Fletcher supposed that was right. He couldn’t expect Jackson to have the ability to put words down on paper. Not everyone found that as easy as he did.
“Okay. So what’s the craic? Do you have a publisher? Upfront fee to produce?”
“No.” Jackson pointed at him. “That’s your part. You find the publisher. You write the book. With my input, of course. Free rein as much as I will allow. You do you. You write your opinion. Of me. Of what happened to me. You spend some time getting to know me, I’ll tell you my story, you write it. Then you pitch it to the highest bidder.”
“And what story are we talking?”
“All of it.” Jackson’s unyielding blue stare bore right through Fletcher across the table, not faltering, not wavering, just fixed in on him as though he were the only man in the room.
Whilst Jackson Young could make folk feel insignificant, he could also magnify them.
“And, what, we do a royalty share?” Fletcher maintained his distance, reaching into his satchel to pull out his notebook and pen, giving himself a barrier from penetrating and despondent eyes.
“Nope.”
“Sorry, fella, but I’m not doing this with no upfront fee nor any royalty share. This is my time, my effort. Just having my name on your book won’t pay the bills.” Nor would Heston go for it. Fletcher needed to bring money in. He couldn’t sponge off his boyfriend forever. Their relationship might have started that way, but Fletcher was hellbent on making it as real and fair as it should be. And writing a book of this magnitude wasn’t going to be a quick slap it out on a keyboard overnight like his gossip column was.
“You Irish all as thick as shit?”
“Feck off.” Fletcher finished the dregs in his mug and slammed it onto the table, resisting the urge to throw it across. “I don’t want any misunderstandings, y’know. ‘Cause that can backfire. Surely you know that, right?”
He shouldn’t have felt guilt at the jolt of Jackson’s response. But for some reason there was a rapid tightness closing in around him at the blood draining from the man’s already pale features. It gave Fletcher a moment of pause. To look at him. To really look at him.
Maybe if they’d been friends, or if Fletcher had at least known him personally before the incarceration, he might have picked up on the change in Jackson’s appearance. Maybe his prominent cheekbones were a wee gaunter, emaciated, haggard even. And those blue eyes that had once shone from the screen to capture the hearts of the nation, were a touch greyer, less vivid, filling up with regret and framed by dark circles to suggest a night’s kip was a distant memory.
But they weren’t friends.
So he didn’t mention it.
“You take all royalties,” Jackson said, voice solid so as not to suggest anything other than the words spoken.
“Say that again?”
“I don’t want any royalties. I’m not doing this for money. You take it all. It’s your book, your work.”
“So why do you want this?”
Jackson’s confidence diminished and he sank lower, his shoulders slumping and scratching the plastic tablecloth. When he looked up, he captured Fletcher’s gaze and his chest rose when he said, “To get my name back.”
Fletcher fell against the seat, giving him a moment to stare this one out. To see if this was a game. To see if there was anything he was missing here. Because when things sound too good to be true, they often are. All royalties? Doing the maths on that would make his head hurt. But working out a brief, say, forty-sixty share in a real, top quality publishing house, which he could probably argue to a fifty-fifty, that would still equal a sum that he couldn’t turn his nose up at.
He could pay for a share in the mortgage. That holiday. The wedding. An illegal one, but a wedding that would prove to Heston they had something real, nonetheless.
“What’s the catch?” he had to ask, because, well, he had to.
“No catch.”
“Who else have you asked?”
There was that annoying, condescending smirk. “I was released from prison at seven a.m. this morning. It’s now near two. How many other people do you think it’s possible to visit in that short space of time?”
All Fletcher could do was shrug. Which he knew would come across as flippant, as brazen, as heartless to know that he was the first person Jackson had sought after being released from Flaymore. Scrubbing his chin, he tried to compose his thoughts into some sort of order and not the bundle of what-the-feck that swam around and drowned his rationale.
“And I thought you’d jump at the chance.” Jackson widened his eyes. “If you’re not interested, I can go ask someone—”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.” Had he? “I just need time to think about it.”
“What’s to think about? This is an opportunity for you. This could bring you millions.”
“Maybe.” Fletcher shrugged. “Maybe not. I mean, you’re not exactly celeb number one anymore. Not after…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Not that Jackson looked remotely perturbed by the reminder of what had nudged him off the top spot. But if Fletcher took this deal, it was saying that he was in camp Jackson. He had to think about that. He had to think about the ramifications of ignoring the victim and giving the…suspect a voice and what that would mean for his career after the book was out.
“And?”
“It might mean your marketability just went down a notch.” That was a better reason than saying he was concerned about the backlash from the Tallulah Payne side.
“Do you know what the number fifteenth most-bought autobiography of all time is?” Jackson prodded the table with a thud that would have hurt his fingertip. “Hitler.”
“How do you even know that?”
“You have a lot of time in prison,” he said with inflected bitterness.
Fletcher folded his arms, flicking out one finger to count off. “One, I’m a little concerned right now that you used Hitler as your defence. Especially if you’re trying to convince me that you’re an innocent party here.”
“It was a point made.”
“Fair enough. But two, this is a major piece of work and you’ve just asked a fella who trashes people like you for a living.”
“Like I said, maybe you’ll think differently of me. Maybe you won’t. The main thing to take here is that I’m innocent. And if you want to know the truth, write my book. If you’re not going to, then I’ll save the revelations for someone who will.” Jackson stood, snatching his motorbike helmet from beneath the table. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide.”
A sudden panic that his golden ticket was flying out of the door, Fletcher had to think on his feet. “How do I get in touch with you?”
“I’ll find you.” And just like that, Jackson walked out.
chapter seven
Facing the Past
Fletcher couldn’t concentrate on work after that. Or anything else for that matter. Luckily, his job wasn’t particularly taxing, and there had been enough celebrity gaffs and kiss-and-tells popping into his inbox to produce his column for the next couple of days. He’d even taken to writing up the piece on Lily and the undisclosed footballer to fill a bit of space should they need it.