She looked out into the garden. There, by the rose bushes, stood the figure of a man. He looked up at the window, unmoving. Was it Charles? She tried to make out his features, but the rain obscured them. She ran down the stairs and through the kitchen door. Her feet slipped on the wet grass as she made her way to the back of the house. But when she reached the garden, the man was gone. A single red rose lay in the place where he had stood.
Jane watched the bags going around on the conveyor belt. One by one they were picked up by waiting passengers and wheeled away. They had stopped coming out from the depths of the airport’s underbelly some time ago, and now only three forlorn bags and one box marked FROZEN FISH remained. They slowly circled the baggage claim until with a chunk-chunk-chunk the machinery ground to a halt.
“Looks like we’ve been stranded on the Island of Lost Luggage,” said a man standing next to Jane. “Might as well get in line.”
He turned and walked away. Jane followed his path and saw that he was heading for a line of about twenty people. They were queued up outside the airline’s baggage claim office, and all of them wore a look of resigned frustration on their faces. Scanning the remaining bags once again in the hope that she’d somehow overlooked her suitcase, Jane gave up and joined them.
Half an hour later she stood in front of a grim-faced woman who didn’t look at her as she said, “Claim ticket.”
Jane handed over the sticker that was stapled to her ticket folder. “Do you know when I can expect my bag?” she asked.
The woman’s grunt held more than a hint of mean-spirited glee, Jane thought. She wondered what kind of person could do such a job day in and day out, dealing with miserable travelers and wayward luggage for hours at a time. Sadist, she thought as the woman typed something on a keyboard with undisguised hostility.
“There’s no record of it,” the woman said. “Sorry.”
“No record?” said Jane. “I don’t understand. I have a claim ticket.” She nodded at the ticket, which was still in the woman’s hand.
“There’s no record of it,” the woman repeated.
Jane gave the woman her sweetest smile. “Surely there must be some record,” she said.
The woman sighed deeply. “It could be anywhere,” she said in a weary voice. “Albuquerque, New Delhi, Paris. Take your pick. If it’s not in the system, it officially doesn’t exist.”
“But surely—” Jane began.
“Fill this out and send it in,” the woman interrupted, sliding a form toward Jane. “We’ll reimburse you up to a hundred and fifty dollars.” She looked past Jane. “Next,” she said.
Jane started to argue but, sensing the growing irritation of the people behind her, decided there was no point. The woman was clearly not going to be of any further use. Besides, Jane was already going to be late getting to the hotel. It was half past nine, and her interview with the Entertainment Weekly reporter was at eleven. Feeling more than a little put out, she headed out the door to the taxi stand.
The trip from O’Hare to the hotel took much longer than Jane expected, and when she finally reached her room after ten minutes at the registration desk it was a quarter to eleven. She barely had time to use the toilet and wash her face before there was a knock on the door.
She opened it to find a woman who seemed impossibly young to be a journalist. Thin as a willow, she was dressed impeccably and her makeup was flawless. Her auburn hair fell about her shoulders in waves and perfectly complemented her green eyes. Jane hated her immediately.
“Hi,” the woman said cheerfully. “I’m Farrah Rubenstein.”
“Farrah,” Jane repeated.
Farrah laughed. “I know, right? My mother was a huge Charlie’s Angels fan. My sisters are Kate and Jaclyn. It’s all too retro.” She entered the room without further invitation. “What a great room!” she enthused. “It’s so red!”
“Yes,” Jane said. The young woman’s manner had caught her off guard. She’d been expecting someone older, someone more reserved. I probably should have looked at the magazine, she thought. She’d bought a copy to read on the plane, but had fallen asleep shortly after takeoff and woken up just before landing in Chicago.
“I was so excited when I got this assignment,” Farrah said as she removed her jacket and sat down on one of the chairs in the suite’s living room area. “I love books.”
“Do you?” said Jane politely.
Farrah nodded. “I was a huge fan of the Cherry High Gossip Club series when I was in high school,” she said.
Jane suppressed a laugh. The Cherry High books were some of the most vapid books she’d ever come across. They centered around a group of girls who published an anonymous gossip magazine about the goings-on at their upper-class high school. Not surprisingly, the series sold millions of copies, particularly after the television show based on it became a hit.
“Do you know Felicity Bingham?” Farrah asked, naming the author of the series.
“I’m afraid not,” said Jane.
Farrah took a small tape recorder from her bag. “Too bad. I assumed all of you writers know each other,” she said.
Jane sat down on the couch opposite Farrah. “Brakeston isn’t exactly the literary capital of the world,” she said.
“Brakeston?” Farrah repeated, a frown creasing her flawless brow.
“Where I live,” said Jane. “It’s in New York.”
Farrah nodded. “I remember now. Sorry. I’ve been crazy busy this week.”
“It’s quite all right,” Jane said.
Farrah fussed with the tape recorder for a minute while Jane waited. Then she placed it on the table between them. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s start. You’re English, right?”
Jane repeated the story she’d rehearsed in preparation for the interview, and for all the interviews Nick assured her she would be doing. She was from England but had moved to the United States at a young age when her father, a diplomat, was transferred there. She had no siblings. Her parents were both dead. It was tragic and convenient, and Jane told it well.
“That’s pretty much what the bio your publisher sent over said,” Farrah told her. “I tried to find out more on the Internet, but there isn’t anything. Don’t you have a website?”
Jane shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m not terribly up-to-date on technology,” she said. “I’m old-fashioned that way.”
“Old-fashioned,” Farrah repeated. “That’s kind of sweet. Usually when I interview people they’re texting and checking their email at the same time.”
She asked a few more tedious questions (What did Jane do for fun? What was her writing day like? How did it feel to have her first novel come out at her age?), all of which Jane answered with what she hoped was charm and wit. Then Farrah cleared her throat and adopted a more serious demeanor.
“Where did you get the idea for the novel?” she asked.
“It’s something I’ve worked on for a number of years,” Jane told her. “The idea first occurred to me when a friend was having a new house built. I started thinking about how intimate the relationship between the builder and the homeowner is. It’s almost a marriage of sorts. Then I came up with the characters of Constance and Charles, and the rest grew from there.”
Farrah nodded vigorously. “I see,” she said. “So they’re real people?”
“Well, no,” Jane replied. “They’re fictional characters based on the experience of a friend.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” asked Farrah.
Jane hesitated. “I don’t think she’d want to be mentioned by name,” she said.
“If it was someone else’s experience, don’t you feel like you—I don’t know—stole it?” said Farrah.
“Stole it?” Jane said, shocked. “No.”
“But it isn’t your story,” Farrah persisted.
“It’s fiction,” Jane said. “All fiction is based on some kind of truth. My book is not literally about my friend. It is inspired by her.”
“I see,” said Farrah. “Still, don’t you think you should have come up with something of your own?”
Jane looked at the reporter for some time, unsure how to respond. Finally, Farrah spoke again. “I’m sorry for asking these questions,” she said. “But I think we journalists owe it to our readers to print the truth.”
“The truth?” Jane said. “I don’t understand.”
Farrah turned off the tape recorder. “I shouldn’t do this,” she said. “But I love your book, and you seem like a nice person.” She pursed her lips, as if she were trying to solve a math problem. “I got an email,” she said eventually. “A couple of days ago. I don’t know where it came from. It was anonymous. Whoever sent it said that you … borrowed the idea for your book from someone else.”
“Borrowed it?” said Jane. “You mean plagiarized it?”
“I don’t like to use that word,” Farrah said. “But yes, that’s more or less what it said.”
Jane was at a loss for words. Who would accuse her of such a thing? She hadn’t the faintest idea. She had no enemies that she knew of. Except possibly Byron, a voice in her head said.
Byron. Would he really do such a thing? She could think of no one else who would want to. But this was low even for him. Did he really despise her so much? You did wound his manly pride, the same voice reminded her.
She could sense Farrah waiting for an answer from her. But how should she proceed? She could protest all she wanted to, but the accusation had already been leveled. Anything she said would sound disingenuous, especially to someone like Farrah, whose idea of investigative journalism was based on the reporting skills of the girls of Cherry High.
“I think it’s important that I address this,” Jane said carefully. “But would you excuse me a moment? There’s something I have to attend to. It will only take a few minutes.”
“Sure,” Farrah answered. “No problem.”
Jane stood up. “I’ll be back shortly,” she told the young woman. “Please, help yourself to a beverage from the minibar.” She smiled graciously as she went to the door.
Once she was in the hallway she ran as quickly as she could to the elevator. She paced as she waited for it to arrive, then practically leapt inside when the doors finally opened. Hitting a button on the control panel, she rode down a floor and got out. She looked for the numbers painted on the hallway wall and followed the arrow to number 1822. She rapped on the door and waited for Kelly to answer. A moment later the door opened.
“You have to help me—” Jane began. Then she realized that the man standing before her wasn’t Kelly. It was someone she’d never seen before. And he was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. “I’m sorry,” Jane fumbled. “I must have gotten the number wrong.”
“Who is it, Bryce?” Jane heard Kelly’s voice. “Is that my laundry?”
“No,” the man Jane now assumed to be Bryce said. “I believe it’s your author.” He moved out of the way as Kelly appeared in the doorway
“Jane,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing your Entertainment Weekly interview?”
Jane nodded. “That’s why I’m here,” she said, glancing inside the room where Bryce was looking through the wardrobe.
Kelly noticed her stare. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have introduced you first. Bryce, this is Jane. Jane, this is Bryce. My partner.”
The last word hit Jane like cold water. Partner, she thought numbly as she realized what it meant.
“I forgot you two have never met,” Kelly continued, oblivious to her shock.
Bryce slipped a shirt on. “I love your book,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Jane. She turned her attention back to Kelly. “We have a problem,” she said. She then explained the situation.
“Is that all?” Kelly said when she was done. “Don’t worry. This happens with every big book. Some crackpot starts a rumor that the author plagiarized the book. He fires off letters to various magazines and tries to cause trouble. Usually it’s some wannabe who thinks he’ll get attention or money by causing a stink.”
“But she says she doesn’t know who sent the email,” said Jane.
“That’s actually good news,” Kelly told her. “That means it’s just someone with nothing better to do. Here’s what you do. Tell this woman—what’s her name?”
“Farrah,” said Jane.
“Farrah?” Kelly and Bryce said in unison.
“Something about her mother,” said Jane. “So, what do I say?”
“You tell her that we’re aware of the emails and that they’re being sent maliciously by someone who has a grudge against you. Tell her our legal department is handling it. That will shut her up. She won’t write anything about it if she thinks she might get in trouble for spreading unfounded claims.”
“That’s it?” said Jane.
“That’s it,” Kelly said. “Sometimes living in a litigious country works to your advantage. Now go, before she gets even more suspicious. Here, take this so she thinks you really did have something you needed to do.” He handed Jane a copy of her book. “She’s only read a bound galley. Tell her you wanted her to have a signed copy of the real thing.”
Jane took the book. “Go,” Kelly ordered. “We have to be at the studio by one-thirty”
“Bye!” Bryce called out as Jane left. Jane didn’t answer. As she headed for the elevator, she wondered how she could have been so foolish regarding Kelly’s preference for men. He’s smart, handsome, and cultured, she thought. I should have known. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after what happened with Percy Shelley.
Back at her room, she paused at the door and caught her breath. She looked at her watch. She’d been gone only five minutes. Now she simply had to get through the rest of the interview. She would tell Farrah that she’d had to get permission from her editor to tell her about the claim of plagiarism, as it was now a legal matter. That should take care of it.
She opened the door. “I’m sorry about the interruption,” she said. “I wanted to get you—”
She stopped mid-sentence. Farrah was lying across the bed. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling, unblinking.