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Novelo Rectangle

The Hub rose above the Royal Mile like a dark spire against the evening sky, its tall, Gothic tower catching the last gleam of daylight. Inside, the atmosphere was bright and bustling, the old church interior transformed into a modern cultural venue. Warm pools of light spilled across the flagstone floor, glinting off polished wood and stone arches. Frank and Lucinda edged their way into the main hall. A low hum of conversation mingled with the occasional burst of laughter as people queued for the signing. “Blimey, she’s a popular writer,” Frank said, glancing around at the packed aisles. The air smelled faintly of coffee from a makeshift café near the entrance. The vaulted ceiling seemed to amplify every rustle of paper and scrape of chairs. Somewhere behind the crowd, a string quartet was playing something soft and unobtrusive, as if to remind everyone that The Hub was, after all, a place for culture.&nbsp; “Look, Frank, I feel awful for misjudging your sister. I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was an author—I thought history was just a hobby for her.” “And I didn’t know you knew a famous novelist. I bet Gillian wishes she could sell as many books as Marianne does. Look—there’s media coverage. See how she’s surrounded by lights and cameras? I didn’t realise she was that newsworthy.” “When she texted me, she said she was going to make an important announcement. I can’t imagine what it’s all about. The media must have some idea, though.” Gillian steadied herself by putting her hand on Frank’s shoulder as she stood on tiptoe to see above the crowd. To no effect. The queue slowly moved forward. Reporters mingled with the crowd, interviewing readers—some clutching copies of the book, others still making their way to the sales table. One reporter approached Lucinda, asking why she liked the book and a little about herself. When she said her name, he suddenly lit up with excitement. The queue edged forward again, and Lucinda was finally able to get to the pop-up bookshop. Tables were crowded with neat stacks of hardbacks and promotional displays. “Wasn’t expecting a queue like this,” she said to the sales assistant as she picked up her books. “No, I’ve never known a book launch this popular,” the assistant replied. “She’s supposed to be making an announcement. Do you know what it’s about?” “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to say.” What she really meant was, ‘I haven’t a clue either.’ “I think she’s going to get married,” said the woman in front of Lucinda, turning to spread the gossip. “Oh—do you really think so?” A camera crew made its way along the queue. They stopped in front of Lucinda. “What are you going to say when you meet her?” The reporter, whose name badge read Margery, thrust the microphone toward her. “I suppose I’ll say, ‘Hi Marianne, I’m your greatest fan.’ I have been since her very first book.” Lucinda focused her eyes away from the microphone and into the reporter’s face. “Really? And which is your favourite book?” “That’s a difficult one—they’re all good. But if I’m honest, I’d have to say the one about College Fields. I sent her my painting of the monks ploughing the field the other day, and she wrote back saying she’d treasure it, and would try to get them to include it in the reprint.” “That’s quite an achievement. That book was first published eight years ago—when did you paint it?” “Oh, just a few months after buying the book. But it was Frank’s sister who suggested I send it to her.” “Oh, are you Frank?” The reporter turned the microphone toward him. “Yes.” “Are you a fan of Marianne as well?” “My mother is. We’re trying to persuade my sister to take up novel writing.” “Is your sister any good?” “Well… not as good as Marianne. She writes non-fiction.” “What’s her name?” “Gillian Sutton.” The reporter gasped. “Oh my God… err… erm… I’ve just read her book on the Market Drayton Buttercross! It’s packed with interesting facts.” Margery regained her composure and added, “And what about Marianne. Have you met her?” “No. A famous author like her wouldn’t rub shoulders with the likes of me.” “So let me get this straight. You’re Lucinda—Marianne’s biggest fan, but you’ve never met her. And you’re Frank Sutton—brother of Gillian—and you don’t think your sister could write a book like Marianne.” As the interview wrapped up, her producer came forward. “Nice one, Margery,” he said, then turned to Lucinda and Frank. “I’ve been asked to bring you to the front of the queue.” They exchanged confused glances but followed him. “Gillian! What are you doing here?” Lucinda was astonished to see Frank’s sister waiting near the signing table. But before she could say more, Ian, Marianne’s agent, stepped up and gestured toward Lucinda. “Ladies and gentlemen! May I introduce Lucinda Jackson—Marianne Maclauren’s greatest fan!” A round of applause rippled through as Gillian stepped closer to Lucinda and Frank. “Lucinda,” Ian continued, holding out the microphone, “you’ve followed Marianne since her very first book. What is it that you like about her work?” “Oh, she tells a wonderful story and brings history alive.” “And you’ve never met her?” “No.” “Not even accidentally in a supermarket?” “What? No!” “And Frank—your sister is Gillian Sutton, the writer of historical non-fiction. How do you think her work compares to Marianne’s?” “They write in totally different genres, so it’s hard to compare. But clearly, Marianne sells more books, so she must be better.” “And do you know who Marianne is?” “No.” “You’ve never met her?” “No. Of course not.” “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ian said, “Frank is right. Marianne writes fiction. Gillian writes nonfiction. I am the literary agent for both. Frank, may I introduce you to Marianne Maclauren.” Gillian stepped forward. “Hello Frankie. I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Marianne Maclauren.” She gave Frank a kiss on his check and giggled when she saw the confusion in his eyes. Gillian took the microphone. “Thank you, Ian. My real name is Gillian Sutton, Frank’s sister. I write nonfiction history books. But I also write historical novels under the pen name Marianne Maclauren.” She turned to Lucinda. “I’ve been corresponding with Lucinda for about eight years, but never met her in person—until just a few days ago. And I wasn’t meeting my biggest fan—I was meeting my brother’s girlfriend. I can no longer keep it a secret: Marianne Maclauren and Gillian Sutton are the same person. “The reason for the pseudonym is simple. When I write as Gillian Sutton, I want readers to know my work is factual and backed by careful research. When I write as Marianne, it’s fiction based on truth. Ian—my agent—has encouraged me to keep writing under both names.” Laughter rippled through the hall. Someone clapped. Then, as Gillian—Marianne hugged Lucinda, the room burst into full applause. Back at the Tern Inn, the regulars could hardly believe what they were seeing on the television news. The girl who served them beer each night? They never guessed that Gillian Sutton was living a secret life.&nbsp;

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The Secret Life of Gillian Sutton

AstroGeoffrey

Dryfe Publications

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Geoffrey Hugh Lindop

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