Departure(77)

“I don’t know. I would come up with two dozen names and test them with diverse groups. It’s cheap to do these days with social media. If this thing’s going to be as big as you think, a global brand that could reach everyone on earth, the name is crucial. Maybe Pod something. The cars in the tunnels are like pods. Pods feel safe. Impregnable. Comfortable. Like new technology.”

“PodJet? JetPod? Jets are fast.” He nods at the scientist, who doesn’t react.

“Jets crash,” I say.

“Not anymore. I mean, they crash so rarely.”

“People think rarely could happen to them. Subways don’t crash.”

“PodTube?”

“Sounds like TV.”

“TubePod.”

I shake my head. “Sounds like part of a plant.”

“Podway?”

“That could work. Keep playing with that.”





The worst place to be sick is on an airplane. Well, maybe not the worst place, but it’s bad, and I’m bad sick, in and out of the first-class lavatory, puking, leaning against the wall, waiting for the pain and nausea to pass or to puke some more. I never know which is next.

I slump back in my seat, pale and drained.

“Get some bad food, partner?” the guy across the aisle asks.

“Must have,” I mumble.

It’s not bad food. I’ve never had a migraine in my life. Never felt this sick. Something is wrong with me. Something bad. Heathrow to SFO. Eight hours to go. I wonder if I’ll make it.





43





Vodka bottles drank last night: .25

Hugely important decisions made: 0

Episodes of Sherlock watched: 2


I awake to my phone ringing, my agent’s number staring me in the face.

It was late enough last night not to return his call—my agent and I aren’t that close, after all. Not ringing him up this morning looks like I’m dodging him. I start compiling cover stories, mentally rehearsing them to see what might float.


Got a nasty bug, Ron. Bloody planes—you know—laid up all day . . .

Mum’s been ill . . .

Oh, Ron, my phone, dropped it in the gap where the plane meets the ramp, cracked into a billion pieces when it hit the tarmac. Then a luggage truck ran over it, then a fuel truck, which god bless the driver tried to swerve to miss my poor phone but hit another truck. The explosion was enormous, blew the plane over, right onto my phone. It’s still down there somewhere.


May have gone a bit far with that last one. Nothing says you’re lying like overselling it.

But none of them will really work anyway. That’s the downfall of the digital age: no one can ever really get away. Even if I’d lost my cell, or come down with something, or had to pop out to help my mum, I’d still have e-mail access at home and hers to fire off a quick “Yes.” It’s rude not to ring him back, after all the work he’s put in. He deserves an answer, and so do the publisher and Mr. Shaw.

Tapping at my phone, I fire off an e-mail, thanking my agent for all his efforts to get me this opportunity, but . . . I haven’t made a decision yet.

A response pops up almost immediately.


Thanks, Harp. Take the time you need, but I want you to know they’re in a hurry to get the ball rolling. I have a call with the editor in an hour, sounds urgent. Will keep you posted.


Vodka didn’t shake the decision loose. Time for new tactics.





Miles run: 3


Correction, in the interest of complete honesty—

Miles run: 1.5

Miles walked while pondering life and pivotal decisions: 1.5

Decisions made: 0


There are two voice mails waiting when I get back. Both Ron. I tap the first one and listen.


“Just got off with the publisher, Harp. Shaw loved you—of course. The editor wants to be able to ring him in New York this morning and say we’re a go. Aaaaand—they’ve doubled the advance, pluuuus, a little more on the royalties—without me even asking. I might get a touch more. Something’s up, will find out. Need your answer soon, Harp. Great opportunity here.”


And the next message, not fifteen minutes later.


“Think I know what’s brewing, Harp. Heard through the grapevine that Shaw’s son, Grayson, is shopping a tell-all. New York publishers won’t touch it, but he’s got an agent here, and they’re making the rounds. Bidding’s going to be intense. Rumors are he has juicy secrets. Maybe even criminal accusations. Lives of the rich and famous revealed. Going to be nasty. Oliver Norton Shaw needs someone to tell his story, the true story, when this load of bollocks hits the shelves. No matter who writes it, the books will feed off each other. Great opportunity here, Harp. Ring me when you get this.”


Ahhhh. I will make a decision today. And I’ve decided how.





After a trip to W. H. Smith, I am eight pounds fifty poorer and the proud owner of a myriad of notebooks, writing utensils, and poster boards, which lie sprawled out on my living room floor. I’ve moved the couch around, pushed the tables and chairs to the walls. It’s a big studio now, a temple devoted to Alice Carter.

I’m going to give her the day, pour my heart into her story. If it comes, if it demands to be written, I’ll give Alice the attention she needs. If it’s a chore—as it has been for years now—I’ll put her on the back burner and make the logical choice.