‘Is it some kind of final notice? Not paying your bills, Oliver?’
‘Nope.’
‘Some kind of survey maybe?’
‘Nope.’
‘Ooh.’ She clicked her fingers as a thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘Is it a secret admirer?’ He was a rich good-looking guy with hugefeetafter all.
Oliver hit pause on the remote and looked at her like he was gathering patience from God himself. ‘If youmustknow, it’s from a publisher. They want to give me a bunch of money to write my father’s biography.’
‘Oh.’ Now that she hadn’t expected. ‘How much is a bunch?’
‘A hundred grand.’
She blinked as she sat back in her seat. Holy fuck-a-doodle-do. ‘That’s… a lot of money.’
‘I don’t need the money.’
Of course, a hundred thousand pounds to him was just a drop in the ocean she supposed but hell, if someone offered her the kind of money that would pay off her student debt in one hit, to do something – not of a sexual nature – she sure as shit wouldn’t be tearing up their letters.
She’d be framing them.
‘So,’ she dismissed, ‘give it to charity.’
He nodded after a beat as if it was a possibility and Paige half turned to face him, assessing his closed profile. ‘If it’s not about the money, it’s about what? You just… don’t want to?’
‘I do not.’
‘Because it’s too close? Too soon? Too personal?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not a biographer. I’m a script writer.’
Paige glanced at the laptop, the lid down, no little white glowing light on the side to indicate it was even on. Same as it had been earlier. She was pretty sure it hadn’t moved from that exact spot these past couple of days. All she’d seen him do with that thing was alternate between staring aimlessly at the screen and avoiding it altogether by watching other people’s scripts in action on the television.
The rest of the time had been taken up by becoming a hamster’s personal trainer.
She’d understand if it was just too damn raw still to be trawling through the emotional ashes of one of the most foundational relationships in a person’s life. But quibbling about the kind of writer he was, was something else entirely.
‘But are you?’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Really? I don’t see a whole lot of writing going on at the moment.’
Paige hadn’t thought she’d be using something like this to push Oliver Prendergast out of his comfort zone but she was nothing if not adaptable and she would use whatever was at her disposal, including some home truths.
‘I told you, I’m just… stuck at the moment.’
‘Have you ever thought you’re stuck because script writing isn’t your calling?’
He snorted. ‘No.’
‘Really? What if you’re actually meant to write books? Or this one book, anyway.’
‘They have people they can pay, alot less, to do a biography on my father.’
‘Yeah. But not one who could write it like you could, right? The way only a son could. The true, inside story. That kind of thing.’
He hesitated for a moment and Paige wondered if she’d struck a chord before his jaw tightened. ‘Yeah, well too bad. It’s not happening and I wished they’d just bloody lay off with the whole, the world needs to hear your homage thing like it’s the expected thing to do for the kid of a famous dead actor, because it’s making it really fucking hard to concentrate on the thing I’m actually supposed to be writing.’
Paige blinked. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This guy of enormous privilege whining about doing something pretty damn amazing. Something he was uniquely qualified to do. She knew a lot of writers who’d trade their souls – and their fancy Macs – for a £100k commission.
