Had fun today. What other touristy treats can you show me? I promise not to steal from your bag again.

Jo was very surprised to find that when she lay back down, determined not to answer any message in the wee small hours, lest it give the wrong impression, that she had a smile on her face.

13

Tomorrow Never Dies

When Jo woke again, it was eight in the morning and she could hear Clara stomping down the stairs to get her breakfast. She looked, bleary-eyed, at her phone – the hazy memory returning of both her email from Ewan and her message from Lorcan. One made her feel nauseous and the other made her feel jittery. Excitement mixed with trepidation and just a little dash of growing bravery.

However, as realisation dawned on her that there really was just one day until Ewan McLachlan visited Once Upon A Book and talked to her about her book, it was clear the nausea was going to win this particular battle.

She sat up and sipped from the now warm glass of water on her bedside table and tried to figure out a way to pull herself together enough to act like a strong and confident author in just thirty-six hours.

She was distracted from her impending nervous breakdown by the sound of tiny hands hammering on her bedroom door. ‘Come in!’ she called, and watched as the handle turned and Clara, dressed in her school uniform of joggers and a logoed sweatshirt, walked in brandishing a hairbrush and a green scrunchie.

‘I’ve had my breakfast and brushed my teeth and can you please brush my hair today and put it in a ponytail?’

Clara climbed up on the bed in front of Jo and waited for her to start brushing.

‘Of course I’ll do that, Clara. Did you have nice dreams last night?’ Jo asked.

‘I don’t remember,’ Clara said, sitting as still as a statue while Jo brushed her hair. ‘Is today a work day or school day or home day for you?’ Clara asked.

‘It’s a home day. I’m taking some time off from the bar to work on writing some stories.’

Clara’s eyes widened. ‘Writing stories? Like I do in school? But you’re a grown-up.’

‘Grown-ups write stories,’ she said. ‘Lots of them. We make things up and tell stories and then we share our stories with people.’

‘Will you share your stories with me?’ Clara asked, her eyes wide with wonder. ‘You could come to my school and read them to the class. We had a lady come in who read us a story and did all the voices and everything.’

Jo thought of her rather dark crime novel, and just how traumatic it might for a class of six-year-olds to hear her do the voices of some very bad people. ‘Hmmm, the kind of stories I write aren’t really for children. They’re scary stories.’