The Queen of New Beginnings (29 page)

It was almost like the old days. But without the cranks.

Joking Aside
had regularly attracted a sizeable mail bag and Clayton and Barry had done their best during the first series to reply personally to the letters they had received, but by the time things had really taken off, they simply didn’t have the time. They had been advised never, under any circumstances, to reply to the letters written by the obvious cranks. Their letters were easy to spot; they were postmarked from Looney-Tunes-Ville. One so-called fan had written to them every week with suggestions for their next series. Every outline was a variation on a theme, the theme being intergalactic warfare masterminded by a white toy poodle. Another person—they never knew whether the writer was male or female—would send reams of A4 paper covered in a scrawl so illegible they didn’t have a clue what he or she was saying. During the whole of series two, Clayton was targeted with love poetry written by a woman claiming to have been married to him in a former life. The margins of her letters were childishly decorated with hearts drawn in red felt-tip pen. Glitter had occasionally been applied.

Clayton thought of those letters now as he flicked through the bundle of mail Glen had forwarded to him. It had arrived in the post that morning and it had been the first thing he’d opened. He’d put the rest of his mail to one side; it could wait. Signor Ego, on the other hand, could not; he needed to have his back patted.

He was a dozen letters into the pile and grateful that so far, in the nine days that had passed since
The Queen of New Beginnings
had aired, the programme hadn’t drawn any crazies out of the woodwork. The letters were all complimentary, congratulating him on his comeback and saying they liked the change of direction he had taken. Brave and perceptive appeared to be the
mots juste
, along with explosively funny and pitch-perfect. Only one letter, the one he was reading now, referred to his recent “troubles” and then only as a postscript. Whoever Joanna Philips of 3a Burnage Terrace, Basingstoke, was, she wished him well for the future and looked forward to more great drama from him.

He added her letter to the “read” pile on the left-hand side of his desk and sat back in his chair. More great drama, he mused. Well, that remained to be seen. Like dealing with one crisis at a time, one success at a time was the way forward. Though where that next success was going to come from, he wasn’t at all sure. Early days, he told himself. But he knew it wasn’t. Glen had already been on at him for his next Big Idea. The production company behind
The Queen of New Beginnings
had also been making noises. There had been mutterings that he should write a sequel. Several of the letters he’d read this morning had suggested the same thing; they wanted to know what would happen next. That was the thing with human nature: you gave people a happy ending but it was never enough. There had to be a what-happened-next stage. Which, of course, meant that the carefully orchestrated happy ending had to be destroyed for a new storyline to be created. And in all truth, he didn’t have the heart to do that. He wanted to leave his fictionalized Alice in peace. He didn’t want to put her through any more pain or disappointment. On paper or in real life.

He swivelled his chair restlessly, then stood up. Coffee. A caffeine fix to stop his mind wandering. A shot of the hard stuff to stop him obsessing over whether Alice had watched his programme. He’d do anything to know what she had thought of it. OK, that was blatantly untrue. He could, for instance, pick up the phone and ring her for her opinion. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to do that.

While he waited for the kettle to boil in the kitchen, he glanced idly through the rest of his mail that had arrived that morning. There were credit card statements, a mobile phone offer, an invitation to a sofa sale and tucked in between a communication from BT and another from British Gas, was a handwritten envelope. The writing was instantly familiar.

For several seconds he held the envelope in his hand and stared at it. This he hadn’t expected. Behind him the kettle clicked off. He put the envelope down, made himself an extra-strong cup of instant coffee, grabbed the last packet of Jaffa Cakes from the cupboard, and with his hands full, he went back to his office, carrying the unexpected letter between his teeth.

He made a space on the desk, sat down and once again stared at the envelope. It now had a bite mark across the top of it. What to make of it? Only one way to find out.

Fortified with a few scalding sips of coffee and a Jaffa Cake, he opened the envelope with as much care as if it might contain a detonating device. In all likelihood, it probably did. Just not the kind that would take his limbs off or blind him. The pen was mightier than the sword, after all.

Dear Clayton,

I know this may come as a surprise to you, given everything that has happened, but I wanted to get in touch to congratulate you on
The Queen of New Beginnings
. You’ve really pulled it off with this one. Well done! You’ll be doing the rounds of all the award ceremonies without a doubt.

At least now I know I did the right thing in splitting our partnership. I always knew I was holding you back. Remember I said you’d thank me one day? Hey, not that I’m expecting you to thank me! Once again, congratulations.

Cheers,

Bazza

P.S. If you ever fancy meeting up for a drink, you know where I am.

Clayton read through the letter one more time, absently eating another two Jaffa Cakes.

As he had thought before, what to make of it? The letter bore all the hallmarks of a man who wanted to let bygones be bygones. Congratulations and the offer of a drink. Whatever next?

Next came far sooner than he could have imagined.

Returning his attention to the pile of fan mail, he opened another letter and began reading it.

Dear Mr. Miller,

He approved of the formality; there was too much familiarity in the world for his liking…

I watched with great interest
The Queen of New Beginnings
.
In fact I’d go so far as to say that I was spellbound by it.

…Excellent. This was obviously someone who appreciated quality…

The programme was of particular interest to me because I strongly suspect that it was not a work of fiction.

…He sat up straighter…

Moreover, I would very much like the opportunity to discuss this matter further with you

…His back was ramrod straight now and a feeling of unease was creeping over him like a cold shadow…

I’m intrigued to know how you came to write the piece. Of course, it could all be coincidence but I’m certain that this is not the case.

…His eyes flickered anxiously to the end of the letter…

Yours sincerely,

Isabel Blake.

Isabel.

Blake.

Isabel.

Rufus’s girlfriend.

Rufus’s girlfriend who ran off with Bruce Barrett.

Clayton racked his brains trying to remember the surname that particular Isabel had gone by. For some stupid reason he couldn’t remember it. One thing he was absolutely sure of: it hadn’t been Blake. But then it wouldn’t be the same name if she had married.

And she hadn’t married Bruce by the looks of things.

Or was he overreacting? Was this Isabel a completely different Isabel? Was she merely a curious viewer?

He read the letter again, this time taking in the contact addresses Isabel Blake had provided. There was an email address and a telephone number.

Canning!

Yes, that was the surname Isabel had gone by.

Isabel Canning.

He drank his coffee, then chewed on another Jaffa Cake, hoping it would quell the queasy feeling in his stomach.

Whether or not it was the injection of caffeine into his system, the writer in him suddenly saw something positive that could come of this letter. If this Isabel proved to be
the
Isabel Canning, then she might just turn out to be an answer to a prayer.

A sequel…

Captain Sensible cleared his throat.
Just one itsy-bitsy, teenzyweenzy little thing: will you tell Alice about Isabel getting in touch? No? You don’t think she has a right to know?

• • •

Clayton liked to think he wasn’t as stupid as he looked, but he had to admit that recently his life had taken on all the prudence of a parent allowing a toddler to play with a box of hand grenades. But in this instance he prided himself on managing to retain at least a modicum of good sense.

Three days after receiving Isabel Blake’s letter he had made contact with her. He had wisely decided against emailing her, for fear of her turning out to be a nut-job and inundating him with round the clock emails thereafter. No. He’d done the sensible thing and telephoned the number she had supplied—with him withholding his number, so she wouldn’t be able to dial 1 and retrieve his number and pester him, should things take a turn for the worse.

Oh, yes, he was thinking with a clear head, caution to the fore.

She had sounded both delighted and surprised to hear from him and they had arranged to meet up. He had suggested he would come to her and now as the train pulled into Haslemere Station, he took a moment to steel himself. No matter what, he had to seize control of their meeting. It was imperative that he sussed out the situation before committing himself to admitting everything. If she started making any unpleasant accusations, he would simply deny everything.

The taxi he had arranged to meet him was waiting on the road outside the station. He gave the driver the name of the restaurant he’d been given in Midhurst. It wasn’t long before he was being dropped off.

When he spotted an attractive woman with shoulder-length blonde hair sitting at a table on her own with a glass of white wine in front of her, there was no doubt in Clayton’s mind that she was
the
Isabel. She was just as he had pictured. Just as Alice had described her.

She knew him straight away, too, and rose from her seat. She was tall, slim and very elegant, simply dressed in a pair of white jeans and a pale-pink cardigan that was so fine it had to be made of cashmere. He clocked the absence of a wedding ring. The only jewellery she wore was a string of pearls at her throat and earrings to match. She had class act stamped all over her.

They shook hands. A firm handshake. Friendly as well. So far, so good. He cast a glance around the restaurant, checking for an army of lawyers to pounce on him. All he saw, he was pleased to note, were people eating their lunch and minding their own business.

“You made it,” she said. Her voice was light and friendly.

“Yes,” he responded. Oh, great, Mr. Loquacious comes to town.

“Let me order you a drink,” she said. She waved to a young waiter who bounced over like an adoring puppy. “What would you like?” she asked Clayton.

“The same as you,” he mumbled. So much for his intention to seize control of their meeting.

“Another glass of Chardonnay, Andrew,” she said to the puppy, rewarding his adoration with the kind of smile that would ensure he was her willing slave for the rest of his life.

“So,” she said when they were sitting down and the puppy had fulfilled his duty and left them two copies of the menu as well as drawing their attention to the specials on the chalkboard. “Two words, Mr. Miller,” she said. “Cuckoo House.”

He drank from his glass of wine. “Please, call me Clayton.” Make way for Mr. Smooth.

She smiled a dazzling, white-toothed smile and flashed her blue eyes at him. “Two words,
Clayton
: Cuckoo House.”

“Do you know if the grilled sole is any good here?” he asked, tapping the laminated menu with a finger.

She laughed. It was a light, tinkling laugh, guaranteed to have the strongest of men weaken. “I can personally recommend it,” she said. “The chef here cooks it to perfection.”

“Is this a regular haunt of yours?” He winced. Mr. Cheese had now shown up.

“Yes,” she said. “Shall we order? Or would you rather prevaricate for a little longer?”

“Under normal circumstances I’d prevaricate for as long as possible, but since these aren’t normal circumstances, let’s order.”

“A decisive man. Excellent.” She smiled at the puppy dog again and when he lolloped over to their table, notebook and pencil in hand, Clayton had a sudden image of Bruce Barrett and the decision he had taken that Boxing Day so long ago. Had it been a moment of decisiveness that Bruce had lived to regret? And would he himself regret coming here?

They both ordered the Dover sole with green beans and crushed potatoes. When had the humble mashed potato become elevated to crushed status? Clayton wondered. Was it when an incompetent chef had failed to bash out the lumps thoroughly?

Keep the focus, he warned himself. He suspected the elegant and supremely composed woman sitting opposite him was super smart and would crush him like a…like a potato given half the chance. “So,” he said meaningfully and determined to take control, at the same time dispensing with his original plan. “We both know exactly why I’m here.”

“Oh, yes,” she said happily. “I knew there could be no coincidence in what you had written.”

Signor Ego tipped up the brim of his sombrero and peeped out. “And what did you think of it?” Clayton asked.

“I thought it was very moving. I cried. For all sorts of reasons. Bruce loved Alice so very much, you know. I hope she never doubted that.”

“But he loved you more, didn’t he? To have done what he did, he must have.”

“There are different kinds of love. A father can’t possibly love a daughter in the way he would a lover.”

“Well, one certainly hopes not.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow. “Do I detect a dig at the age difference between Bruce and me?”

“No. Absolutely not. You were undoubtedly very much a woman to him.”

“Not to mention a woman who apparently belonged to Rufus?”

“You switched horses very easily, if you don’t mind me saying.”