“Yes, please. White wine. I’m Nicole Rayburn, by the way,” I said, addressing all three occupants of the room.
“Paul Scanlon. Espionage,” the man said, lowering his voice confidentially.
“Pardon?”
“I write espionage novels,” he clarified, smiling down at me. “What about you?”
“Nonfiction.”
“Anything I might have read?” Paul asked.
“My most popular book is called Æthelflaed: The Lady of Mercia.”
Paul nodded in acknowledgement, but it was clear he hadn’t heard of it or its subject. “So, is your heroine a damsel in distress or a real badass?”
“A little of both,” I replied, not really wishing to discuss my work.
“Is such a thing even possible?” Paul asked, the smile becoming more sardonic.
“It is,” I said, and went to join the others, who were seated before a cozy fire. “Hello,” I said, sinking into a plush armchair.
“Hi. I’m Anna DeWitt. Victorian murder.”
Anna was in her fifties, her colorful tunic and bangle bracelets reminiscent of a nineteen sixties flower child. Her gray-streaked brown hair looked like it hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in decades, and she wore winged eyeliner and pale pink lipstick. She reminded me of the witchy shopkeepers in Glastonbury who sold crystals and talked in hushed tones about chakras and the Goddess. I liked her immediately.
The other woman was closer to my age, in her mid-thirties. She had a chic haircut and wore a smart trouser suit in dove gray with a blush-pink silk blouse. Her shoes probably cost more than the advance I’d received for my last book.
“Yvonne Denton. Literary fiction.” Her tone was cool and brittle, her dark gaze sharp.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I said. I’d heard of Yvonne Denton. She was hugely successful and had recently released a book called Broken Pieces, about a young woman who managed to get away from her abusive husband and become a bestselling author despite the trauma of those years. Yvonne had hinted in interviews that the story was autobiographical but wouldn’t say so outright, still touting it as a work of fiction.
“So, nonfiction?” Yvonne said, her smile so condescending, it made me cringe.
“Yeah. I love history, particularly the history of East Anglia,” I said.
“I love history too,” Anna said, “but I always feel the need to murder someone in my books, not that there wasn’t plenty of real murder going on throughout history already.” She giggled like a young girl. “I love planting clues and red herrings. Do you ever read murder mysteries, Nicole?”
“Oh, yes. I was obsessed with Agatha Christie growing up,” I said.
“Miss Marple of Poirot?” Anna asked, still smiling.
“I was always partial to Miss Marple. She wasn’t as full of herself.”
“I have to agree. I always found Poirot irritating,” Anna said. “Which one is your favorite?”
“And Then There Were None,” I said. “I thought it was very cleverly plotted.”
“It certainly was,” Anna said. “What about you, Yvonne? Any interest in murder?”
“Not so much,” Yvonne said haughtily. “I like to explore journeys of personal growth and redemption.”
“Lofty themes,” Paul said as he sat down next to Yvonne. “So, what’s your new novel about?”
“I’d rather not discuss it,” Yvonne said. “It’s still in the planning stages. What about you?” she asked, although it was obvious from her disdainful expression that she wasn’t really interested.
“I’m writing book four of my Alex Langdon series,” Paul said proudly. “In this installment, Alex slips into Cold War Russia to discover what happened to an agent who’d gone off the grid.”
The three women nodded in unison, clearly unable to come up with a suitable comment or question.
“Have you ever been here before?” I asked, addressing the question to everyone.
“First time for me,” Paul said. “But I heard good things about it from a writer friend.”
“My second,” Yvonne chimed in. “I came here to finish Broken Pieces. Had to get away from the kids or I never would have met my deadline. It was during the summer. Best two weeks of my life,” she added dreamily.
Paul gave her a suggestive look. “Hook up with another writer, did you? I heard about all the shagging that goes on at these places.” He winked at me.
Yvonne bristled. “I’m happily married, thank you very much. It was just nice to focus on my book instead of incessantly dealing with everyone else’s needs.”
“Sorry. Just asking,” Paul said, smiling innocently.
“I wonder what’s keeping the other two,” Yvonne said as the clock struck half seven. “Are they a couple? They arrived in the same car. I saw them from my window.”
“No idea,” Paul said. “Haven’t met them yet.”
As if on cue, two men walked into the sitting room. “Sorry we’re late,” the fair-haired one said. He had wide blue eyes and the body of a rugby player, his tight-fitting jersey showcasing a chiseled chest and muscled arms. He looked from one person to the next, his gaze pausing on Yvonne, then traveling to me. He smiled, revealing the sort of teeth one saw in American adverts. His confidence came off him in waves, his presence filling the room. Romance writers often referred to men like him as alphas, and I thought the description apt in his case.
The second man was taller and leaner, with curling dark hair and an eye color that was difficult to make out in the soft glow of the sitting room lamps. He wore charcoal-gray trousers and a dusky-blue sweater. Unlike his friend, he was unassuming and seemingly happy to forgo the spotlight.
“Len Farrell,” the fair-haired one said. “Oh, and this is Kyle Walsh,” he said, turning to his friend.
Everyone introduced themselves. “Are you the Len Farrell who writes those eight-hundred-page tomes about the Knights Templar?” Paul asked.
“The one and only,” Len said, and gave a theatrical bow.
“And what about you, Kyle? What do you write?” Yvonne asked, her demeanor undergoing a miraculous
