Best Kept Secret

disappointment. She began to hint that the book just wasn’t moving out of the shops fast enough. That became even more apparent the following morning when Harry came down to breakfast and
found someone called Justin sitting opposite him.
    ‘Natalie’s flown back to New York overnight,’ Justin explained. ‘Had to meet up with another author.’ He didn’t need to add, someone who’s more likely
to make it into the top fifteen of the bestseller list. Harry couldn’t blame her.
    During his final week, Harry zigzagged across the country, appearing on shows in Seattle, San Diego, Raleigh, Miami and finally Washington. He began to relax without Natalie by his side
constantly reminding him about the bestseller list, and even managed to mention
Nothing Ventured
more than once during some of the longer interviews, even if it was only on local
shows.
    When he flew back into New York on the final day of the tour, Justin checked him into an airport motel, handed him an economy-class ticket for London, and wished him luck.

    Once Emma had filled in the Stanford application form, she wrote a long letter to Cyrus to thank him for making it all possible. She then turned her attention to a bulky package
that contained profiles of Sophie Barton, Sandra Davis and Jessica Smith. It only took a cursory reading for her to realize which candidate Matron favoured, and it certainly wasn’t Miss J.
Smith.
    What would happen if Sebastian agreed with Matron or, worse, decided he preferred someone who wasn’t even on the shortlist? Emma lay awake wishing Harry would call.

    Harry thought about calling Emma, but assumed she would already have gone to bed. He began to pack so everything would be ready for the early morning flight, then lay down on
the bed and thought about how they could convince Sebastian that Jessica Smith was not only the ideal girl to be his sister, but
his
first choice.
    He closed his eyes, but there wasn’t any hope of snatching even a moment’s sleep while the air-conditioning thumped out a constant rhythm as if auditioning for a place in a Calypso
band. Harry lay on the thin, lumpy mattress, and rested his head on a foam pillow that enveloped his ears. There certainly wasn’t a choice between a shower and a bath, just a washbasin with
constantly dripping brown water. He closed his eyes and reran the last three weeks, frame by frame, like a flickering black and white movie. There had been no colour. What a complete waste of
everyone’s time and money it had all been. Harry had to admit he just wasn’t cut out for the author tour, and if he couldn’t even get the book into the top fifteen after countless
radio and print interviews, perhaps the time had come to pension off William Warwick along with Chief Inspector Davenport and start looking for a real job.
    The headmaster of St Bede’s had hinted quite recently that they were looking for a new English teacher, although Harry knew he wasn’t cut out to be a schoolmaster. Giles had
graciously suggested, on more than one occasion, that he should join the board of Barrington’s so that he could represent the family’s interests. But the truth was, he wasn’t
family, and in any case, he’d always wanted to be a writer, not a businessman.
    It was bad enough living in Barrington Hall. The books still hadn’t earned enough money to buy a house worthy of Emma, and it hadn’t helped when Sebastian had asked him quite
innocently why he didn’t go out to work every morning, like every other father he knew. It sometimes made him feel like a kept man.
    Harry climbed into bed just after midnight, even more desperate to call Emma and share his thoughts with her, but it was still only five in the morning in Bristol, so he decided to stay awake
and ring her in a couple of hours’ time. He was just about to turn off the light when there was a gentle tap on the door. He could have sworn he’d left the
Do Not Disturb
sign
on the handle. He pulled on his dressing gown, padded across the room and opened the door.
    ‘Many congratulations,’ was all she said.
    He stared at Natalie, who was holding up a bottle of champagne and wearing a tight-fitting dress with a zip down the front that didn’t need an invitation to pull it.
    ‘What for?’ said Harry.
    ‘I’ve just seen the first edition of Sunday’s
New York Times
, and
Nothing Ventured
has come in at number fourteen. You’ve made it!’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Harry, not quite grasping the