Lady of the Shades by Darren Shan

Both editors claim to be fans of my previous work, are intrigued by the plot of the new book and want to see more. I had American editors on my other
books, but Jonathan thinks I should go with a Brit this time, seeing as how the story is set in London. He claps my back just before we part, tells me this could be the start of something big, then
heads for the airport to catch a flight to France, leaving me behind to dream.
    I spend the next week coming up with characters and exploring plot angles. I try not to think about Andeanna, but it’s hard. I can forget her for brief spells but she’s never far
from my thoughts. All it takes is a moment of quiet reflection or a glimpse of an attractive woman and I’m off, recalling the lines of her face, the curves of her body, the sparkle of her
eyes. I wish I wasn’t this weak, this open, but it’s an old flaw of mine.
    Joe thinks I should call her. I told him the truth a few days ago, though I didn’t mention that she was married to a gangster. At first he agreed that I’d done the right thing giving
her the elbow, but now he’s not sure. He says I’m tearing myself apart agonizing over her.
    I think about phoning her, but I don’t know how to start the conversation.
    ‘Hi, Andeanna, how’s the Turk?’
    ‘Hi, Andeanna, or is it Deleena today?’
    ‘Hello, Mrs Menderes, this is the man whose heart you broke.’
    Forget it!
    To distract myself, I concentrate on
Spirit of the Fire
(I’ve decided on the title), and jot down descriptive paragraphs of what the characters look like. I also start seriously
mapping out the parts of London that I plan to use in the book. I wander the metropolis, notebook in hand, searching for creepy buildings and alleys. At first I explored by day, but I’ve
switched to nights. My ghost should be a creature of the darkness, only able to brave the streets when the sun goes down. More atmospheric that way.
    Because I’m out late and sleeping in, I skip the first two calls on Wednesday. I wake when the phone rings, but ignore it, and only answer shortly after midday when it rings for the third
time.
    ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Jonathan roars.
    ‘Sleeping,’ I yawn.
    ‘I’ve been ringing all morning,’ he exaggerates.
    ‘Sorry. I was dead to the world. Didn’t hear.’
    ‘You’ve got a great life,’ he grumbles. Then adds brightly, ‘Guess what I just sold?’
    ‘Not
Spirit of the Fire
?’ I snap, coming fully awake.
    ‘Bet your skinny sleeping ass I have,’ he laughs. ‘Even on holiday, basking by a swimming pool in southern France, I push deals through for my ungrateful stable of would-be
superstars.’
    One of the editors phoned him yesterday with an offer. Jonathan batted terms back and forth, and this morning a deal was agreed subject to my approval, the first time a book of mine has been
bought on the strength of a synopsis.
    I tell Jonathan he’s the world’s best agent and promise to treat him to dinner in a restaurant of his choice the next time we meet. As soon as I’m off the phone, I punch the
air with delight and grin stupidly. Then I call Joe to share the news. I get his voicemail, which frustrates me. I try leaving a message, but the words mix awkwardly on my tongue and I wind up
mumbling something incoherent.
    I stand in the middle of the room, mind whirling, then sit down, breathe deeply and wonder who else I could call — I
have
to share the news. Forgetting all of my anger and
suspicion, I dial the number of the one person apart from Joe who might care. It rings on and on. I’m about to hang up when suddenly there’s an answer. ‘Hello?’
Her
voice, hesitant, maybe scared, as if she thinks I might be calling to curse her out.
    My mouth goes dry. ‘Delee– I mean, Andeanna? It’s me. Ed.’
    There’s a long silence. I feel my heart tightening. I think something in it will fade away for ever if she hangs up or cuts me dead with a withering wisecrack.
    ‘Ed,’ she finally