The Knapthorne Conspiracy by Malcolm Ballard (best english novels for beginners txt) 📕

and now that she had scaled that particular peak she wasn’t at all certain she was enjoying the view from the summit. In fact, it had felt curiously unreal, as someone who generally shunned the limelight, to attend book signings and writers' festivals, almost as if she were leading someone else's life. For Arabella writing had always been a very private affair, usually a long, drawn-out process because she enjoyed getting on intimate terms with her prose, teasing it and moulding it until she had finally found the shape and form she was seeking. Now that the affair had been exposed in the most public of ways, she not only found herself in the spotlight but was also expected to divulge the secrets of her technique. It was, she felt, rather like going to the doctor’s with an embarrassing problem and having to talk about it.

In a previous life, before she had received international acclaim for her most recent novel, Arabella had produced five books, each of which had been published. They were all fiction, mostly of a whimsical nature with liberal doses of black humour, accurately portraying the ups and downs of modern living, and the genre had found a steady market. It may not have got her a five-star lifestyle but she had lived very comfortably, in fact more comfortably than she had realised. Today was not the first time she had reflected on life before fame and how much she had taken for granted. Like being in control of her life. Being anonymous. Having the luxury of being able to do what she wanted when she wanted to do it. And, not least of all, being able to write. For her there was a compulsion about writing born out of a need to continually be creative, even if it was only a few lines a day. In fact, sometimes those were her best days when the literary content of a paragraph seemed inspired and to write any more would only detract from what she had already written or lessen its impact. If, however, she were prevented from writing at all it was not unusual for her to feel guilty. The writing had started as a purgative measure after the break-up of her marriage. It had been typically impulsive of Arabella to have wed someone she’d known for less than three months though, God knows, she could have had the pick of any number of her admirers. The latin influence in her heritage, thanks to her mother, included Romany blood which had brushed her skin with a touch of mediterranean colour and given her a glorious mane of auburn hair which cascaded in shimmering tresses past her shoulders. She was nobody's fool but laughed easily and it showed in her eyes. Alluring rather than glamorous, Arabella preferred a natural look keeping make-up to a minimum. Normally level-headed she was occasionally prone to impulsiveness, a legacy from her father an energetic, passionate man, of Irish descent, with a roguish appeal that many women found irresistible. Unfortunately, he had died in a hunting accident, in 1990, when Arabella was just five years old.

Book-signings had been an eye-opener for her, giving Arabella a whole new dimension to her writing, reinforcing the power of the written word. It was not something she had entertained whilst creating the manuscript but nevertheless it had a powerful effect on her and particular episodes were stamped indelibly upon her memory:

“Ms. Foxton! Or may I call you Bella?” If she hadn’t have been leaning back, craning her neck to try and see the clock on the wall she would have seen him approaching. As it was, the voice startled her. It was a deep, mature voice laced with stockbroker belt and a dash of arrogance and she turned to study its owner. “Your picture on the jacket doesn’t do you justice, you know. You look much younger.” That was the fifth one today, she calculated. Even though it was a compliment, it would be so nice to hear something original. He was holding the book out, showing her the photo, as if she had never seen it before. The fact that she agreed with him was academic. It was the repetitiveness that irked her. Just another sign of her impatience, not used to having to sit and wait for people to come forward, as if she were processing voters in a polling booth. Looking up at the individual in front of her she was surprised to find a younger man than she’d expected, maybe fortyish. Handsome, in a sort of cold, Aryan way, the arrogance there in the set of his mouth, the look in his eyes.

“Of course you may call me Bella,” she said disarmingly, smiling with her eyes as she took the book from him. What may have passed for a smile flashed briefly across his features, like a lightning strike. The sensitivity of a rattlesnake this one, she mused, never ceasing to be amazed by the wide spectrum of people she had come in contact with at the signings. One of her little games, to help pass the time, was to try and guess what people did for a living and, occasionally, she would venture to ask. The words contract killer floated into her consciousness as she signed his copy of Lingering Doubts.

“You made me cry,” he confessed and she looked up at him, in astonishment. “My mother died recently,” he said, by way of explanation. “The circumstances of her death had a lot in common with Mrs. Witteringham’s, in your book. It was terrible, watching her suffer, unnecessarily, when all she had wanted to do for the past three months was die.” There was not a trace of emotion on his face now and Arabella found it difficult to imagine him in tears but the statement had served to capture her attention, momentarily dispelling her lethargy. “I don’t read,” he commented, accepting the book back from her, with a little nod.