Read Based on a True Story for Free Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Renzetti
His voice faltered at the look in her eyes.
“The title of this masterpiece?”
He coughed. “ Lonely Birds .”
“ Lonely Birds .” She drew herself up in her seat. “Just me, and a mountain of dung, and some penguins.”
“Puffins.”
“Darling, you know I was once nominated for a Bafta?”
“Things have changed, Augusta.”
She remembered, suddenly, that it had been David who held her hair back when she was sick in the toilets at the Dorchester during the Bafta party. Alma Partridge had stood at the door, alternately berating her and anyone who attempted to enter the stall. Her army of two.
It felt as if someone were sawing at her throat. “Anything else?”
“Oh, Augusta,” David said. He reached over to lay a hand on hers. “It’s not so bad. The book’s doing quite well, as you know. The publisher’s interested in another.”
“Another book,” she said dully. “The first one took forever. You would not believe how much energy invention requires.”
“Not another memoir,” he said, jolly now that she had not actually impaled herself on her fork. “They’re thinking maybe we could capitalize on . . . on . . .”
“My infamy?”
“Your unique perspective,” David said. “Perhaps a kind of self-help book. A manual for overcoming disaster. I know it sounds horrendous, but in the right hands — in your hands — it could be good fun. Augusta, look at me. It’s where the money is.”
She shook her head slowly, watched the quartet at the next table clink their glasses together in celebration.
She said, “‘There are millions to be made, and your only competition is idiots.’”
David looked up, fork halfway to his mouth. “Sorry?”
“Just something a wise man in Hollywood once said.” She scanned the room for their waiter, but couldn’t tell him from his fellows. In their white aprons they were like solicitous penguins, indistinguishable.
He seemed relieved that she hadn’t screamed, or thrown anything. “And we’ll find a ghost, a good one. That’ll speed things along.”
“Well, at least it shall keep me in nuts through the winter.”
David shifted in his seat. “I’ve had a word with the publisher, and they would like to see a finished outline before they pull out the chequebook.” He started to chuckle, then thought better of it. “You know, after the last time. A bit of carrot, much handier than the stick. A good ghost will be invaluable.”
Augusta thought of her ghosts, drifting through the empty rooms of her memory. It was doubtful that any of them would want to help. She’d need someone biddable, and cheap, which ruled out most of London. A picture rose in her mind of the young American reporter in the dreadful cardigan. She’d been annoyingly tentative in person, but she left claw marks on paper.
The waiter arrived with her drink, setting it down with a chime. Her fingers closed around the cool stem, and she forced herself to count to thirty before taking a sip. She’d noticed on the cocktail menu that a single mimosa cost fifteen pounds. At least David was paying.
At the bar, Andrew was signing an autograph. She watched him replace the cap on his pen and slide it inside his jacket pocket. Such a small thing, a pen. So innocuous. A concealed weapon. She took a sip of her drink, already anticipating the next.
“So,” she said, “tell me about Deller’s book.”
David appeared relieved that she’d circled back to the safer ground of gossip. “I don’t really know much about it. I saw it in one of the U.S. catalogues. Some barking New Age publisher in California. It sounds like rubbish, but you never know with these things.”
Augusta kept her voice as mild as possible. “But you think it might be about me?”
“Well, it seems to be about overcoming a broken heart. And you were the one who wielded the hammer, in his case.” He pushed away from the table, worried perhaps that he might be in fork range. “Did you know he’s reinvented
“The title of this masterpiece?”
He coughed. “ Lonely Birds .”
“ Lonely Birds .” She drew herself up in her seat. “Just me, and a mountain of dung, and some penguins.”
“Puffins.”
“Darling, you know I was once nominated for a Bafta?”
“Things have changed, Augusta.”
She remembered, suddenly, that it had been David who held her hair back when she was sick in the toilets at the Dorchester during the Bafta party. Alma Partridge had stood at the door, alternately berating her and anyone who attempted to enter the stall. Her army of two.
It felt as if someone were sawing at her throat. “Anything else?”
“Oh, Augusta,” David said. He reached over to lay a hand on hers. “It’s not so bad. The book’s doing quite well, as you know. The publisher’s interested in another.”
“Another book,” she said dully. “The first one took forever. You would not believe how much energy invention requires.”
“Not another memoir,” he said, jolly now that she had not actually impaled herself on her fork. “They’re thinking maybe we could capitalize on . . . on . . .”
“My infamy?”
“Your unique perspective,” David said. “Perhaps a kind of self-help book. A manual for overcoming disaster. I know it sounds horrendous, but in the right hands — in your hands — it could be good fun. Augusta, look at me. It’s where the money is.”
She shook her head slowly, watched the quartet at the next table clink their glasses together in celebration.
She said, “‘There are millions to be made, and your only competition is idiots.’”
David looked up, fork halfway to his mouth. “Sorry?”
“Just something a wise man in Hollywood once said.” She scanned the room for their waiter, but couldn’t tell him from his fellows. In their white aprons they were like solicitous penguins, indistinguishable.
He seemed relieved that she hadn’t screamed, or thrown anything. “And we’ll find a ghost, a good one. That’ll speed things along.”
“Well, at least it shall keep me in nuts through the winter.”
David shifted in his seat. “I’ve had a word with the publisher, and they would like to see a finished outline before they pull out the chequebook.” He started to chuckle, then thought better of it. “You know, after the last time. A bit of carrot, much handier than the stick. A good ghost will be invaluable.”
Augusta thought of her ghosts, drifting through the empty rooms of her memory. It was doubtful that any of them would want to help. She’d need someone biddable, and cheap, which ruled out most of London. A picture rose in her mind of the young American reporter in the dreadful cardigan. She’d been annoyingly tentative in person, but she left claw marks on paper.
The waiter arrived with her drink, setting it down with a chime. Her fingers closed around the cool stem, and she forced herself to count to thirty before taking a sip. She’d noticed on the cocktail menu that a single mimosa cost fifteen pounds. At least David was paying.
At the bar, Andrew was signing an autograph. She watched him replace the cap on his pen and slide it inside his jacket pocket. Such a small thing, a pen. So innocuous. A concealed weapon. She took a sip of her drink, already anticipating the next.
“So,” she said, “tell me about Deller’s book.”
David appeared relieved that she’d circled back to the safer ground of gossip. “I don’t really know much about it. I saw it in one of the U.S. catalogues. Some barking New Age publisher in California. It sounds like rubbish, but you never know with these things.”
Augusta kept her voice as mild as possible. “But you think it might be about me?”
“Well, it seems to be about overcoming a broken heart. And you were the one who wielded the hammer, in his case.” He pushed away from the table, worried perhaps that he might be in fork range. “Did you know he’s reinvented