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“Thank you. I’m really hoping that everything I learn from Hugh will get my manuscript where it needs to be. I’m hoping it will be my breakout book. Is this your agent?” She turned toward Morrie.
“No. No agent. This is Morrie, one of my um…boyfriends.” It was weird to have to say that to a stranger. Everyone in Argleton was so used to seeing me with Heathcliff, Morrie, and Quoth that no one batted an eyelid anymore. Even my mother had got on board with my unconventional relationship and admitted that having three strapping guys around to open pickle jars and remove spiders from the shower had its advantages. If people gossiped about us back in Argleton, they did it in the traditional British way – behind our backs.
When I received the invitation to the retreat and noticed all the meals included a +1, I’d gone back and forth about how I should approach my harem. But ultimately I’d decided that I had nothing to feel ashamed about, and so I’d emailed Meddleworth’s own and the retreat organizer, Donna Bollstead, and asked if all three of my boyfriends could be included in the group activities if we paid the extra. Donna was great about it.
Part of living in the world meant that people would ask questions about my relationship, especially if they read my book. But I felt prepared for that. It was some of the other stuff I didn’t know if I was ready for.
“Oh, how wonderful. Just like in your book!” Christina leaned in, whispering loudly, “I’m so curious about what it’s like to be so open about dating three guys. Most men are far too jealous to consider such a thing, so we women usually have to be more secretive about it.”
“Oh, well, I’m not sure that’s the answer—”
“I’m here with my boyfriend, Killian Stafford. He’s also my agent. He wouldn’t want me to have another boyfriend at all. He’d kill any guy who laid a finger on me. He’s such a jealous prick. What did you do to get your guys to agree? Aren’t they jealous of each other? Do they fight over you?”
I tried to remember what I’d read inThe Ethical Slut. “I guess we don’t feel right being jealous when someone we love is happy—”
But Christina seemed to be one of those people who didn’t need the other side of a conversation. “Killian’s great, really he is. He’s not a writer, but he’s beensosupportive of my career. He’s going to sit in on the classes and make sure I get as much as possible out of them. I can’t wait to learn from Hugh. I’ll doanythingto get to the next level—”
“That sounds an awful lot like a promise,” a sour voice said from behind her. “Are you planning to stab your fellow writers in their sleep?”
Christina laughed off the comment as the sour man joined our group. “Don’t mind him. This is Charlie Doyle. He’s the police procedural writer of our little group. I think the two of you will get on splendidly, as Charlie also writes books set in a small English village—”
“If this is Mina Wilde with her amateur bookshop sleuth, our work is nothing alike,” Charlie scoffed. “I’m an ex-cop with thirty-three years on the force, and I slaved over my manuscript for ten years, getting every factual detail absolutely perfect. Whereas I could tell from the first chapter of Mina’s book that the mystery is fraught with procedural errors. This is why policing – like writing – should be left to the professionals.”
Morrie’s fingers gripped my hand. “Mina is an excellent writer. I happen to be a connoisseur of murders, and I can tell you that she has got the details right in her book.”
I managed to hold back my grin.
“With all due respect, sir, since you look like an educated man,” Charlie punched the air with his finger for emphasis. He enjoyed having everyone’s attention. “But how is a blind woman going to write a convincing book? How can she describe what she cannot see—argh!”
Charlie’s tirade against me cut off with a yelp as he jerked away suddenly. A dark shadow moved in front of him, and I gathered from the frantic dance he was doing that someone had tipped a dram of whisky over his head.
“Oops,” Heathcliff said drolly, placing his empty glass back on the bar. “I’m such a butterfingers.”
“You clumsy oaf,” Charlie roared. “Now I’m all sticky. I have scotch dripping into my shoes, and this is asilktie—”
“Oh, here, let me help you with that.” Morrie moved forward. I could have stopped him, but after Charlie’s comments about my eyesight and his implication that my books, which were based on my life, were factually inaccurate, I didn’t want to.
Morrie grabbed Charlie’s tie, muttering about dry cleaning and fiber saturation points. A moment later, Charlie yelled again. Morrie stepped back to reveal orange flames leaping from Charlie’s chest.
“My tie is on fire!” Charlie yelled, spinning wildly, his voice thick with panic. Everyone in the room scrambled to get away from him.
“Golly, it is too,” Morrie said as he returned to my side. “I don’t know how that happened.”
“Croak!”
A dark shape blew through the door of the music room and dived straight at Charlie.
“Argh, a bird!” Charlie raised his hands to protect his face, completely forgetting that his tie was on fire. His sleeves caught fire, too. The smell of singed fabric scented the air, and a fire alarm wailed.
Charlie dropped to his stomach and started trying to roll the rug over him to put out the flames. The only problem was that the rug was weighed down by furniture and party guests. He whipped it out from beneath a woman’s foot, and she toppled over into the arms of another man.
“You fool!” She kicked Charlie in the side. “Get off the floor and dunk your tie in the bathroom.”
There was now a black spot on the rug where the fire had attacked it. I was struggling to hold in my laughter. Beside me, Morrie’s whole body was trembling with mirth, and I could hear Heathcliff snort at the bar. I couldn’t turn and face them or I’d lose it completely. Instead, I searched frantically for Quoth.
He was sitting on top of the curtain rail, and as soon as Charlie staggered to his feet, Quoth dive-bombed him.
You will never, ever say things like that about my Mina, ever again.
