‘That’s me,’ I said. ‘You’re half an hour late.’
Hawthorne looked astonished. ‘You told me half past eleven.’
‘No. I said eleven o’clock.’
‘I’m sorry, Tony, mate. You definitely said half past. I never forget a time or a place.’ He tapped the side of his head for the benefit of everyone in the room. ‘It’s my training.’
‘Well, there’s no need to worry about it,’ Graham said, giving me a sour look. ‘Let me introduce Tamara, who’s the head of publicity, and her assistant, Trish.’
Hawthorne shook hands with both of them, although I noticed that there was something about Tamara that puzzled him. ‘And you must be the amazing Hilda Starke,’ he said, sitting down next to her. ‘It’s great to meet you at last. Tony never stops talking about you.’
Hilda was not easily charmed but right then she was beaming. Hawthorne had this effect on people. I have described him often enough: his slight build, short hair cut to the scalp around the ears, the oddly searching eyes. But perhaps I have never done justice to the way he could dominate a room from the moment he entered it. He had an extraordinary presence that could be saturnine, threatening or magnetic, depending on his mood.
‘Congratulations on the book,’ Hilda said. Just like my editor, she seemed to have forgotten that I was the one who had written it.
‘I haven’t read it yet,’ Hawthorne said.
‘Oh?’
‘There’s not much point reading a whodunnit when you know the end.’
It was a line that he must have prepared in advance. At any event, they all nodded in agreement.
‘Aren’t you worried about how Tony has portrayed you?’ Graham asked.
‘It doesn’t bother me at all. So long as the book sells.’
Graham turned to me. ‘I hope you’re not going to write about us,’ he said. He made it sound like a joke.
I smiled. ‘Of course not.’
Trish offered Hawthorne coffee, which he accepted, and a biscuit, which he refused. He never ate in front of other people if he could avoid it. For the next five minutes Graham talked about the publishing business, current trends, his hopes for the book. ‘It’s never easy launching a new series,’ he said. ‘But we have a reasonable shot at the best-seller lists. There’s not much else coming out this September. There’s a new Stephen King, and of course Dan Brown will grab the top spot, but we deliberately chose a quiet week. How would you feel about doing some radio?’
The question was directed at Hawthorne, not me.
‘I’m OK with radio,’ Hawthorne said.
‘Have you had any experience of the media?’
‘Only Crimewatch.’
Tamara, who didn’t smile often, smiled at that. ‘We’ve approached Front Row and Saturday Live,’ she said, speaking to the room. ‘They’re waiting to read the book, but the fact that Mr Hawthorne actually worked for the police is definitely of interest.’
‘And the fact that he got thrown out?’ I was tempted to ask.
Tamara went back to her laptop. ‘We were just talking about literary festivals,’ she went on. ‘And as a matter of fact, we have had an invitation.’
My ears pricked up at that. The truth is that literary festivals are the best thing in a writer’s life. To start with, they get you out of the house, out of your room. You meet people: readers and writers. You get to visit beautiful cities like Oxford, Cambridge, Cheltenham, Bath. Better still, you might find yourself being whisked abroad – to Sydney, Sri Lanka, Dubai or Berlin. There’s even a literary festival on board Queen Mary 2.
‘So where is it?’ I asked.
‘It’s in Alderney. They’re launching a new festival in August and they’d love to have you both.’
‘Alderney?’ I muttered.
‘It’s a Channel Island,’ Hawthorne told me, unhelpfully.
‘I know where it is. I didn’t know they had a literary festival.’
‘Actually, they have two.’ Tamara tapped a few buttons, projecting the home page onto the main screen. It read: THE ALDERNEY LITERARY TRUST – SUMMER FESTIVAL. SPONSORED BY SPIN-THE-WHEEL.COM.
‘Who are Spin-the-wheel?’ I asked.
‘They’re an online casino.’ She obviously shared none of my misgivings. ‘Alderney is a world centre for online gambling. Spin-the-wheel sponsor a lot of things on the island.’ She brought up another page. ‘They have a historical fiction festival in March and it was so successful that they’ve decided to start another. So far they’ve invited Elizabeth Lovell, Marc Bellamy, George Elkin, Anne Cleary and …’ she leaned closer to the screen ‘… Maïssa Lamar.’
‘I haven’t heard of any of them,’ I said.
‘Marc Bellamy is on television,’ Graham said.
‘He’s a cook,’ Hilda added. ‘He has a morning show on ITV2.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I began, although I was aware that I was the only person in the room who was being negative. ‘Alderney’s a tiny place, isn’t it? It seems a very long way to go …’
‘It’s forty minutes direct from Southampton,’ Hawthorne said.
‘Yes, but—’ I stopped myself. Hawthorne had said that? I looked at him a second time.
‘I’m up for it,’ Hawthorne continued cheerfully as I stared at him in disbelief. ‘I’ve always had it in mind to visit Alderney,’ he went on. ‘It’s an interesting place. Occupied in the war.’
‘But as Hilda just said, we won’t have any books to sell,’ I reminded everyone. ‘So what’s the point?’
‘It could be helpful with pre-orders,’ Graham said. ‘Hilda?’
Hilda looked up from her mobile, which was lying on the table beside her. ‘I can’t see any harm in it. We can look at it as a dry run, a chance for Anthony and Mr Hawthorne to get their act together. And if the whole thing is a complete disaster, there’s nothing lost.’
‘Well, that’s a vote of confidence,’ I said.
‘Then it’s agreed.’ Graham was in a hurry to move on. ‘What else?’
We spent the rest of the meeting talking about Hawthorne. Or rather, Hawthorne talked about himself, focusing mainly on his work. It was interesting how he could say so much and give away so little, something that had infuriated me when I was writing my first book about him. Shortly after twelve, Trish reminded Graham that he had another meeting and told Hilda that her car had arrived to take her to Weymouth Street. Tamara closed her laptop and Hilda drew on her jacket, heading off for her lunch. It was clear to me that all four of them were delighted with Hawthorne. It was smiles all round as they shook hands.
Even the security guard was beaming at him as we exited onto Vauxhall Bridge Road together. I was in a bad mood and didn’t bother to disguise it.
‘What’s the matter, mate?’ Hawthorne took out a cigarette and lit it.
I jerked a thumb back at the office. ‘They were all over you! What was that all about?’
‘They seem like a nice bunch of people.’ Hawthorne contemplated the end of his cigarette. ‘And maybe you should be a bit more charitable. Your agent’s obviously worried about the results of her test.’
‘What test? What are you talking about?’
‘And Graham’s getting a divorce from his wife.’
‘He never said anything about that!’
‘He didn’t need to. He’s having an affair with the publicity director, and that girl, Trish, knows all about it. It can’t be too easy for her. Being a new mother and worried about her job.’
He did this every time we went anywhere new together and I knew he was baiting me. But I refused to play his game.
‘I don’t want to go to Alderney,’ I said. I began to walk back to Pimlico tube station. I didn’t care if he followed me or not.
‘Why not?’
‘Because the book won’t be out. There’s no point!’