The Train, Sarah Bourne [dark books to read .txt] 📗

day, all she had to do was finish typing the notes, file the clinical records and answer the phone if it rang. Plenty of time for Pauline de Winter before her therapy appointment later.

When all her work was done Clare settled herself on one of the sofas in Dr Moncrieff’s reception area and took out the letter addressed to Pauline de Winter. Such a fine name. Elegant, sophisticated. Hers. She’d fabricated the cousin.

When she began writing as a hobby she had no idea she was going to write books. She thought she might bash out a couple of short stories and send them off to a magazine to see if she could get them published. She discovered the short form wasn’t for her though. She couldn’t tell a decent story in so few words. She had an idea to tell a modern-day tale of an independent middle-aged woman looking for love, but she found it so depressing that she started adding in the woman’s fantasies and found she had a flair for writing hot romance. Tasteful books, not even erotica really. Definitely not porn, as Dr Moncrieff had called it. More sensual. That’s how she thought of it. And therefore she needed a name to write under. She didn’t want people to know it was her who wrote those bodice-rippers. She had no idea how he knew what Pauline de Winter wrote, as he had surely never read any of her books. Maybe his wife had, or one of his clever daughters who looked down their noses at her when they occasionally came in to meet their father for lunch.

She turned the envelope over in her hands. She knew who it was from. Clare and Nadia, her agent, had talked about letters once early on, bemoaning the fact that email had taken over. So unromantic. They both loved a good letter and had sworn to communicate as far as possible by snail mail. It had been good enough for the likes of Dickens and the Brontë sisters. And Clare loved the fact that Nadia wrote to her as Pauline, as if she were a real person.

Clare had had no choice but to give Nadia an alternative address when she found her mother throwing one of the letters out.

‘I don’t know who this is, but she doesn’t live here and there’s no return address. Anyway, she’s got a harlot’s name,’ her mother had said, and torn it in two. Clare had been too shocked and embarrassed to admit it was her. She really should get a post-office box.

Now she felt the texture of the envelope, the weight of the paper. Handmade. Expensive. Typical of Nadia. And the name and address written in purple ink with a fountain pen. Clare looked at the handwriting – round, sweeping letters, long, bold tails. A fair hand. She noticed her heartbeat speeding with anticipation. She was almost as excited as she had been when she received her first response from a publisher. It had been an email, and she’d looked at the subject line for fully five minutes, heart pounding, only to open it and read that her submission wasn’t of interest to them. Since then, she’d learned that the minutes before opening any correspondence were often the most fulfilling.

Finally, though, she could wait no longer. She slid a finger along the lip of the envelope and took the letter out. Two sheets of paper.

Dear Pauline,

I am writing to let you know your sales figures for September to March are exceptional. You are a sensation with the ladies! The monies will be sent to your account within the day.

Well done! You will see that your popularity is growing exponentially in the United States, Canada, the Antipodes and South Africa where they seem to love sex in a stately home!

I have also negotiated contracts in other territories – South America mainly – for your first two books.

Clare pulled the second piece of paper forward and scanned the lines of the spreadsheet for the amount. Nadia had mentioned the last time they spoke that the books were selling well, but Clare stared at the numbers her agent had underlined for her and felt her heart skip a beat. Then she realised that was just the British sales. The knuckle of her left index finger made its way into her mouth. There was another amount from South Africa. And another from Australia and New Zealand. More from the States and Canada. She felt giddy. Her eyes could take in no more. She leant back into the sofa, taking deep breaths. She wasn’t great at mental arithmetic, but she reckoned it all to add up to almost £80,000. She put her hand on her chest to make sure her breathing stayed calm. In six months she had made more from her writing than she’d make in years working for the good doctor. The phone rang. She let it go to the answering machine and read the letter again.

On the strength of these figures, I have negotiated a three-book deal for you with your current publisher. There was a bit of a bidding war, to tell the truth – you are hot property these days. The advance will be £250,000. I’ll take you out to lunch next week and if you agree to the terms – very standard apart from the large amount of money – you can sign the contract.

Clare gasped and her hands covered her face – was this a joke? Things like this didn’t happen to her. She lowered her hands to her lap and her eyes to the letter lying there, waiting for the punchline.

I will, of course, call you to discuss it, but knew you would appreciate seeing the amount written down first. It’s a big number to take in!

I’m so sorry about all the exclamation marks, but I am very excited for you, and hope you will be too – how could you not?

All the very best. Keep writing!

Nadia.

Clare stared at the