was hardly surprising. Tim sat down at the control desk and it was then that disaster struck. He went to pick up his coffee, but the cup slipped and hot liquid splashed over all the electronics.
Esmerelda’s mike let out the most hideous screech, then crackled and died.
Tim looked as if he was going to be sick and all the colour drained from his face. When he said weakly that he didn’t have a spare, Esmerelda replied graciously, “Don’t worry. I was at drama school before I started writing. I know how to project my voice. I can manage without a mike.”
Although Esmerelda seemed totally cool about it, I thought Viola was going to faint or have a heart attack or both. “No!” she gasped. “No!” The mike’s demise seemed to have tipped her over the edge. “I can’t bear it,” she said in a cracked, despairing voice. “Not after all my hard work. That’s it. I’ve had enough. I give up.” She broke into loud sobs and Tim had to find Sue Woodward, who led her off to lie down in the green room.
Graham and I looked at each other uncomfortably, but we didn’t have time to talk about Viola. Esmerelda’s event was due to begin.
The doors opened, the goths poured in and, after the usual introduction by Nigella Churchill, Esmerelda Desiree started to talk. Once again, I was astounded. The other events I’d seen had been a bit dull, to be honest. Unless you were a mad-keen fan, none of the authors were exactly gripping. Esmerelda Desiree, however, was different. She was electrifying. Mesmerizing. When she read an extract from
The Vampiress of Venezia,
her audience hung on every word. I was spellbound.
Towards the end she asked for questions from the audience. There was the usual sort of stuff: what books did she like reading? Who was her favourite author? How long had it taken her to write the book? Where had she got the idea from? They’d all been asked that one. Katie, Muriel and Francisco had given virtually the same vaguely mystical answer as Charlie Deadlock – that stories just seemed to be Out There Waiting to Find an Author. Esmerelda, on the other hand, was very specific, describing in gripping detail a visit she’d made to Venice and how she’d walked the streets at night thinking up the plot.
Then a girl in a black cape asked if there was going to be a sequel.
Everyone in the room leant forward with eager anticipation.
Esmerelda didn’t answer at once, clearly enjoying the moment. Then she said firmly, “No. I won’t write a sequel.”
A deep, disappointed sigh was expelled from every chest. The breeze rippled Esmerelda’s raven hair.
“My publisher would love me to write another,” she explained, “but I feel the book stands alone. I want to explore other subjects.”
Nigella asked, “Are you working on something now?”
“Yes,” breathed Esmerelda huskily. She cast down her eyes and added mysteriously, “But I’d rather not say what it is. All I will tell you is that it’s a very different novel from
The Vampiress of Venezia
.”
That seemed to bring the event nicely to an end. “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to reading it,” Nigella said smoothly. “Esmerelda Desiree, thank you.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
There was a long, loud, rapturous round of applause, and then Graham and I had to scarper to the book-signing table.
Apart from the hitch with the microphone, Esmerelda’s event had passed entirely without incident. I commented on it to Graham as we walked along the line of goths handing out Post-it notes.
“It may well be because of the increased security measures,” he replied. “The opportunities for an attacker will be extremely limited now.”
“Mmm … maybe. Or it could be because Esmerelda was nice to Max Spectre.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, now we know he talked to the others, too,” I said. “What if he’s been attacking people who won’t help him?”
“Esmerelda Desiree may well be safe if that’s the case,” said
Esmerelda’s mike let out the most hideous screech, then crackled and died.
Tim looked as if he was going to be sick and all the colour drained from his face. When he said weakly that he didn’t have a spare, Esmerelda replied graciously, “Don’t worry. I was at drama school before I started writing. I know how to project my voice. I can manage without a mike.”
Although Esmerelda seemed totally cool about it, I thought Viola was going to faint or have a heart attack or both. “No!” she gasped. “No!” The mike’s demise seemed to have tipped her over the edge. “I can’t bear it,” she said in a cracked, despairing voice. “Not after all my hard work. That’s it. I’ve had enough. I give up.” She broke into loud sobs and Tim had to find Sue Woodward, who led her off to lie down in the green room.
Graham and I looked at each other uncomfortably, but we didn’t have time to talk about Viola. Esmerelda’s event was due to begin.
The doors opened, the goths poured in and, after the usual introduction by Nigella Churchill, Esmerelda Desiree started to talk. Once again, I was astounded. The other events I’d seen had been a bit dull, to be honest. Unless you were a mad-keen fan, none of the authors were exactly gripping. Esmerelda Desiree, however, was different. She was electrifying. Mesmerizing. When she read an extract from
The Vampiress of Venezia,
her audience hung on every word. I was spellbound.
Towards the end she asked for questions from the audience. There was the usual sort of stuff: what books did she like reading? Who was her favourite author? How long had it taken her to write the book? Where had she got the idea from? They’d all been asked that one. Katie, Muriel and Francisco had given virtually the same vaguely mystical answer as Charlie Deadlock – that stories just seemed to be Out There Waiting to Find an Author. Esmerelda, on the other hand, was very specific, describing in gripping detail a visit she’d made to Venice and how she’d walked the streets at night thinking up the plot.
Then a girl in a black cape asked if there was going to be a sequel.
Everyone in the room leant forward with eager anticipation.
Esmerelda didn’t answer at once, clearly enjoying the moment. Then she said firmly, “No. I won’t write a sequel.”
A deep, disappointed sigh was expelled from every chest. The breeze rippled Esmerelda’s raven hair.
“My publisher would love me to write another,” she explained, “but I feel the book stands alone. I want to explore other subjects.”
Nigella asked, “Are you working on something now?”
“Yes,” breathed Esmerelda huskily. She cast down her eyes and added mysteriously, “But I’d rather not say what it is. All I will tell you is that it’s a very different novel from
The Vampiress of Venezia
.”
That seemed to bring the event nicely to an end. “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to reading it,” Nigella said smoothly. “Esmerelda Desiree, thank you.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
There was a long, loud, rapturous round of applause, and then Graham and I had to scarper to the book-signing table.
Apart from the hitch with the microphone, Esmerelda’s event had passed entirely without incident. I commented on it to Graham as we walked along the line of goths handing out Post-it notes.
“It may well be because of the increased security measures,” he replied. “The opportunities for an attacker will be extremely limited now.”
“Mmm … maybe. Or it could be because Esmerelda was nice to Max Spectre.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, now we know he talked to the others, too,” I said. “What if he’s been attacking people who won’t help him?”
“Esmerelda Desiree may well be safe if that’s the case,” said
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