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changing
has
to
had
, when the phone rang. He put down his pen and picked up the receiver.
    ‘Yes,’ he said somewhat abruptly.
    ‘Harry, it’s Harold Guinzburg. Congratulations, you’re number eight this week.’ Harold rang every Thursday afternoon to let Harry know where he would feature on the
bestseller list that Sunday. ‘That’s nine weeks in a row in the top fifteen.’
    Harry had been at number 4 a month ago, the highest position he’d ever managed, and although he didn’t admit it even to Emma, he still hoped to join that select group of British
writers who’d made it to the top on both sides of the Atlantic. The last two William Warwick mysteries had been number 1 in Britain, but the top spot in the States still eluded him.
    ‘Sales figures are all that really matter,’ said Guinzburg, almost as if he was reading Harry’s thoughts. ‘And in any case, I’m confident that you’ll climb
even higher when the softback comes out in March.’ Harry didn’t miss the words
even higher
and not
to number one
. ‘How’s Emma?’
    ‘Preparing a speech on why the company shouldn’t be building a new luxury liner at the present time.’
    ‘Doesn’t sound like a bestseller to me,’ said Harold. ‘So tell me, how’s Sebastian coming along?’
    ‘He’s in a wheelchair. But his surgeon assures me not for much longer, and they’re allowing him out for the first time next week.’
    ‘Bravo. Does that mean he’ll be going home?’
    ‘No, Matron won’t allow him to travel that far yet; perhaps a trip to Cambridge to visit his tutor, and have tea with his aunt.’
    ‘Sounds worse than school to me. Still, it can’t be too long before he finally escapes.’
    ‘Or is thrown out. I’m not sure which will come first.’
    ‘Why would they want to throw him out?’
    ‘One or two of the nurses have begun taking a greater interest in Seb as each bandage comes off, and I’m afraid he isn’t discouraging them.’
    ‘The dance of the seven veils,’ said Harold. Harry laughed. ‘Is he still hoping to go up to Cambridge in September?’
    ‘As far as I can tell, yes. But he’s changed so much since the accident, nothing would surprise me.’
    ‘How has he changed?’
    ‘Nothing I can put a finger on. It’s just that he’s matured in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible a year ago. And I think I’ve discovered why.’
    ‘Sounds intriguing.’
    ‘It certainly is. I’ll fill you in on the details when I next come to New York.’
    ‘Do I have to wait that long?’
    ‘Yes, because it’s like my writing, I have no idea what will happen when I turn the page.’
    ‘So tell me about our one girl in a million.’
    ‘Not you as well,’ said Harry.
    ‘Please tell Jessica that I’ve hung her drawing of the Manor House in autumn in my study, next to a Roy Lichtenstein.’
    ‘Who’s Roy Lichtenstein?’
    ‘He’s the latest fad in New York, but I can’t see him lasting too long. In my opinion Jessica’s a far better draughtsman. Please tell her that if she’ll paint me a
picture of New York in the fall, I’ll give her a Lichtenstein for Christmas.’
    ‘I wonder if she’s heard of him.’
    ‘Before I ring off, dare I ask how the latest William Warwick novel is progressing?’
    ‘It would be progressing a damn sight faster if I wasn’t continually interrupted.’
    ‘Sorry,’ said Harold. ‘They didn’t tell me you were writing.’
    ‘Truth is, Warwick has come up against an insurmountable problem. Or to be more accurate, I have.’
    ‘Anything I can help you with?’
    ‘No. That’s why you’re the publisher and I’m the author.’
    ‘What sort of problem?’ persisted Harold.
    ‘Warwick’s found the ex-wife’s body at the bottom of a lake, but he’s fairly sure that she was killed before being dumped in the water.’
    ‘So what’s the problem?’
    ‘Mine, or William Warwick’s?’
    ‘Warwick’s first.’
    ‘He’s being made to wait for at least twenty-four hours