Which would be a stupid, pathetic and humiliating waste of time.
I put the envelope in the bin.
But if Mack shared her surname, I could Internet stalkhim. Find out his job. Get some background information in case anyone asked at the wedding. As Ashley so very rightly said – the best lie was one closest to the truth.
I picked it out of the bin. Tossed it in again. Then took it out, scrumpled it up as hard as I could and shoved it underneath a heap of teabags and an empty tin of tomatoes. I went back into the dining-room and picked up some sandpaper. Gave the table three half-hearted strokes, threw the paper down, ran back into the kitchen and yanked the envelope out of the bin like an addict.
‘I’ve paid good money for this information,’ I called up to Mannequin Diana, who was, as usual, judging me from the top of the stairs. ‘I might as well read it. You never know when it might come in useful. What if Mack has a heart attack and I need to give the paramedics his details?’
Ripping it open, I scanned the form for information.
Blinked. Shook my head in case adjusting my brain would make the letters rearrange themselves.
Sat back down at the table.
Shook my head again, this time in wry acknowledgement at the twists and turns life brought, and the smallness of this crazy world.
I had only gone and found Hillary West.
And it looked as though she (sort of) lived next door.
32
There was nothing for it. As soon as I was home that evening, I showered, changed, attempted to dry my hair in some sort of style, redid the Sellotape on my glasses, plastered on my cheeriest smile, scooped up the most expensive bottle of wine they’d had at the village shop (nine pounds fifty) and went to say howdy to my new neighbour.
Hillary West, bestselling author, recluse, enigma, opened the door.
‘HI!’ I cried. Coughed. Tried again. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’ Cool as an apple ice-pop, she looked at me from beneath her fringe.
‘I’m Jenny. From next door. I just wanted to say welcome back, and it’s so nice to meet you. Um, here.’ I held out the bottle. ‘Just a little, well, welcome to the neighbourhood, neighbour!’
After a brief hesitation, she took the bottle. ‘Right. Thanks. I’m relieved to see the front’s cleared.’
‘Yes. I hired a skip.’
‘That should help with the sale.’
‘Yes. I hope so. I mean, I don’t hope you move, like I want rid of you or anything. Not at all! I just, well, hope it for your sake because you hope it.’
‘Well.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’d invite you in for a glass of this, um, wine.’
‘Thanks! That’d be lovely.’ I pulled what I hoped was a fun, funny face. ‘Kind of why I brought it, after all!’
Hillary continued talking over me. ‘BUT I’m snowed under with a deadline. You know how it is. Well, you probably don’t. Hard to imagine the kind of pressure this level of success brings.’
‘Oh. Yes. And I completely understand.’ I completely understood that I was now completely humiliated. ‘I did hear your deadline has proven, well…’
Hillary narrowed her eyes.Let’s go withnotmentioning the writer’s block issue upon first meeting bestselling author Hillary West, shall we, Jenny?
‘Deadlines! Pah! Who needs ’em? Getting in the way of valuable drinking time!’
‘I need them. So, goodbye?’
‘I’m a huge fan!’ I yelped as the door closed in my face.
I spent the rest of the week torn. Entangled in the moral dilemma of this revelation. By Friday’s Christmas Book Club Challenge meeting I felt no closer to making a decision. I had found Hillary West. Would I tell Ashley? Would I tell anyone else? Reasons for keeping quiet were:
