Wild Fiction

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The author put his hands up in the air. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wanted to create you as an independently strong and wilful character. Without putting those obstacles in your way you wouldn’t have developed and shown us what you were made of.’
Rebecca squirmed a little in the chair she was sitting in and rubbed the palm of her hand. ‘You’re not going to knock me out again, are you? Inject me with a tranquilliser like that doctor did?’
‘I promise,’ the author smiled. Her shoulders relaxed and the wrinkles disappeared from her forehead.
‘Anyway, we need your feminine input. You may spot something that we would miss.’
‘Okay,’ she said.
13
Rebecca’s fears about the house were unfounded. It was not dark and gloomy like the basement but instead it was light and warm with wood panelled floors and large bay windows. The fictionals moved purposefully around the house looking like professional detectives. It was easy to bluff the author.
Rebecca went into the bathroom and opened the cabinet. A full Clarins beauty regime, with products for every conceivable part of the body, took up the entire top and middle shelves. The bottom shelf contained an assortment of painkillers, the remnants of a bag of cotton wool and the obligatory box of tampons. Squeezed into a corner on the bottom shelf was a MACH3 Gillette razor and a small can of Gillette shaving gel.

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