Jo took his hand and squeezed it. ‘We’re still here and still breathing,’ she said.
‘And the sun still comes up each morning,’ he added. ‘And good things happen to good people. Things like agents sending emails…’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘How do you know that?’ she asked him and he laughed.
‘I’m new to this place and I seem to know more about it than you do,’ he said. ‘There are few things which remain secret on Ivy Lane. Especially not with Harry’s special powers to make people tell him all the gossip. It’s like a Jedi mind trick or something. Except for pensioners.’
Jo laughed, and told him in quite a brief manner about what was going on. The truth was, even though she knew she could trust Lorcan implicitly now she didn’t want to tell him about Ewan. She didn’t want to risk some sort of weird ‘I told you so’ moment detracting anything from the time they had spent together.
Plus, if she was honest with herself she was utterly, completely emotionally worn out.
So, with their coffee cups now empty, and Jo not able to face another coffee hit, caffeinated or not, she told Lorcan that she should probably be going home.
‘Oh, okay,’ he said. ‘I thought you still might want to hear why I was strange about you going away with Ewan McLachlan. Because I really do want to be honest with you about that.’
‘God, don’t worry about it,’ she said, her stomach tightening.
‘We’ve been so open with each other today, I don’t want anything negative hanging over us. And I do think this is something you need to know,’ he said and his light and jokey manner was gone, replaced by something much more serious. ‘I’m only sorry I didn’t have the guts to tell you before you left.’
31
The Wolf of Wall Street
‘Remember when I said I worked in IT, but it was kind of a Chandler Bing thing? That people got really bored when I started to explain my job?’ Lorcan asked.
Jo nodded.
‘Well, part of my job – a small part of my job – can be tracing digital histories of people. It could be people who are applying for a job. Sometimes it’s police work. Sometimes it’s private work. It’s not anything dodgy or illegal, just creating a picture of what someone’s online life looks like. As well as someone’s public profile, I can find different accounts coming from the same IP address, trace patterns of use, et cetera. It’s all very nerdy, but I enjoy it.’
Jo wasn’t at all sure where this was going, but she didn’t think it would be anywhere good. She waited for Lorcan to continue.
‘So, Ewan McLachlan is fairly active online – on social media. And, to observers, he seems like a really nice chap. Kind, you know. Helping other writers – just how he helped you. But that’s not the full story. A couple of years ago, we were approached by a private investigator to try and find any online evidence that McLachlan wasn’t exactly Ronseal solid.’
‘Ronseal solid?’ Jo asked, the expression new to her.
‘Not as advertised,’ Lorcan said. ‘You know, like the ad on the TV for Ronseal. They seemed to believe he didn’t exactly offer what it said on the tin, if you get my meaning.’
Jo thought she did, but, to be honest, she wasn’t entirely sure. ‘So what did you find out? Oh God, don’t tell me he’s some sort of predator?’
‘Oh God, no!’ Lorcan said. ‘Well, not in a sexual way. He does indeed seem to be a fairly likeable fellah. What he isn’t, however, is particularly original.’
‘What?’ Jo asked, now completely baffled. She wished Lorcan would just zoom straight past go and get to the punchline.
Lorcan shifted in his seat. The bookshop was busy now with lunchtime browsers, and people looking to enjoy a coffee. ‘Actually,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s not such a good idea to talk about this here?’
God, it must be something really serious. Jo was about to suggest they went for a walk, but when she looked out the window the bright morning had turned to a grey and very wet afternoon.
‘Hang on,’ she said, no longer eager to stall this conversation and go home. ‘I’ll ask Libby for the key to the flat and we can talk there.’
Lorcan nodded and Jo stood up without speaking, walked to the counter and mumbled something fairly garbled at Libby, but which amounted to, ‘Let me have your key now because there is gossip.’
Libby reached under the counter for her keys and handed them over with a wink. ‘Now, you two behave yourselves. I know kiss and make up is the usual way these things go, but try and limit the kissing maybe. Or at least be careful if it goes further than that!’
Jo’s face glowed red. ‘No! No, God, no. It’s nothing like that,’ she stuttered. ‘He wants to tell me something about Ewan McLachlan.’
A middle-aged man who stood waiting to pay for some books, sniffed. ‘Is this about his big fallout with his agent?’
Both Jo and Libby looked directly at the man, who was scrolling through his phone.
‘What?’ Libby asked.
‘It’s been all over social media this morning. Do you not have Twitter?’ he asked them, aghast at the notion they weren’t plugged into social media like all other people of their age.
‘I’ve been busy,’ Libby mumbled, while Jo just stood there open-mouthed. The big meeting with Graham Westbury and his editor in London clearly hadn’t gone well.
‘You need to check it out,’ the man said, flashing his phone screen in their direction. ‘There’s all sorts of chat. All sorts of rumours.’
Libby coloured. ‘Oh God, and he was just here… and Jo….’
Jo looked to where Lorcan was standing by the door. He too was scrolling through his phone, and she watched as his eyes widened and he looked directly at her. She grabbed the key from Libby and bolted for the door. As she left the bookshop, she heard Libby swear, loudly.
Upstairs, Jo sat on the sofa in Libby’s flat and tried to make sense of the Twitter storm that filled her timeline. The Westbury Agency had tweeted a press release to say that Ewan McLachlan would, with immediate effect, no longer be represented by them.
The screen blurred in front of Jo’s eyes as she searched for his name, and found two trending hashtags #McLachlanCopiedMyHomework and #CheaterMcLachlan.
A series of accounts, some anonymous and some from respected people within the industry, detailed allegations that Ewan McLachlan had plagiarised some of the McCreadie books. Not only that, he had ‘borrowed’ some of the plots he had become most famous for from other, unpublished, writers.
Writers he had mentored.
‘I’m guessing all this relates to what you were going to tell me?’ Jo said, looking at Lorcan, her stomach churning.
He nodded. ‘But I promise you, I have nothing to do with those tweets or any of this. I haven’t set him up or anything.’
‘I didn’t think you had,’ Jo said. ‘But you know stuff? Yes?’
‘It was a few years ago, maybe three or four, there seemed to be some sort of ruckus online. Some veiled suggestions that his latest book wasn’t entirely his own work. It was hard to wade through. It was nowhere near this level,’ he admitted, looking uncomfortable.