The Book (Word Count; 1,610)

(Sensitive content note: mild use of expletive)

I’d known Geraldine all my life. We lived on the same street. Our parents were best friends. Our mums would sit and chat over coffee or wine whilst we played Tag or Hide and Seek. Our dads drank together in the local pub on Friday nights. We went to the same school, plaited each other’s hair, were each other’s confidantes and chief bridesmaids at our respective weddings. There was nothing I didn’t know about Geraldine Jones.

So why was a professional image of her staring at me from the jacket of a newly-released hardback as I passed the bookstore on my way to work one cloudless morning in March?

It was unmistakably her. The black hair that hung over her right shoulder like a veil, the cheeky smile, the mischievous green eyes. Right down to the mole on her forehead. The mole that she’d always hated and vowed to have removed.

Gerry couldn’t write. She was always in the bottom two of the school’s spelling competitions, had no idea about grammar, the importance of periods or commas. I remember she’d phoned me up in tears one night, just before our English exams. ‘I’m going to fail English, Lauren! Who does that with their native language?’

And I’d hurry over there and help her study until we both fell asleep at her desk.

What on earth, then, was she doing on the cover of a book?  

There was only one way to find out. I checked my watch. Five-to-nine. Five minutes to get to my desk. Sod it. Late anyway. I spun on my heel, pulled open the heavy aluminium door, strode inside, grabbed a copy, and joined the queue.

Someone cleared their throat.

Eyes glued to the front page, I hadn’t realised I’d reached the checkouts. 

‘Madam?’

I tore my eyes away from the page, looked up and blinked in surprise. ‘Oh, sorry.’ An apologetic smile.

The till-keeper grinned. ‘You’re the fifth person that book has had this effect on. Looks like the author’s going to be an instant bestseller.’

‘Doubt it,’ I replied with a laugh. ‘She’s my best friend. She can’t write for toffee.’

Two flawless chapters, and half an hour later, I finally sauntered into the office, my feet finding my desk without me as my eyes continued to devour every word my best friend had apparently written. There was not a single spelling mistake or grammatical error to be seen in the book.  

Then it occurred to me. The book had been through a publishing house, and a big one at that. They would have corrected any and all mistakes.

But they would also have rejected the book on the spot if it had been riddled with Gerry’s usual errors.  Especially from the front page.

‘She must have used a ghostwriter,’ I muttered to myself, staring out of the window at the busy street below as car horns blared and angry shouts drifted in through the open window. The thought caused a stab of jealousy. Why hadn't she asked me?

No work was done by me that morning. I alternated between staring into space and reading Gerry’s book, lying to myself that I was only going to read one page, even as I finished a chapter and started the next. 

‘My office. Now!’ A harsh whisper, nothing more, but my nose once more in the book, I hadn’t heard the boss approach from behind; my olfactory sense hadn’t detected the unmistakable scent of his cheese and onion savoury.

‘Yes, sir!’ I said, jumping to my feet and following him past rows of curious co-workers.

Mike Plinkett’s office consisted of glass panels and windows, all dressed with venetian blinds. A cedarwood desk sat to my left, facing the workers. Bookshelves and filing cabinets lined the far wall, a potted plant stood in the corner behind the desk. The boss gestured to a cushioned conference seat which faced his expensive red-leather swivel chair. He steepled his fingers on the desk and regarded me from their tips for what seemed like an hour.

‘Something on your mind this morning, Lauren?’ He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. Nothing ever got past Plinky. Not that we ever called him that to his face.

I cringed, shifted in my seat.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Plinkett. I have had a bit of a shock as it happens. You see, I know the woman who wrote the book I’m reading.’

‘So you should be happy for her.’

I chewed my lip. ‘Well, Sir … I would be … But she isn’t a writer. You see, she just about scraped a Pass in English. And that was because I stayed up with her all night to help her study.’

The boss shrugged, swivelled in his seat. ‘So she used a ghostwriter.’ Mirroring my previous thought.

I wasn’t so sure, but I smiled anyway. ‘Yes, Mr. Plinkett. I’m sure that must be it.’

‘And if you’re not convinced…-' Did this guy ever miss a thing? ‘...You’re a journalist. Interview her.’

I bobbed my head. ‘Yes, sir. I will. Thank you.’

Back at my desk, I dialled Gerry’s number. She answered before the tone sounded.

‘Lauren! Hi. Have you seen my book?’ She sounded excited. Understandably so.

Receiver wedged between ear and shoulder, I retrieved my copy from where it had fallen on the floor and flicked mindlessly through its pages. ‘Yeahh, Ges, I have. In fact, I’ve got it here.’

‘What do you think?’

‘It… It’s excellent.’ It was. ‘In fact, I can’t put it down. I’ve just had my butt kicked by Plinky because of it.’

‘Really? You think it’s that good?’ In my mind’s eye, I saw her flicking her veil-like hair from one shoulder to the other, a broad grin stretching from ear to ear.

‘Couldn’t have written any better myself.’ 

Gerry screamed. ‘Ah! Coming from you, that’s high praise indeed.’

‘I am confused though,’ I admitted. ‘Last I checked, you couldn’t write for toffee.’

‘I can’t. Rick did it.’ Her second husband.

A knitting of eyebrows. ‘So why is it in your name?’

‘Because he didn’t want the praise, silly. You know what he’s like.’

I did. Gerry was by far the more extroverted of the couple. Except… ‘He could have written under a pen name.’ And why was Gerry so happy to take the credit? That wasn’t like her. One thing I was sure of, somehow or other, Gerry was involved in the writing of that book.

My next phone call was to Rick himself. ‘I hear congratulations are in order?’

‘Oh, thanks, Lauren. Yeah, it came as a surprise to us after years of trying-’ Years of trying? ‘But we finally got that those two little lines we've been waiting for.’  Two little lines? ‘Of course, I should have known, you’d be the first one Gerry told, but-’

‘Err, Rick, I’m sorry to interrupt, but… What are you talking about? What lines?’

‘You mean she hasn’t told you? She tells you everything, doesn’t she?’

By now, I was more confused than ever. 'She never said anything about two little lines, no.'

‘Gerry’s pregnant!’

‘Gerry’s whaaat?!?!’

‘I thought that’s what you were congratulating me for.’ He sounded as confused as I was.

My head was spinning. ‘I was congratulating you on the release of yours and Gerry’s book. She said you wrote it but didn’t want the credit.’

For a moment, there was silence on the line. Then, ‘What book?’

‘What do you mean, “what book”? The one in the book shop. The cashier thinks Gerry’s going to be an instant bestseller. That book!’

‘...I don’t know about any book, Lauren. I certainly haven’t written one - and even if I had, why would I let Gerry take the credit, when I can write under a pseudonym?’

This was getting weirder by the second. First, Rick didn’t know anything about the book, and I didn’t know anything about my best friend’s pregnancy. That hurt. After everything we’d been through together, it stung.

But so did Gerry’s lies about taking credit for Rick’s book. If she did write that book, why was she keeping it from me? I phoned her again, leaning back in my chair.

This time, she answered on the third ring. ‘H-.’

‘You’re pregnant.' A statement, not a question . 'And you didn’t tell me?’

‘You were focussed on the book.’

Deflection. She was the one who had brought it up.

‘I've spoke to Rick. He said he didn’t know anything about a book, and if he had have written it, he would have used a pseudonym… What’s going on, Gerry?’

'You mean you didn't believe me and so went to my husband for confirmation?'

I sat forward. 'I'd phoned him to congratulate him on the book. Turns out, he didn't know anything about it. Thought I was talking about the pregnancy you neglected to mention.'

A sharp intake of breath over the line. A heavy sigh. ‘Okay, okay. I hired a ghost writer.’ She paused, giving the news time to sink in. Then, impatience. ‘Come on, Lauren! You know me!’  Did I? ‘I can barely write my own name, never mind my autobiography!’ A self-deprecatory laugh.

There was a knot in my stomach. For the first time in my life, I didn’t believe Geraldine Jones.  

‘Lauren?’

No response.

‘Lauren! I know you’re there.’

‘The truth, Gerry. Tell me the truth.’

‘I a-’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Another sharp intake of breath. Another lie? Or was I actually going to get the truth this time? ‘I’ve been taking evening classes in creative writing. The book is the outcome.’ She paused, lowered her voice. ‘So is the baby. Don’t tell Rick.’