‘And finally, ladies and gentlemen …’ the unctuous tones of Steve Morley oozed through the loudspeakers from his mock, mock Tudor living room. He stepped forwards, lifting his arms as if he were bestowing a benediction on the audience.
‘… I’d like you to give a really warm Steve Morley welcome to Catiana Moran, the babe of the bed chamber, the first lady of lust …’ Over the PA came the antiquated bumps and grinds of ‘The Stripper’.
Dora leant forwards and let out a little hiss of admiration as Catiana Moran chasséd gracefully across the small stage. There was a flurry of applause that grew into a roar of approval as Catiana stepped into the spotlight.
The woman oozed sexual possibilities. Calvin had been spot-on with his description: she was statuesque with a great mane of tussled strawberry-blonde hair. Her little black dress, barely reaching mid-thigh, glistened over every curve, as if it had been sprayed on. Dora held her breath, while below her Catiana Moran curled herself provocatively onto Steve Morley’s leather sofa and crossed her impossibly long legs.
‘Good evening, Steve,’ she purred, in a voice that seemed to trickle, rich as pure caramel, from somewhere just below her navel.
Steve Morley flushed crimson and began to stutter.
‘Cut, cut,’ snapped the little man with the clipboard. ‘If we can take it from you saying, “Good evening, Steve”?’
Around Dora, the audience seemed to have woken up – all eyes firmly fixed on the reclining form of Catiana Moran.
‘Why not?’ the blonde whispered and repeated her opening line with – if anything – more sexual emphasis.
Steve Morley adjusted his tie and leant forwards, extending his hand. ‘Very nice to have you with us, Catiana. My first question is, can you tell us how you got started writing the books you’re so famous for?’
Catiana shifted position, rolling over on the sofa so that her chin was resting on her hands – the effect was devastating.
‘Oh, Steve, darling, everyone always wants to know that. Haven’t you got anything more interesting written down on your little clipboard?’
Dora mouthed the answers she had written, while the stunning strawberry blonde on the stage recited them. Catiana added extra emphasis to the word ‘clipboard’, imbuing it with a heady erotic frisson.
Steve Morley shuddered nervously and loosened his tie. ‘What about this latest book? Am I right in thinking that you’ve finally decided to go public and promote what the papers are calling “the hottest hot novel since time began”?’
Catiana ran her tongue around her scarlet lips. ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Oh, yes …’
The audience, to a man, craned forwards to see how Steve Morley would cope with this siren.
Dora smiled and picked up her handbag before slipping silently into the aisle. She had to ring Calvin to tell him – for once – he’d got everything just about right. As she got to the exit she glanced back at the stage. Catiana Moran had slipped off her high heels and was stroking one foot over her long, long leg. Every eye in the house was on her. Steve Morley was practically drooling.
‘You said you didn’t even read her books.’ Sheila bustled along the shopping precinct in Fairbeach, clutching her brolly like a quarterstaff.
Close behind, head bowed against the scathing wind, Dora pulled her raincoat tighter.
‘Just call it curiosity,’ she said between gritted teeth, wondering what on earth had possessed her to ask Sheila to go with her to Smith’s.
Sheila snorted. ‘You’re not going to buy anything, are you?’
Dora pushed open the shop door and was struck by the heady aroma of new paper and warm damp bodies.
‘I might do. It depends,’ she said, over her shoulder.
She looked around, expecting to see Calvin Roberts lurking somewhere. Instead Catiana Moran was sitting alone at a trestle table near the book section, cradling a gold pen. Her nail varnish and the swathes of silk ribbon pinned around the table matched exactly.
In daylight, Catiana Moran was paler, slimmer – if anything more stunning – dressed in an impossibly tight copper dress that emphasised every electric curve. Against the backdrop of browsers and shoppers, wrapped up in their macs and sensible shoes, she looked like an exotic refugee from a night club, caught travelling home in her party clothes.
Several shoppers stopped to take surreptitious glances in her direction, a few ventured closer to be rewarded by her huge carnivorous smile. She worked through the little scrum around her with aplomb, flirting, teasing, tipping her head provocatively to listen to their messages and their dedications. She was a sequinned shark amongst a shoal of minnows. It was very difficult not to be impressed.
Sheila stepped closer to Dora, who was hovering, undercover, near the video section.
‘She looks a right tart,’ Sheila hissed. ‘She won’t sell a lot of that kind of thing in Fairbeach, you know. It was packed in here last week when that cookery woman came. She gave everyone bits of broccoli quiche.’
But Dora had already stepped towards the table. Catiana Moran looked up as Dora made her way to the front of the queue, and beamed, eyes glittering like bright shards of broken glass. Dora pointed towards the pile of novels stacked beside her.
‘Hello, are they going well?’ she asked unsteadily.
Her alter ego nodded. ‘Oh, yes. My books are ever so popular,’ she said in the same toffee-brown voice Dora had heard during the TV recording. ‘Have you read any of them?’ Catiana’s eyes were blue-green with tiny flecks of gold which glittered in the shop lights – she was truly beautiful.
Dora reddened as she felt Sheila approaching. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘every one of them.’
Catiana’s smile widened. ‘Oh, wonderful. Then you’re going to love the latest one. It’s really good.’
Dora took a book from the pile and slid it across the table. Behind them. Sheila sniffed as Catiana Moran opened the pages with carmine fingertips.
‘Would you like me to sign it for you?’ she purred.
Dora nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
She rolled the gold pen between her fingers. ‘Who would you like me to dedicate it to?’
‘Dora,’ Dora whispered in an undertone, ‘Dora Hall.’
Catiana whipped the pen across the fly leaf and pressed the book into Dora’s hand. ‘Enjoy,’ she murmured.
Reddening, Dora nodded and scuttled towards the cash desk. At her shoulder she could feel Sheila’s embarrassment throbbing like toothache. When Dora glanced back towards Catiana, the beautiful, predatory blonde was surrounded by a group of young men; she threw back her head and laughed as she pulled another book off the stack.
Dora laid her copy on the cash desk. The shop assistant slid it into a bag.
‘Do yer like her then?’ the woman asked, nodding towards the back of the store, as she handed Dora the change.
Dora smiled broadly. ‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I think I do.’
Lawrence Rawlings looked out of the window in his study. He could hear the bells of All Saints ringing in The Close. The panelled room was sparsely furnished with elegant pieces of antique furniture, so familiar that Lawrence barely noticed them. Nothing was out of place, which was how he preferred it. The spring sunlight picked out his distinctive features and then moved on to the family photographs and paintings on the wall, echoes of his past and present. Arms folded behind