"Everyone knows Ruby Devereaux's books. But no one knows her story... until now.

From a teenager in wartime England to a veteran of modern-day London – via 1950's New York, the Swinging Sixties, Cold War Berlin, Venice and Vietnam – Ruby Devereaux has lived one hell of a life: parties, scandals and conflict zones, meeting men and adventure along the way. In a writing career spanning seven decades and more than twenty books, she's distilled everything into her work. Or has she?

Now beyond her 90th year, Ruby's energy is ebbing and her beloved typewriter put away. Until a call from her publisher presents Ruby with an ultimatum, and the impetus to embark on one last book – “warts and all”, as she says. Even in her dotage, Ruby M Devereaux has the power to surprise, because whatever this author does, she does on her own terms. Always.

Is Ruby finally about to reveal the secrets of her infamous life?"

Excerpt

With a sense of expectation and a tinge of dread, Marina Keeve opens up her email inbox and sips at the palliative flat white by her side. Thank God the office manager upgraded the coffee machine, she thinks, and not before time. A bitter cappuccino with inordinate amounts of froth just doesn’t cut it when faced with the demands of the British publishing world.

As feared, there’s the one email she hoped might have been cast into cyberspace, marked with a star, as is his habit; Marcus Trent not only thinks himself important, he tells you so. Although she’s alone in her office at Grantham & Harris, Marina looks around her before opening the document tentatively, with a sideswipe of her finger rather than a determined clunk of the key. Experience dictates that with a hornet’s nest it’s wise to tap it gently and stand back for the onslaught.

Marina

Lovely to see you at last week’s launch, and I hope you are well.

Like hell he does.

I wonder, is there any progress on the topic we spoke about briefly? As you can appreciate, the market is terribly tight at present and I’m getting pressure from the board on contracts that are so far unfulfilled. I’m keen to secure a manuscript from Ruby asap, before events overtake us…

Say it, Marcus – before she kicks the bucket. Because that’s what you mean.

It might be the flat white, or the affrontery that she feels on behalf of her oldest client, but Marina reaches for the phone instantly, punching the redial button with irritation. Uncharacteristically, because for those who know her, Marina Keeve is not a particularly forthright woman; she negotiates the publishing arena (gladiatorial often being the correct analogy) with a quiet charm, and – though her modesty means she would never advertise this – she’s well thought of by her clients and publishers alike. People tend to like Marina. Today, though, Marcus may not warm to her. She will not be pushed around, not on the subject of Ruby M Devereaux, easily her trickiest client, but oddly her most favoured, too. Though she might never admit that to anyone, least of all Ruby.

‘Mon courage,’ she mutters. Big girl knickers are in situ.

‘Marcus,’ she trills as he comes on the line, the wheeze of his cigar breath oozing through the receiver.

‘Marina,’ he says flatly.

Battle lines are drawn, clearly.

‘I’ve just opened your email. Regarding Ruby.’

‘Ah, yes. Dear Ruby. Any update on a work in progress?’

‘Not as yet.’ Marina draws in a breath – nerve and a good deal of resolve tucked into her knickers. ‘Marcus, perhaps I don’t need to remind you, since you were present, that our dear Ruby recently celebrated her ninetieth birthday. Her eyesight isn’t good, and she doesn’t get out much. To all intents and purposes, she’s retired.’

‘Has she communicated as much to you?’

‘Well, you know Ruby, she would never admit her writing days are over. Not even to herself, I suspect.’

‘She rather appeared to be all there,’ Marcus says. ‘Am I wrong on that score?’

Hard-hearted bastard.

‘No, Marcus, she is very much “all there”, as you put it. But is Phoenix Publishing really so keen to drag out another manuscript from her? You have plenty of other bestselling authors under your roof, several from this agency I might add.’

This time the cigar fumes are pushed with force down the line, weapons drawn. He intends to smoke her out. ‘Lawyers, Marina. Sadly. A contract is a contract, they say, and you know these bastards, they won’t be stonewalled. Not even by me. The fact is, she owes us a book.’

Lawyers, she thinks. Is he seriously quoting lawyers at me?

‘Liar,’ Marina mutters under her breath.

‘Sorry?’

‘Ah, nothing. I did have lunch with Ruby last week,’ she adds, ‘and I honestly think she’s done, Marcus. I mean, she is still writing – short pieces, the odd article about the old days, but…’

‘So, a memoir then?’ he punts with enthusiasm. With grotesque clarity, Marina pictures him leaning forward with a squeak of the leather under his copious behind, suddenly animated. ‘I think the board would be more than happy with that. She’s had a somewhat colourful life. I’m sure it would sell very well. Sex sells very well right now.’

This time Marina does sigh. Audibly and with the intent that he must register her frustration through the fug of his cigar. ‘Believe me, Marcus, I’ve tried that tack, many times, about a memoir. She won’t be drawn on it. Insists it wouldn’t be of interest to her, or her readers.’

The firm refusal from Marina’s client was actually intoned with far more verve and colour, but that’s Ruby M Devereaux for you – never one word where ten will embroider the point nicely.

‘I think, Marina,’ – and here Marcus pauses, drawing his voice down an octave, from faux friendly to a Mafia-style low growl – ‘that we will have to insist. Or it’s out of my hands and the money-men will come looking for their pennies. In court if they have to.’

Bastard. Marina swallows, bitter spit instead of silky flat white. He’s let the lions loose in the arena. ‘I understand, Marcus. I’ll talk to her again, and we’ll speak soon.’

‘Excellent. I look forward to it.’

No one beyond her office door will hear the frustration Marina takes out on her own desk, because she does it with relative decorum, her hand thudding down on the manuscripts and piles of admin just once, her anguish well controlled behind gritted teeth. How dare he? Fucking dinosaur! Marcus Trent started life as an editor back in the 1970s and still resides there, as far as she can tell.

Publishing is, inevitably, competitive and always has been, but in Marina’s twenty plus years as an agent, a new breed of editors has gradually pushed out the cigar-toting, hard-nosed old guard. The new swathe are resolute and hungry, but younger and seemingly kinder (and dare she say it, but it’s thanks largely to many women who are book-lovers rather than money-rakers). The market still dictates, and there’s no fluffy sentimentality in the world of fiction. But there is compassion, too, and a certain loyalty towards Ruby and her legacy among the writing fraternity. Though not from Marcus, it seems, even if his career has been bolstered nicely by Ruby’s previous offerings to Phoenix, the last five reaching the bestseller lists.

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About the Author

M J Robotham saw herself as an aspiring author from the age of nine, but was waylaid by journalism, birth, children and life. After twenty years as a midwife and an MA in Creative Writing, she is now a full-time author, writing historical fiction as Mandy Robotham. She lives in Gloucestershire with her partner and muse mutt, Basil.