‘So, might I have heard of some of your books?’ the father asks me.
‘Night of the Mummies,’ I say, choosing my most popular title.
‘You’re kidding! That’s Billy’s favourite book.’
‘No!’ I gasp.
‘That’s why we’re here today. He won’t stop talking about mummies. Please tell me there’s a sequel.’
I nod proudly. ‘Out in time for Christmas. Dawn of the Mummies.’
‘Excellent!’ he says. ‘Wow! I can’t believe I’m sitting next to the writer. Billy!’ he calls. ‘Billy—come here.’
Billy runs over.
‘Billy, you’re never going to guess who this is,’ his father says. ‘The writer of Night of the Mummies!’
‘No way!’ Billy exclaims. ‘Really?’
I nod. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ I say, smiling at him.
‘Wow! That’s—like—my favourite book in the whole world! Is there going to be another one?’
‘In time for Christmas.’ His father’s delighted to pass on his insider information.
‘And will it have Sethmosis in it?’
‘Newly wrapped and ready to rise from the dead again,’ I tell him.
‘Excellent!’ he says. ‘That’s him in the next room, isn’t it?’
‘The one lying flat, yes.’
‘Told you, Dad!’ Billy says.
His dad shakes his head. ‘He knows your book inside out. He’s been spotting all your characters next door.’
I turn to smile at Billy again but something’s caught his eye on the other side of the room and he’s on the move once more.
‘I actually came here today because of the new mummy book,’ I say. ‘Just putting together a few finishing touches.’
‘Can I see?’
For a moment I hold back. I’m nervous, which is silly really because I spend most of my time sketching in public and it’s usual for people to peer over my shoulder and pass comment on what I’m doing. But here’s a real-life reader of mine and, as I hold out my sketchbook, I suddenly worry that he won’t like what I’ve drawn.
He takes the sketchbook and looks over the last page of drawings I did of the mummies. ‘Oh, this is good,’ he says. ‘Look at this guy! Looks like he’ll be trouble in the new book.’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ I say.
And then he flips the page and sees the sketch of him and his son.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say hastily. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
His eyebrows are raised and he looks momentarily stunned. ‘It’s really good,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been drawn before. And Billy. You’ve really caught him. All that energy he has—you can really see it.’
‘Thanks!’ Relief fills me.
‘Oh, I’m Oliver,’ he says.
‘I’m Sarah.’
‘I know. Sarah Galani. My favourite writer.’
I beam at the unexpected praise.
Suddenly, Billy is upon us, grabbing his father’s hands and doing his best to drag him up. ‘Come on, Dad!’ he says. ‘Let’s see the rest.’
Oliver looks at me and shrugs. ‘I think it’s time to go,’ he says, as if apologising.
‘Here,’ I say, tearing the page out of my sketchbook spontaneously. ‘I’d like you to have it.’
He looks surprised for a moment but then asks, ‘Will you sign it for me?’
I smile and nod, signing my name at the bottom right-hand corner of the page before scribbling something else there, too. I hand it to him. He takes it from me and, seeing what I’ve written, smiles, and it’s one of those smiles you can feel in your very bones.
I watch as Billy drags him into the next room and they slowly merge and disappear into the crowds.
I sit perfectly still, just thinking. I’ve never, ever thought that I’d meet anyone in The British Museum, which strikes me as odd considering how much time I spend here. But it all seems perfectly logical now—like people who sign up for evening classes hoping to meet their soulmates over a pottery wheel or computer keyboard.
I watch the tourists come and go and realise that I probably won’t get any more sketching done today. As I walk through the familiar rooms, I wonder if Oliver will call the number I scribbled down for him.
But then I remember the way his face lit up as he saw it and, as I descend the west stairs, I have a feeling that I might be seeing that smile again soon.
Amanda Grange
Amanda Grange was born in Yorkshire and spent her teenage years reading Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer whilst also finding time to study music at Nottingham University. She has had sixteen novels published, including five Jane Austen retellings, which look at events from the heroes’ points of view. Woman said of Mr Darcy’s Diary: ‘Lots of fun, this is the tale behind the alpha male,’ whilst the Washington Post called Mr Knightley’s Diary ‘affectionate’. The Historical Novels Review made Captain Wentworth’s Diary an Editors’ Choice, remarking, ‘Amanda Grange has hit upon a winning formula.’ Austenblog declared that Colonel Brandon’s Diary was ‘the best book yet in her series of heroes’ diaries.’ Amanda Grange now lives in Cheshire. Visit her website at www.amandagrange.com
Just Deserts
The night was wild. The wind howled and the hail battered the windows of the inn. The parlour was empty, save for a gentleman who sat quietly in the corner of the room with a glass of port, the single candle on the table in front of him casting a flickering light but leaving his face in shadow.
The door opened and a second gentleman entered. Young and handsome, he was dressed in a red coat, but when he approached the fire it could be seen that his cuffs were frayed.
The landlord followed him in and took his order for wine, as the sound of a shrill voice floated through the door.
‘I will not have you looking at other women, John. You must learn to behave yourself in public, even if you cannot behave in private. I will be stopping your allowance until you have learnt your lesson.’
‘Damn you, Sophia! You knew what kind of marriage we had when we made it; it is too late to regret your bargain now.’
‘Nevertheless, I will not have you embarrassing me in public.’
‘I will not dance to your tune! I am a man, not a puppet. Keep your damned allowance. You seem to have forgotten that I have money of my own.’
‘I am forgetting nothing. Your fortune will not keep you in coats and hunters. It will certainly not allow you to gamble and keep the more expensive kind of mistress. You look surprised. Did you think I did not know? But no matter. As long as you are discreet, you may keep as many mistresses as you choose, but when we are in public you will pay attention to me and make every woman in the room jealous.’
‘I wonder at you wanting that kind of attention,’ came the sneering reply.
‘I cannot live without any compensation for my disappointments and if my tastes run to jealousy instead of affairs, then what is it to you? I am going to bed. I suggest you do the same, with a clear head, so that in the morning