“Autograph”

She wakes up in another Travel Inn, and for the couple of moments that it takes for her to sit up in bed and shake away the cobwebs, she can’t even remember what town she is in. The name arrives late in her head as she is standing under the lukewarm shower; Remington. She says the word out loud, her voice almost drowned out by the water. It has a familiar ring to it, but she can’t think why – has she ever been here before? Or does she just remember it from her endless itinerary?

It feels like years ago that Caroline Marsh, authoress and minor celebrity, began to travel the length of the country to promote her novel – some time on the road had seemed like a good idea at the time, just her and some of the cool people from the publishers, meeting fans of her work. She’d be like a rock star. Of course, that was before she saw the list of appearances the publishing house had arranged for her – an infinite number of towns, half of which she had never heard of, stretching all the way from Penzance to Northumberland (or at least that was her first impression).

“The product hits the shelves all over the country this month,” her agent had said. “Don’t you want maximum exposure? There’s nothing these bookish types like more than an author who is willing to take time out of their busy schedule to read a few chapters aloud and scribble their name on anything that is put in front of them.”

Of course she agreed with his general idea, but she couldn’t help wincing when he referred to her novel, something she had spent over a year of her life creating, as a “product”. Like they were selling detergent or double-glazing.

Mandy, a bright young girl from the publishers (but just a little too pretty and enthusiastic for this early in the morning), knocks on the door. Caroline lets her in, and is assaulted by a croissant and piping hot coffee barely contained in a polystyrene cup. Mandy tells her to eat up, because they have a busy day ahead of them. First, a reading at the town library. Then a signing at Waterstone's, or possibly W.H. Smith, they're all pretty much the same. And then they hop on a train to get to the next town, for an early evening spot on a radio show.

“I was just on the phone to somebody from the radio station,” Mandy announces. “He had a very nice voice, actually... but anyway. He was telling me that there is a big buzz about a new book by a lady named Caroline Marsh, he said it might even win a prize!”

That is indeed exciting news, but the way Mandy says it, it sounds like the prize might be a shiny cup with ribbons on the handles, or possibly a Blue Peter badge. Caroline wonders when she became old enough to see an actual generation gap between herself and younger women. It was probably around the same time that the aforementioned younger women started referring to her as a “lady”. The very thought sends a chill through her stomach.

By the time Caroline arrives at the library by taxi, accompanied as always by Mandy, most of the laid out chairs have been occupied. Caroline makes her way to the front after a short introduction by a slight, bespectacled woman who looks like she was born to be a librarian. She opens her copy of the book; its cover is warm, after being clutched in her sweaty hands all the way here. Caroline gulps, turns to Chapter One, and begins to read aloud. She doesn't stop, not even for a sip of water, until she has read the last line of Chapter Three. She can tell from the corner of her eye that Mandy is trying to make a discreet point by tapping on her watch, and then she remembers that she was only supposed to read the first chapter. But nobody stopped her, and the audience all seem quite happy to be sitting here, listening to her voice. Once, a long time ago, a boyfriend had commented on her voice. He recommended a career doing books on tape. Caroline makes a mental note, to ask Mandy whose voice is nicer: hers, or the man from the radio station.

They arrive late to the bookshop, and Caroline is ushered by a young clerk to a swivel chair behind a desk that is stacked with books, all with her name printed on them in big yellow letters. She has noticed over the last couple of years, maybe as a consequence of her growing fame, that every time a book is published, her name is bigger and the actual title is smaller. When, mainly out of curiosity, she had asked her agent about this, he'd replied:

“Well why not! Sex sells, you know.” Referring, of course, to her name being dragged through every tabloid in the land a few years ago, in connection to a rather famous married man and a rather well-documented affair that took place between him and Caroline. She had minded it all at the time, but now it's water off a duck's back. The man is with his wife, where he belongs, and Caroline is selling books. She might have him to thank for the high numbers of books being sold, and she might not, and she supposes she will never know for sure. The main thing is, people seem to like her stories.

Up until recently, they'd been stories that even Caroline herself found to be fairly ordinary – commonplace events take a sinister turn, and the young hero or heroine finds their life falling apart. They had followed a successful formula, tried and tested, and Caroline had often asked herself whether something that wasn't broke needed fixing (the answer being a half-hearted “no”). But this latest novel, she knew it was something different. Something special. While usually she reeled out two novellas a year, this story had taken sixteen months to get right, from the first sixty-page draft that outlined every event, every twist, to the final three hundred and eighty four pages on which she was now scribbling To Jane, To Derek, To Matthew, To Francine, with love, C. Marsh.

“I absolutely loved it,” says a young man with ginger hair and a pierced lip. “And the twist at the end... mental. Completely blew me away.”

“Thank you,” Caroline hands him his newly signed copy and smiles. “But don't say much more, now – you don't want to spoil the ending for everybody else.” She winks at him and his smile bursts out into a grin. For a moment she fantasises that this boy desires her, but she knows that his pleasure comes instead from meeting a figure of minor pop culture significance. It wouldn't surprise her if he masturbated to some of the ruder parts of her previous books. They'd been quite steamy in places; something the papers grasped at as 'proof' that she was a sex-crazed home wrecker. Caroline told one reporter that if such evidence made her a scarlet woman, then they could accuse half of the forgettable authors for Mills & Boon as well.

The woman next in line after the young man is a woman similar in age to Caroline. She smiles, hands a copy of the book over, and says;

“Could you make it out to Janey Wicks?”

“Of course,” Caroline swiftly scrawls out her usual message.

“Previously Janey Spiller, you understand. I'm married now.”

“Congratulations,” Caroline says, about to hand the book back, but her hand freezes midway. Something about the maiden name rings a bell in her head, and this bell swings and chimes against another bell, one that rang this morning when she mouthed the word Remington in the shower.

“This is a bit awkward,” the woman named Janey laughs. “You don't remember me, do you.”

“Bramstone Secondary School,” Caroline blurts out, the memory jumping from her mouth before her brain has time to process it. “We were in the same year. I thought Remington sounded familiar... somebody must have told me that this is where you live now.”

“So you do remember,” Janey looks delighted to hear this. “Glad to hear it.”

“How have you been?” Caroline asks. “It's been so long!”

“Not that long, when you think about it,” Janey disagrees. “I mean, you were practically the guest of honour at our reunion last year.”

“That was kind of embarrassing,” Caroline tries to look suitably bashful. “I mean, there were at least three different kinds of doctor there, and I was the one they asked to make a speech.”

“You always did have a way with words,” Janey tilts her head. “You and poor Freddie Miles.”

This name Caroline remembers straight away. Frederick Miles had been Bramstone's other promising young writer. She remembers once in English class they had joked about being future rivals for the Number One spot in book lists. As it turned out, Freddie wouldn't ever get to see his name in print; he died in his twenties from what the local papers had described as “a dangerous cocktail of drink and drugs”. Caroline had heard that the Miles family themselves had made a public statement, saying that it had really been whiskey and quite a lot of Nytol.

“Poor Freddie,” Janey says again. “All he wanted was to get some shuteye.” Caroline nods, as if to say “poor Freddie indeed”, and hands Janey the book, hoping she will get the message. There are people in the queue behind her who are starting to look a little impatient. Janey smiles again, and turns as if to leave, then stops at the last minute and turns back to face Caroline.

“By the way,” she says, much more seriously this time, “I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“You know what, exactly?”

“Oh don't be all coy now, Caroline. I'm not a fool. I can't believe somebody else hasn't picked you up on this, especially after your nice fling with the press some way back.”

“I honestly don't have a clue what you're going on about, sorry,” Caroline says, remembering all sorts of things now – like how, for instance, she never got on with Janey Spiller at school.

“I think you do.” Janey leans forward and says in a very low voice; “It's a fantastic novel, this one. Much better than your previous efforts. I wonder what sparked the sudden boost in creativity? I mean that twist at the end... that was really clever. I honestly didn't see it coming. Definitely not what people have come to expect from you, no offense.”

“None taken,” Caroline says in an equally low voice. “Where are you going with this?”

“The school reunion last year. If I recall correctly, we opened up our year's time capsule.”

“I don't follow,” Caroline's voice is trembling now. She follows.

“You might not know this,” Janey is whispering now, like a schoolgirl with a secret, “but me and Freddie, we had a bit of a thing going on. And at the end of the last year, when everyone had to put something into a big box that wouldn't be reopened until our fifteen year reunion... well my choice is something of an embarrassment now. My favourite mix tape. I actually thought cassettes would be around nowadays, can you believe it?” Janey's reluctance to get to the point is making Caroline nervous. She fights the urge to grab the other woman and force the inevitable out of her, instead smiling apologetically to the other people in line, a look that says things will be moving along very shortly.

“Freddie's contribution was a bit more worthy though,” Janey continues, “or at least I thought so. It was a draft for a novel, something he'd been working on when he was meant to be revising for exams. He said he wanted to walk away from it for fifteen years, do other things, write other stories, then come back to it and see if it was as brilliant as he first thought, first hoped. I told him that it was a wonderful idea.”

Caroline feels sick. She makes herself look Janey in the eye, as if she has nothing to hide, but she can tell that Janey is looking right through her.

“He let me read this story, before he put it in the box. It was the cleverest thing I'd ever read, although I'll admit I'm not much for reading. I got into books a little bit more once you started writing, Caroline. I liked to be able to say that a Bramstone girl was doing well, you know? And when I started to read this latest one... Well, I'm sure you know what I'm going to say next.”

Caroline knows. She knows that Janey is going to mention what a curious thing it is, that at some point between the time that the nostalgia box was unearthed, and the time that it was presented to the reunion class, a certain sixty-page manuscript went missing.

“Your style of writing is much prettier than his,” Janey says, “and you managed to pad it out a hell of a lot. But it's the same bloody story, isn't it.”

Caroline nods silently. Even if she knew what to say, she's not sure she would be able to get her dry tongue to cooperate. Janey looks at her expectantly, and finally she manages to shakily ask:

“What are you going to do?”

“Well I'm not going to try and sue or anything, if that's what you're worried about.” Janey gives her a look that tells her she knows that's what she is worried about. “I mean, I don't have any real proof at all, do I? I'd just be some jealous former classmate, spinning yarns. Although they wouldn't be as fancy as your yarns, would they? No, it's not money or anything like that I'm after. Go on, breathe a big sigh of relief. And no, I haven't told any journalists, and I won't, because I'm sure you've had enough of that lot.”

“Then what?”

“Well I'm kind of here as a messenger, really. To deliver a warning, as it were.”

For a split second Caroline imagines that Janey is a crackpot, receiving vengeful messages from Freddie's ghost. But Janey carries on: “I've not told the papers, but that doesn't mean I've not been talking. You see, after Freddie died, I got in touch with his family again, to pay my respects. And we've stayed close ever since; I'm like the daughter they never had.”

“Oh no,” Caroline whispers, remembering the hushed rumours and reputation surrounding the Miles clan. “You told his family about me.” If you asked any former student of Bramstone about the Miles family, you would hear a different story, or at least a different bizarre spin on the same piece of gossip. They had all sorts of fingers in all sorts of pies, which as an expression made Caroline vaguely nauseous, but as a description of the family seemed fairly accurate.

“Damn right I did.” Janey looks proud of herself. “So just, you know... expect company. Soon.”

The people in the queue aren't bothering to hide their impatience now, and one of them actually touches Janey's elbow and asks her if she will be much longer. Janey flashes a dazzling smile and says; “No worries. All done here.” She shows the same smile to Caroline, only from this angle it looks like a display of fangs, and then she is gone.

Later that afternoon, when Mandy knocks on Caroline's hotel room door, there is no answer. They need to be on the train in half an hour, and Mandy's usual sunny demeanour is dampened slightly by the fact that for some reason they won't be in business class, so her patience is growing thin. She pounds on the door for another minute, but there is still no response. She walks down to reception and asks for the key to Miss Marsh's room, telling the young concierge that there is no answer. Envisioning the bad publicity and the lawsuits of a dead celebrity in one of their Inns, laying undiscovered for hours, the concierge not only gives Mandy the key but also goes up with her to the room. To his relief (and slight disappointment), the room is empty. Mandy walks over the the bedside table, where there is a short note addressed to her.

Mandy,

Tell the publishers sorry for running out on you like this, but something came up. Need to get away for a bit.

With love,

C. Marsh

Author's Note: This was originally going to be a ghost story, but as I wrote it I found myself drawn more to the interaction between two women who never really liked each other, and after that, introducing a supernatural element felt kind of daft. I also wanted a twist at the end, but eventually preferred leaving it open, with an autograph.