could never be a single drink with Daisy. Don’t let her lead you astray.’
‘I can’t afford to let her lead me astray.’
Leo let that go with a soft sigh. Even without a mortgage on this house, it had been hard to divide the wage from Leo’s university job between two households. I had no independent income: the research work I did for Leo’s academic studies filled much of my day and left no time for paid employment. I worked for love – of the subject, as much as of him. I had started off by supporting Leo’s obsession with Alice Hornby’s novels, but had soon come to share it, and I couldn’t give up the work now, however awkward it might be. We had spent years writing the new biography, with the prime intention of spreading the word about how brilliant Alice was. Now the stakes were raised: we needed the book to be a financial success too.
The study was exactly as it had always been: one large desk in the centre of the room, with chairs on either side, one for Leo and one for me. A battered sofa filled one wall, stuffed bookcases the others. I had hated this room growing up; my mother had used it to store all my father’s belongings, giving me false hope for years that she had known he was coming back. As soon as Leo and I moved in, I had hired a skip and thrown away everything that had been his or theirs. Now it was my favourite room in the house.
Leo sat in his chair and set up his laptop. We had a couple of hours to work before the children arrived home.
‘Is everything ready for the launch?’ he asked. The biography was being published in a couple of weeks, and the publishers were marking the launch with a party at the Manchester Central Library.
‘Yes. Here’s a first draft of your speech.’ I pushed a sheaf of paper across the desk. I always wrote Leo’s speeches for him. He was brilliant when giving a university lecture, but his style didn’t suit a public event so well. ‘I’ve arranged for Claire to look after you on the night, so she’ll make sure you’re in the right place and give you a nudge when it’s time to give your speech.’
‘Claire?’ Leo looked up from the paper.
‘From the publishing company. You’ve met her before. Luscious red hair and 1940s curves …’
Leo still looked blank. It had been a comfort in the past, his complete indifference to other women. Little had I known.
‘But why do I need Claire? You normally do that.’
‘I won’t be there.’
‘Why not? Is there something on at school? We arranged this months ago.’
That was exactly the point. We had arranged it months ago, at a time when I, at least, thought we were contentedly married. For a professor, he could be incredibly dense.
‘I’ve attended in the past as your wife. You have a new one now. A new partner, that is.’ I picked up a paperclip and started untwisting it. ‘Clark will be going with you, won’t he?’
‘He’ll be there. I need you too.’ Leo eased the paperclip from my fingers. ‘You deserve to be there. This book would never have been written without you. It’s as much yours as mine.’
The front cover told a different story: it only bore his name, just as the annotated novels had done when they were published. I hadn’t minded before – or not much. We were a team, and he was the public face of it. So why did a tiny niggle of resentment rise and stick in my throat now?
‘Okay, I’ll come. And the party at Foxwood Farm too?’
‘Of course. That was your idea. You must be there. Will I need a speech for that?’
‘No. I’ll pick a short passage for you to read from the biography. Lindsay, who’s organising the event, wants it to be an informal celebration of all things Lancastrian: literature, music, food, drink. The press will be there, as she’s hoping to drum up more business as a party and events venue. Hopefully we’ll have some un-Lancastrian weather, so we can use the courtyard outside as well as the main barn.’
Leo fought but failed to hide a grimace. It had taken a great deal of persusasion to convince him to support the event at Foxwood Farm, even though it was on the outskirts of the village; I hoped he wasn’t thinking of backing out now he would have to travel up from Manchester. He didn’t enjoy the brazen commerce of launching a book, and preferred to focus his attention on the academic side, leaving me and my lower sensitivities to deal with the business elements. Luckily I loved the promotion aspect, but I was going to have to work even harder this time.
‘After the official launch, I’m going to tour around local independent bookshops to see if any are interested in stocking it, or even holding an event with you, a signing or something like that.’
Leo pulled his face again.
‘Will they want an academic book?’
‘Don’t call it that. We agreed we weren’t going to market it as an academic book. It will appeal to the general public too. That’s why we worked so hard on getting the tone right.’
It’s why I had worked so hard on the tone, ignoring Leo’s flights of academia: having read too many turgid biographies during my degree, I was determined that Leo’s wouldn’t be one of them. And we’d got it right, I was sure of it: Alice Hornby, the quiet gentleman’s daughter who had written passionate novels of love and desire from the secrecy of her bedroom, had come to life in our book, strolling through the paragraphs, her voice echoing with every turn of the page and her scent lingering above the words. It was a romance as much as a biography, designed to make readers fall in love with Alice as Leo and I had done.
‘I know you’ll do your best,’ Leo said. ‘If anyone can sell Alice, you can.’ He smiled, acknowledging our shared passion, but my response was half-hearted, too conscious that it was the only passion we now shared; in truth, the only passion we had shared for years. ‘But while you’re doing that, we need to start on our next project.’ His smile withered. ‘I’ve agreed to write that book I was asked to consider a few months ago – the one about Victorian writers. How society influenced them, and how they influenced society.’
‘But I thought you turned that down!’ He hadn’t been keen on the idea at all. The brief had been to include at least three chapters on the Brontës, which was like asking a Manchester United fan to spend a season promoting Manchester City.
‘I didn’t take it up. We were busy finishing Alice’s book at the time. Circumstances have changed now.’
‘You mean we need the money.’ There was no other explanation: it was literary prostitution, and it was devastating to see Leo caught up in it, even if part of me whispered that he had brought it on himself.
‘It would certainly help. From now on I will have to accept whatever I’m offered. If only we could find Alice’s lost novel! That would change all our fortunes.’ It was the enduring mystery of Alice Hornby: four books had been published, but a few surviving records had dropped tantalising hints that she may have worked on another, that no one had ever seen. Leo sighed. ‘But after all our years of searching, what are the chances of that?’
‘Isn’t this exciting?’ Audrey said, as we hurried across St Peter’s Square as fast as our heels allowed. The party to celebrate the launch of Leo’s book was taking place in the newly refurbished Manchester Central Library. Although my invitation hadn’t mentioned a plus one, I invited Audrey anyway, to avoid that awful moment of turning up alone. Her comment felt more like a rallying cry than a real question, and I made no response other than a smile and a nod that could have meant anything. ‘I love the chance to dress up.’
She had certainly pulled out all the stops, brightening the usual grey Manchester evening with an electric-blue dress that would have made me look a frumpy Tory wife, but which Audrey carried off with panache. In contrast, my reliable grey dress