The Tenth Tale

When it came to writing the perfect crime novel, she was learning there was no peace for the wicked...

- Ginny Swart

Gillian Saunders pushed open the door of the Booklovers Nook and stood for a moment, observing the glittering crowd drinking sherry and politely raising their voices to be heard above each other. Like a flock of feeding gannets, she thought.

It looked well on the way to being a successful book launch, and she recognised several reviewers clutching their free copies of Wallace James’ latest offering.

One day this party will be for me, she promised herself, scooping a dry sherry from the tray of a passing waiter. Gillian could picture the book now, her name in discreet lettering on the exquisitely designed cover. Reviewers falling over each other to think of ways to describe this astonishing new talent in their midst. All she needed was a good agent to sell her work to a discerning publisher.

The man of the hour, Wallace James, stood against the counter surrounded by his adoring public. His bristly white moustache twitched appreciatively as he accepted praise for A Number of Misfortunes. He signed the proffered copies with a flourish, the cash register of the bookshop cheerfully punctuating the conversation every two minutes. Why are crime writers so damned popular, thought Gillian bitterly, helping herself to another sherry.

She was drawn unwillingly to the circle of people around the author, saying nothing, but listening rather scornfully to their fatuous remarks. Slowly, one by one, they drifted away and Gillian found herself alone with Wallace James.

She was annoyed to hear herself say nervously, ‘I’ve always admired your work, Mr James. I write myself.’

‘Do you indeed, girlie?’ Wallace James beamed patronisingly at her. ‘What sort of thing?’