And afterward, he mentioned to Tracy that he was thinking about a mystery, and she said what a wonderful idea, and pointed out, laughing, that he had been at the center of a mystery of his own, and perhaps he could use his own story as inspiration.
The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes Tracy has definitely hit upon something—what better mystery than the one surrounding the death of Penelope?
It won’t be his story. He will never tell his story entirely, but he can always write it, then change it. Write it as it was, then change the names, change the facts, make sure to disguise it so people don’t know.
He can draw upon his life, write about that unique time in history, the parties, the people, the atmosphere of freedom, of possibility, that has never existed before or since.
He can write about a free-spirited actress, a woman whom everyone adores, who chooses to seduce a scientist, perhaps, a serious, quiet man who falls under her spell, who feels as though he is playing a part in a movie of his own making, until the movie turns dark and he doesn’t know how to get out.
He will change the ending, of course. Not Plum and Ileana, but maybe Vladimir and Alla. Or Marco and Francesca. Or Serge and Jeanne. And it will not be a yacht sailing around the Mediterranean, but possibly a vacation at a villa in the hills above St. Tropez, a vacation where it all goes wrong.
He will write about the mystery of Vladimir/Marco/Serge. How he is a man of significant means, but has come about those means in dubious ways, rumors swirling about larceny, impersonation and deceit.
He loves the idea of writing it under a pseudonym. But not Robert McClore writing as someone else. A true pseudonym, one that will never be linked to him. What a genius idea, what a perfect solution to this book that will otherwise undoubtedly garner huge media attention.
He can also, he supposes, use a ghostwriter, although might the subject matter be too sensitive?
As a writer Robert often puts his own life into his books, often without realizing it—but a ghostwriter? How would he possibly know the details? He would imbue the writing with details of his own, details pulled from his imagination, or from his own life.
Robert could write the storyline, could draft each chapter, describe the characters, and then leave it up to a ghostwriter to fill in the blanks.
He will have to decide which path to choose.
And in the meantime, he will have to give the yoga girl a call. He has met her a few times since the initial book reading, but his physical attraction for her increased enormously during their private lesson.
He keeps thinking of her pert bottom pointing up at the ceiling in Downward Dog, the way her T-shirt fell forward over her breasts, giving him a glimpse of her firm stomach. He shivers. He hasn’t felt such a strong attraction for a woman for a very long time.
How can he possibly let this pass?
Chapter Ten
Kit opens her eyes and looks at the clock: 9:03. A brief moment of panic before she sinks back in the pillows with a smile. Of course. Saturday. The kids are with their dad, and she has the whole weekend to herself. No work, no phone calls, no rushing through breakfast to get the kids on the bus, just hours of wonderful leisurely time to do whatever she chooses.
Right now she chooses to stay in bed, to replay every wonderful second of her date with Steve last night.
He picked her up from home, and she could see from the look in his eyes that her choice of the gauzy navy form-fitting dress was perfect.
They went to the Highfield theater to see the new David Hare play, and shortly after curtain up Kit realized how close the seats were: her leg was pressed up against Steve’s, and there was nowhere to move it to. Suddenly she realized that the buzzing she was feeling, a buzzing that was so loud it was virtually drowning out the voices of the actors on stage, was lust.
It was so strong, it was almost palpable, like a current of electricity running between them; unexpected, entirely new, she spent the entire play lost in fantasies of her and Steve.
When the intermission arrived, she was so embarrassed at what he had been doing to her in her head for the past hour