I find Ginny, looking as if she’s barely slept, in a corner of the restaurant, and explain about needing to find Mum.
‘You try her room, I’ll search the rest of the hotel,’ she says, pushing her barely touched Bircher muesli aside.
I’m anticipating a morning’s game of cat and mouse, but we find Mum almost immediately, heading out through the hotel lobby.
‘Mum, where have you been?’ I ask, taking her by the wrist and steering her towards the central circular banquette.
‘I had a bit of a late—’
‘Never mind,’ I dismiss, not wanting to hear about what went down between her and Alistair. From the state of her hair and skin, it looks as if she’s been up half the night. I sit her down on the red velvet seating.
‘Carly, what is going on?’
‘Christopher Rose has gone missing,’ Ginny explains, standing beside me.
‘What does that have to do with me?’
Ginny and I exchange a look:Shall I tell her, or will you?
‘It means someone else might have to give the final talk of the trip,’ I answer matter-of-factly.
‘The headline event,’ Ginny explains, in case Mum hasn’t understood, but, by the look of horror on her face, she has.
‘Uh, no,’ she says, immediately getting up to leave.
‘Mum, you could manage,’ I say, blocking her, somehow managing to corral her into sitting again. ‘Ginny would do it with you as a Q&A session. It would be like having a chat with a friend – you’ve done plenty like it before.’
Ginny nods her agreement. ‘Your workshop on the train was excellent, Fran. You have no reason to doubt your ability to talk about your work.’
‘At this stage in my career I have nothing of note to say,’ Mum counters, getting up again. ‘I’m an author with no book deal who has writer’s block. I’m hardly headline act material.’
‘You have everything to offer,’ says Ginny, uncharacteristically forthright. She sits down, gestures for Mum to join her. ‘Do you know how excited I was when I found out I was going to be on the book train with Frances Henderson? I was beside myself with anticipation. I haven’t felt that way in a very long time.
‘Your body of work is extensive, Fran,’ she goes on. Mum sits down again and I park myself on her other side, Ginny and I like bouncers. ‘And it’s all of the highest quality. If you were working in any other genre, you’d have received accolade upon accolade by now.’
‘She’s right, Mum,’ I say. ‘There are very few authors in theUKright now who can match your level of output and quality. You don’t have to take my word for it – you’ve had so many bestsellers and you’ve hundreds of thousands of online reviews that corroborate what we’re saying.’ I google her name. ‘Look, I told you – someone has made a Wikipedia page for you!’
I show her the page that lists all her titles and translations, bestsellers, and the handful of romance novel awards.
‘Go on, Mum. How bad would it be with Ginny by your side and me in the audience?’
‘Hmm,’ Mum grumbles, still not entirely convinced, but I can tell she’s feeling marginally more able and willing than before.
I take her hand, and Ginny does the same, both of us pleading with our eyes.
‘Oh, go on then, but only as a back-up!’ she says, probably more because she wants us to stop bugging her than because of any desire to give the talk.
‘I’m going to find coffee,’ Mum says to me, once Ginny has left to continue her hunt for Chris Rose.
‘I’ll join you,’ I say, following her out of the hotel and into the fresh morning air.
We cross an avenue, bustling to life, and carry on into the large, lush square beyond where we buy coffee from a vendor. Mum seems weary.
‘What’s up?’ I ask, when we park ourselves on a bench.
She doesn’t answer immediately, gazing out over the gardens.
‘I’ve been such a fool,’ she answers in time, nursing her coffee cup.
