Shadows Over Paradise Read Online Free Page A

rested my fork. “But I didn’t enjoy it.”
    “Why not?” asked Al, who was on my left.
    “It was too frustrating,” I answered, “having to battle with my subjects’ egos, or finding that they didn’t turn up for the interviews; or that they’d give me some brilliant material, then the next day tell me that I wasn’t to use it. So these days I only do the projects that interest me.”
    Honor, who has a butterfly mind, was now discussing ghosts of the other kind. “I’m
sure
they exist,” she said to Vincent Tregear. “Twenty years ago I was staying with my cousins in France; it was a warm, still day, just like today, and we were exploring this abandoned house. It was a ruin, so we could see right up to the roof. And we
both
heard footsteps, right above us, on the nonexistent floorboards.” She gave an extravagant shudder. “I’ve never forgotten it.”
    “
I
believe in ghosts,” Carolyn remarked. “I live on my own, in an old house, and at times I’ve been aware of this … presence.”
    Amy nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve sometimes felt a sudden chill.” She turned to Sean. “Do you remember, darling, last summer? When we were in Wales?”
    “I do,” he answered. “Though I believe it was because you were pregnant.”
    “No—pregnancy made me feel hot, not cold.”
    “A few years ago,” said Al, “I was asleep in my flat, alone, when I suddenly woke up, convinced that someone was sitting on my bed.”
    I shivered at the idea. “And you weren’t dreaming?”
    He shook his head. “I was wide awake. I can still remember the weight of it, pressing down on the mattress. Yet there was no one there.”
    “How terrifying,” I murmured.
    “It was.” He poured me some water, then filled his own glass. “Has anything like that ever happened to you?”
    “It hasn’t, I’m glad to say. But I don’t dismiss other people’s experiences.”
    “I’ve always been skeptical about these things,” Sean observed. “I believe that if people are sufficiently on edge, they can see things that aren’t really there. Like Macbeth seeing the ghost of Banquo.”
    “Shake not thy gory locks at me!” intoned Honor, then giggled. “And Macbeth certainly is on edge by then, isn’t he, having murdered—what—four people?” Then she went off on some conversational tangent about why it was considered unlucky for actors to say “Macbeth” inside a theater. “People think it’s because of the evil in the story,” she prattled away as a waiter took her plate. “But it’s actually because if a play wasn’t selling well, the actors would have to quickly rehearse
Macbeth
, as that’s always popular, so doing
Macbeth
became associated with ill luck. Now, what are we having next?” She picked up a goldtasseled menu. “Sea bass—yum. Did you know that sea bass are hermaphrodites? The males become females at six months.”
    Al, clearly uninterested in the gender-switching tendenciesof our main course, turned to me. “So what sort of books do you write?”
    “A real mix,” I answered. “Psychology, health, and popular culture; I’ve done a diet book, and a couple of gardening books …”
    I thought of my titles, more than twenty of them, lined up on the shelf in my study.
    “So you must learn a huge amount about all these things,” Al said.
    “I do. It’s one of the perks.”
    Carolyn sipped her wine. “But do you get any kind of credit?”
    “No.”
    “I thought that with ghostwritten books it usually said ‘with so-and-so’ or ‘as told to.’ ”
    “It depends,” I said. “Some ghostwriters ask for that. I don’t.”
    “So your name appears nowhere?”
    “That’s right.”
    She frowned. “Don’t you mind?”
    I shrugged. “Anonymity’s part of the deal. And of course the clients like it that way. They’d prefer everyone to think they’d written the book all by themselves.”
    Carolyn laughed. “I couldn’t
bear
not to have any of the glory. If I’d worked that