‘Find Daniel,’ said Donna, her eyes pleading. ‘I don’t even know if he’s heard what has happened because he left his mobile phone here and he’s not answering at the London house.’
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘We were tipped off about the story on Saturday night. Daniel left soon afterwards.’
Molly nodded gravely, but inside she was skipping with glee. She couldn’t have scripted it better if she had been a Hollywood screenwriter.
‘And what do I tell him?’
Finally the tears began to roll down Donna’s pale face. ‘Tell him the truth,’ she gulped. ‘Tell him I love him and that I’m sorry.’
‘I will,’ said Molly. ‘You can trust me.’
51
The cottage in the grounds of Cliveden, one of England’s grandest estates, was everything Chris had said and more. From the main house, that splendid honey-coloured Palladian pile, a driveway snaked away through lush parkland down to the River Thames. A short walk along a private towpath and there it was; a cute little Victorian cottage perched right on the edge of the silent water. It was a remote, peaceful spot, where the only sounds were ducks, insects and the occasional miniature deer scrabbling through the undergrowth on the hillside above the cottage. Erin loved it, and was smitten by the romantic history of the place.
When
she had arrived from London two days earlier, Chris had taken her on a stroll along the river, passing another quaint cottage which, he told her, was where Christine Keeler had stayed in the early 1960s. Erin had vaguely known the story, but Chris had vividly filled in the lurid details: the beautiful high-class call girl who partied with the rich, glamorous aristocratic Astor set and had almost brought down the government when she had become entangled with cabinet minister John Profumo at a party held by Cliveden’s swimming pool. It only added to the glamour of the place for Erin. She found that Chris had already moved a desk for her by the window in the living room, where she could sit and write and watch the sun setting over the river. It was spectacular, thought Erin now, lifting her head from her laptop, a blood-red sky reflecting in the water and staining it pink and gold. She had settled down to do some work after supper but she was restless. It was her first-ever Monday off work since she had started at the Midas Corporation and she just couldn’t relax.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Chris, looking up from a notebook. He was sitting in an armchair wearing gold-rimmed glasses, which Erin thought made him look more vulnerable, cute. She closed her eyes and stubbed the thought out like a cigarette.
‘Nothing,’ she said, still staring out of the window.
‘Erin …’ scolded Chris.
‘I can’t think of anything to write about,’ she said, doodling some circles on a notepad in front of her.
‘Erin, there’s a billion things to write about.’
‘Yes, well, everything I want to write about has been done already,’ she said hopelessly, getting up and flopping onto the sofa.
Chris moved across to sit next to her. ‘Listen, there’re only seven basic plots in the world, so your work is always going to have some similarity to something already written.’
‘Seven storylines?’ she repeated. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s true, and Shakespeare used most of them.’
‘So now you’re going to tell me that When Harry Met Sally is just a rewrite of Hamlet?’
‘No. But take horror for example. It’s always the old “overcoming the monster” plot-line. You know, Moby Dick, Alien, all those.’
Erin laughed. ‘Overcoming the monster. That’s my memoir of my brush with Julian Sewell.’
Chris took his glasses off, smiling. ‘I see you’ve finally come to your senses. I tried to tell you he was a wrong ’un.’
‘No you didn’t,’ she laughed.
‘Well, I would have if you’d given me the opportunity. I never saw you for dust when he was on the scene.’
‘And to think I thought I meant nothing to you,’ Erin teased.
They both looked at each awkwardly and Erin began scribbling on her pad again. ‘Will you let me read what you’ve written then?’
‘No,’ said Chris.
‘Why not?’