The deadliest legacy, p.2
The Deadliest Legacy, page 2
Janey introduced Delia and two other of the more celebrated authors present, Gemma Fisher, an eminent Booker-nominated novelist, and Gerald Kauffman, a renowned literary historian. All three had been asked to speak but were required to do little more than eulogize about the festival, what it did for North Devon and its increasing prestige in the writing world. Delia knew exactly how to do this. There were two rules: you cannot ever be too short nor can you overdo the superlatives. This formal part of the evening’s proceedings passed without noticeable incident, and Delia knew she had played her part well enough. As she should with all her experience.
It was during the meet-and-greet which followed that she began to really regret her presence at the festival. The unease she had experienced during her journey went into overdrive.
She told herself she was succumbing quite unnecessarily to the inexplicable sense of anxiety that was beginning to engulf her. She was Delia Day. She was rich, famous and one of the most successful novelists in the world. Of any genre. Only two authors of fiction in history, Agatha Christie and Barbara Cartland, had sold more novels worldwide than Delia Day. The critics hated her, of course, dismissing her work out of hand. It was tosh. Rubbish. Twaddle. And so on. Her readers worshipped her. She had getting on for a billion of them. And several million Twitter followers. Her bank manager loved her. As did her publishers. She was untouchable.
Nonetheless, when she became aware that she was being stared at by an elegant elderly woman with white hair and piercing blue eyes, she felt a chill run up and down her spine. Who was this? Why did she feel this way? She turned away at once. But she could still feel those eyes boring into her back.
A few minutes later, the woman approached her. Somehow or other, Delia managed to produce her usual, thoroughly professional, welcoming smile.
‘Miss Day, I have little appreciation of anything you write,’ began the woman bluntly. ‘But I have huge admiration for everything you have achieved, most of all the work of your foundation with disadvantaged young people. You are a fine example to them, particularly to young women.’
‘Well, thank you,’ responded Delia as calmly as she could manage. Delia’s foundation was dear to her heart, even though the woman’s remark had been an extremely back-handed compliment. But it wasn’t that which was disturbing Delia. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Had this woman featured in her largely forgotten past? And even if that was so, why should she be concerned? She was Delia Day, and that was that. She was concerned, though. Was there something familiar about the woman, or was she imagining it?
‘May I ask your name?’ Delia enquired casually.
‘Of course. I’m Amelia Bowden.’
She was probably well into her eighties, Delia thought. She stood tall and straight, aided only by a narrow ebony cane. Her manner, and the look in her eye, remained disconcertingly sharp. Delia considered for a moment more. Was there something familiar about that name? She usually had an excellent memory for names and faces, but she could neither place the name nor match it to a face.
Amelia Bowden held out a thin, gnarled hand.
‘How do you do,’ she said.
‘How do you do,’ responded Delia.
She studied the other woman’s face closely for any sign of recognition from her. She could see none. She decided to plunge straight in.
‘Have we met before?’ she asked as casually as she could manage.
Amelia Bowden looked Delia up and down with an ill-concealed lack of enthusiasm.
She shook her head.
‘I believe I would remember,’ she murmured.
Delia smiled more easily. She didn’t mind at all the inferred superiority of Amelia Bowden’s remark. It had put her mind at rest. That settled things, then, she thought. Her ever-lively imagination had run away with her again. Which, of course, was what she got paid for.
‘As has always been my intention,’ she said.
Amelia Bowden inclined her head slightly. It was very nearly a nod of approval.
‘Is this your first visit to Appledore, Miss Day?’ she asked.
‘I think so,’ said Delia.
She had no idea why she made such a curious reply, and Amelia Bowden had no intention of letting her get away with it.
‘You think so?’ responded Amelia sharply. ‘That’s rather a strange reply, is it not? Surely you know.’
‘Uh, yes, of course.’
She was aware that she had rather backed herself into a corner. And quite unnecessarily.
‘No, I haven’t. But I’ve been close, I’m sure. I go to so many places. Can be most terribly confusing. Visiting book shops for signings usually—’
‘There is no book shop in Appledore,’ Amelia Bowden interrupted even more sharply.
‘Oh, what a shame,’ muttered Delia. ‘Waterstones in Exeter, of course – pretty sure I’ve done a signing there …’
She was aware that she was waffling.
‘Exeter is in East Devon, more than fifty miles away,’ said Amelia rather sternly.
Delia thought the woman must surely have been a schoolteacher once upon a time. Her rescue came in an unlikely form. The sound of a relatively high-pitched male voice, which she had always considered to be thoroughly disagreeable, from behind her left shoulder.
‘Good evening, Delia, dear.’
She turned at once to face James Harding, his unpleasantly fleshy face stretched into what she considered to be a particularly smarmy smile. Even for him.
Out of the frying pan into the fire, she thought. This could not really be called a rescue. She loathed the man. He was, in her opinion, a toad of the lowest order. Working with him so closely on the Netflix project had been one of her very worst professional experiences.
‘You look younger every time I see you, darling; you really must give me the number of your plastic surgeon,’ Harding announced, loud and clear. There was a distinct lull in the buzz of conversation around them. Delia was aware of a sudden intake of breath from Amelia Bowden, who was still standing beside her. Then Harding threw back his head and emitted an extravagant peal of laughter, which presumably was supposed to indicate that he was, of course, only joking. He leaned forward and air-kissed her on both cheeks.
Delia quite desperately wanted to slap him. But that would never do. She maintained her self-control and kept the false smile firmly in place. With difficulty.
‘I don’t think even the greatest plastic surgeon in the world could do anything for you, darling,’ she remarked pleasantly. And she had the pleasure of seeing Harding’s delight at his own wit evaporate from those nasty piggy eyes, set deep in mounds of florid cheek, before she turned swiftly away to allow him no time to make any riposte.
She could, however, feel those eyes boring into the back of her head as she made her way to the far side of the marquee to greet a group of fans clutching books for her to sign. The expression ‘if looks could kill’ flitted into her mind. Was everyone going to stare at her tonight? Delia was also pretty sure Amelia Bowden still had those cool blue eyes of hers fixed on her. And she found that far more disconcerting than being stared at by Harding. He was now an old sparring partner. And she considered that she had always had his measure. She had to admit that he was a surprisingly excellent scriptwriter and adapter of books for stage and screen. But in every other way, she considered him to be a bit of a fool. And it was already apparent that was not the case with Amelia Bowden.
Meanwhile, it was time she got on with what she was there for. To pander to her fans. The group waiting for her, some of whom had pictures for her to sign as well as books, were all women. Her readers usually were women. Predictably so, of course. But Delia had reason to believe there were more men readers of romantic fiction than would ever admit it.
‘’Ave ’ee ever been to Appledore before?’ asked one of the women, in an unusually broad Devonian accent.
That question again. This time, Delia was ready for it.
‘No,’ she replied firmly. ‘But I have visited Devon before. Your county town, Exeter. A splendid city.’
‘Be ’ee enjoying your stay?’ persisted the woman in that inexplicably confident way exhibited by people who are smugly proud of where they live.
‘Well, I’ve only just arrived,’ replied Delia diplomatically.
She had, in fact, rarely enjoyed herself less anywhere, although she did realize that was largely due to her horrid journey coupled with her own frame of mind. The weather so far hadn’t helped either. And it was also absolutely true that she had only just arrived, she reminded herself.
‘I’m looking forward to having a good look around tomorrow,’ she added diplomatically.
There was no doubt that this part of the world was having a strange effect on her, and she couldn’t explain why. She was finding the meet-and-greet unsettling and knew she wasn’t responding to those gathered with her usual aplomb. This wasn’t like her.
There was a slight kerfuffle at the entrance, which heralded the arrival of two hassled-looking latecomers, each wearing a large dripping-wet pink anorak and towing a pink suitcase on wheels. As they pushed their way through the canvas flaps pulled across the entrance, they were followed by a minor squall, a flurry of wind and rain. Delia assumed it must now be raining heavily and blowing quite hard. That was all she needed. Was there anything much worse weather-wise than a raging storm by the British seaside, she pondered?
However, these were two women Delia knew well, and although, for her sins, she often found them more than a tad irritating, on this occasion she found herself inordinately pleased to see them. They did at least represent relatively safe territory. They were her very own super-fans. Tina and Tilly Tucker, identical twins from somewhere in the Home Counties. Delia wasn’t quite sure exactly where. She just knew that everywhere she went, these two seemed to turn up. They always wanted to buy books and take new selfies of themselves with Delia. And more than anything, they wanted her to give them some time, to talk to them. To make them feel special. To feel as if she was their friend. She almost always obliged. How could she do otherwise? They were like a pair of devoted puppies. And they asked so little. Which had perhaps made them pretty close to the only kind of friends Delia wanted, she had reflected on more than one occasion.
She waved at them. They came hurrying over to her at once.
‘We’re so sorry we’re late, Delia,’ they said. It was a ‘they’ too. The twins often spoke in unison. And when not doing that, they invariably finished each other’s sentences.
‘Our train was over an hour late leaving …’ began one of them.
‘… and we missed our connection at Exeter and had to wait for ages and ages,’ continued the other.
Even after such a long association, Delia had yet to learn to tell which was which, and she doubted she ever would. They were matching tiny people with identically cut coal-black hair framing round, pale faces. Delia had become very nearly fond of them over the years, and on the rare occasions she made a public appearance without their presence, she did rather miss them. They invariably dressed the same; on this occasion, the pink floral-patterned anoraks were identical and the lower part of each of them was clad in what appeared to be somewhat damp pale-blue jeans, feet thrust into pink and blue trainers which squelched as they moved.
‘Then they told us there wasn’t going to be another connection and we had to continue by bus and …’
‘… by then it was tipping down with rain, and the link road was a nightmare …’
‘… when we did get to Barnstaple, we couldn’t get a taxi, and we had to wait for a bus …’
‘… and we had to change at Bideford too, and we haven’t been to our digs to dump our stuff, but we were still late and we’ve …’
‘… missed your speech, Delia. It’s just so annoying. You must think us so rude.’
They were quite a double act, thought Delia not for the first time.
‘Not at all, ladies,’ she said, when she could eventually get a word in edgeways. ‘I had a horrid journey too, although it pales into insignificance against yours. But I was very nearly late myself. And that would have been baaaad, very baaaad!’ She drew the vowel out long and expressively.
Tina and Tilly giggled their appreciation.
‘We’ll make up for it. We’ll be the first in to hear you speak from now on, and the last to leave,’ they said.
‘Thank you, both,’ said Delia. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
In a way, that was true, but she didn’t have much more to say to them for the time being – nor ever, really, come to that. In any case, the Tucker twins were clearly not in the most responsive of states following their journey. So she wasn’t displeased when the festival director arrived at her side to whisk her off to meet the local mayor. Although that too was something she could do without. In fact, she could do without all of it, the way she was feeling.
Carolyne Smedley had worked hard to persuade Delia to attend Appledore, something the writer had previously resisted. The festival in the pretty coastal village had grown considerably in stature since its inception in 2006 and now punched way above its weight. Everyone Delia knew who had been there always spoke well of it. But she rarely attended writing festivals. She didn’t need them to raise her profile – those days were long over – and she didn’t enjoy them. They went to the bottom of her pile nowadays. She had not previously even considered the Appledore festival. But there had been a change in that regard. Not entirely facilitated by Carolyne Smedley’s persistent pressure. Something that niggled at the back of her mind. It was probably ridiculous; nonetheless, she had become rather curiously drawn to North Devon, and the festival provided the ideal opportunity for her to get that out of her system. Once and for all. Or so she hoped.
The festival director was small, dark and stick-thin. Like a bird, she flitted everywhere. She was good at her job, invariably leaving all the writers with the impression that they were the most important person in the programme. Delia was never for a moment taken in by that kind of thing. Even though she arguably was the most important person in the programme. She wondered what made Carolyne Smedley tick. Carolyne was one of those who gave little away.
‘Are you from North Devon?’ Delia enquired, as Smedley led her to the far side of the marquee.
‘Oh, yes, born and bred,’ replied the director. ‘Why do you ask?’
Delia had little idea why she’d asked, and Carolyne Smedley was clearly not used to her invited authors taking any interest in her.
‘Thought I’d put the boot on the other foot,’ Delia murmured vaguely.
Smedley looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled.
‘Ah, I see,’ she said. ‘I’m from Bideford, the town just upriver, and both my parents were also born and bred locally. North Devon produces two types of people: those who can’t wait to get away and those who will never leave. Until they die.’
Delia raised an approving eyebrow. An astute remark, she thought. And probably a pretty fair assessment of how life was in places of outstanding beauty like this, with not much beyond their natural beauty to offer their young. Little or no industry or culture. Virtually nothing to challenge or excite, in Delia’s opinion, except the land and the sea. And if that didn’t do it for you, tough.
She studied Carolyne carefully. This was not a woman to be underestimated. But it wasn’t that which was attracting Delia’s interest. Once again, there was something familiar about the other woman. This was getting ridiculous, she thought. Her imagination was in overdrive.
‘Have we met before?’ she asked abruptly. For the second time that evening.
Carolyne, who was slightly ahead of her, stopped and turned right round to face her directly.
‘Goodness, no,’ she said, eyes wide in surprise. ‘You might not remember meeting me, but do you think I for a moment could ever forget meeting you?’
Usually, Delia would accept such a remark as only right and proper. It was more or less what Amelia Bowden had said, in abbreviated form. But that, largely because of her great age, had reassured Delia. Carolyne Smedley was a relatively young woman, in her late thirties or perhaps early forties, Delia thought. It was highly unlikely that she would have ever met her except through this festival or something similar. There could surely have been no more historic crossing of paths. So, on this occasion, Delia immediately found herself wondering exactly what Carolyne meant by her remark. Then gave herself a mental shaking. What on earth was wrong with her?
‘I shall take that as a compliment,’ she said mildly.
‘And so you should,’ countered the festival director.
By then they had reached the mayor of Bideford, Councillor Jeremy Roberts, a tall broad man with a large belly upon which his regalia of office rested as if it were a shelf.
The mayor responded most politely when Carolyne introduced Delia, but after that seemed to have no idea what to say to her. Delia thought it was likely that he didn’t know who she was at all, although he would be aware that she was the festival’s guest of honour, of course, and therefore would have insisted on meeting her.
She decided to go on a charm offensive.
‘May I just say, Mr Mayor, how immensely fortunate I think you all are to live in such a wonderful part of the world,’ she announced.
The mayor’s pallid and rather unattractive face split into a wide smile, reminding Delia of two facts of life. The first was that most people, for reasons she could never quite understand, love to be complimented on the place where they live, and officers of local government more than most. The second was that the appearance of almost everyone, even a fundamentally ugly man, probably into his sixties, who has allowed what may once have been a rather decent physique to run to fat, is immensely improved by a smile.
‘You have no idea how much I envy you,’ she continued, lightly laying a perfectly manicured hand on his jacket sleeve. ‘You must be so very, very proud to be the mayor of such a place.’
