes to murder there’s a but?’
‘If the gods don’t exist then morality can only come from social consensus. Theoretically there could be a planet filled with people where the majority of them rejoice in murder. “Evil” would be “Good” for them. Now my brain couldn’t handle that system and on that planet I’d be the psychopath. But without some sort of deity I can only say it’s wrong by my standards. I can’t appeal to some fixed framework beyond humanity. Apophenia tells us a system is there, but it’s not.’
‘So morality is relative?’ Chloe cocked her head to the side. ‘That’s a dangerous attitude, don’t you think?’
‘Not at all. I’m not advocating murder and I’m certainly not saying we need God to be moral, either. I’m just saying we choose our morals … that argument is just basic, GCSE philosophy, Chloe.’
He really didn’t mean that as a cheap put-down, he was just making a point. But some of his students chuckled at that and he watched her bristle.
‘And your wife’s ex-husband? Lucy’s real dad. Was his domestic violence just a—?’
‘That’s enough.’ He put a palm up.
‘And is it morally okay for a writer to jump on the Hobbs Hill murder buzz to shift more books?’
‘Oh, come off it.’ He stepped out from the lectern. ‘You guys did a six-page spread on the Hobb—’
Beth sprang onto the stage, so fast she might as well have teleported. He could see Wren in the front row, teeth clenched. Lucy was scrolling through her phone. Beth, the consummate publicist shut it all down with one, straightforward sentence.
‘Aaaand … next question.’
A hand shot up.
‘Yes?’
‘Reece Farn, Daily Star. What about ghosts … don’t you think they might exist?’
Twenty minutes later and the questions were done.
Everybody spilt back out in the foyer, mingling with each other and taking selfies with the shiny dictators. The first thing he did was ignore all that and find Lucy, to see if she was okay. He nodded and smiled as he politely pushed through the crowd, until he found her by the big window, looking out onto the fountains near the lawns. Wren was by her side.
He caught Wren’s eye and she leant in to kiss him. ‘Good job tonight.’
‘Hmmm,’ he shrugged, then spoke to Lucy’s reflection. ‘Listen, I’m really sorry the reporter brought all that up,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’
She shrugged again. ‘’Course I am.’
‘Because if you’d like us to head off home, then I can grab the car.’
‘Relax. It’s not as big a deal as you think, you know.’ She was chewing the corner of her mouth. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be mingling?’
He clocked her reflected eyes. That flicker of the lashes that said, don’t go there, please.
So he looked at Wren and they both slowly nodded. They had this unspoken agreement, after all. Lucy saved all talk on Hobbs Hill, and her real dad, for the counsellor the police had now provided. She didn’t want to bring any of that stuff home, though ignoring it all made him jittery. Especially on the occasional nights when Lucy had the nightmares. When he’d hear her go into the bathroom and turn on the taps just to cover the sound of her crying. Wren would be fast asleep snoring, but he’d stand by his door in his pyjamas waiting. To see if she might call out for someone. She never did.
‘Anyway, this is a party and I’m sixteen so’ – Lucy whirled away from the window – ‘can I have some champagne?’
Wren laughed. ‘One glass.’
He laughed too, and spotted Amelia walking over with a floppy paper plate, full of mini-doughnuts. ‘And don’t give alcohol to your sister.’
Wren kissed him again. ‘Now go and schmooze, you big schmoozer.’
Prosecco started fizzing into glasses. Canapés that smelt odd came drifting out. Beth handed out flyers for the charity lunch tomorrow, while Matt sat at a glass table and signed books. Throughout the evening the PA guy played sickly smooth jazz that Matt hadn’t requested. At one point, he was sure it was a Kenny G album. Evidence perhaps that the gods really did exist after all, and were casting down prophetic banality on his efforts to deny them.
He signed forty-four books, not that he was counting. Actually, he was counting. Sometimes wondering if without Hobbs Hill he really might have sold only fourteen books.
We want to bring publication forward Matt. Just to tie in with the news profile. Nothing crass … just getting your message out to more—
He put that from his mind.
When he’d scrawled enough of his name,
