With the pan and my bowl soaking in a basin of hot water, I finally catch my breath after what has been a rollercoaster of a day. If I’d known everything that would happen today, I might very well have rolled back over in bed and remained there for the rest of the day. It’s not even ten o’clock, and already my warm duvet and soft pillows are calling for me. The wine probably wasn’t such a well-thought-out idea considering my mental state, but it’s too late to worry about that now; it’s not like I need to drive anywhere tonight.
Staring at the calendar in my kitchen I can see the bold letters of the leaflet hanging from the pin board beside it. You’d think after two years of publication parties, book launches, and signing events I’d be comfortable with what awaits in the morning, but the truth is today’s turmoil has served as a welcome distraction. The signing is at the Waterstones in the centre of town, and is being hosted in celebration of the paperback release of my last book, Isolated, which tells the story of Sally Curtis, the teenager who went missing from the nearby Bovington army barracks. Awkwardly, the book signing event my agent Maddie organised for last autumn’s hardback release was at the WH Smith’s a few doors away from tomorrow’s venue. It will likely generate some local interest, and as Maddie always tells me, ‘You can’t sign books once you’re dead!’
No, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me either, but that doesn’t stop her using it every time she’s trying to cajole me into attending one event or another.
‘It’s about giving back to your fans,’ she reminds me, and I owe my readers a lot so it’s only right I try and repay them in some way.
The signing doesn’t start until ten, and Maddie is planning to meet me at the venue half an hour before to ensure the table is set up and there are enough copies of my other books on hand should anyone be interested in purchasing them for signing too. I don’t know what I’d do without Maddie in my life. Her commercial eye means I can focus solely on creating the work, and she is worth every penny of the commission she collects from royalties earned. I’m planning to wake at eight, shower, and dress in an outfit Maddie has picked out for me, before taking a leisurely stroll into town, stopping for a cooked breakfast on the way to settle any last-minute nerves.
‘The day will pass without hitch or issue,’ I tell myself, breathing in deeply and exhaling as I repeat the mantra.
I’m about to switch off the kitchen light and head through to bed for a read when the phone erupts to life on the side and frightens me half to death. I shouldn’t be surprised to see Maddie’s name in the caller display; she’s probably just checking I’m not planning to back out of the signing at the last minute.
‘Hi, Maddie. You caught me on the way to bed; want to be fresh for the morning.’
‘Good girl. Glad to hear it. I was just checking that you know to be there for half nine, and to bring a couple of pens in case one runs out.’
I quickly grab two pens from the mug by my writing desk and place them on the unit beside my door, silently reprimanding myself for not remembering I’d need something to sign with.
‘Already sorted,’ I lie confidently.
‘I figured it would be, but no harm in a gentle reminder. Are you all set? No last-minute nerves?’
‘No,’ I lie again, though less convincingly. ‘It’s a couple of hours of sitting behind a table, thanking people for their interest in my work. How hard can it be, right?’
‘That’s the spirit! Actually, there was another reason for my call; we received an envelope for you at the office yesterday. Addressed to you, but care of the office. I was just going to bring it down tomorrow, but then I suddenly thought it might be urgent. Probably just fan mail, but I can open it if you want?’
Right after Monsters became the overnight success it did, I found I started receiving all sorts of letters from readers to my home address. Some were sweet messages of support, but not all, and in the end we had to hire a company to remove all traces of my home address from the web for protection. It still terrifies me that some crazed fan could find out where I live and come to my door. I still get to read any messages that are sent via Maddie, and most remain heart-warming and inspirational letters that touch my heart. There was one gentleman, who shall remain nameless, who sent me a box of his old pornographic magazines, advising that he had turned over a new leaf and put that seediness behind him because he’d seen the error of his ways having read Monsters. We passed the box and note onto the police, but I don’t know if anything ever came of it. Maddie now acts as my filter and doesn’t show me anything that might put my nerves on edge and stop me agreeing to events like tomorrow’s signing.
‘Yeah, go ahead,’ I say, stifling a yawn, the wine slowly pickling my brain.
‘Okay, one second,’ she says, and I hear her lowering the phone.
I yawn again while waiting for her to come back on the line.
‘Mmm,’ she mumbles, ‘it’s a black and white photograph. No letter, just an image of a girl. There’s no return address or contact details
