conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Kenya, Star, Nkrumah with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Darkest Secret'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Darkest Secret
  In the UK, at Sphere: Cath Burke, whose talent for cat-herding and clever adjustments is unsurpassed, Thalia Proctor, Hannah Wood, Emma Williams, Kirsteen Astor. And also Linda McQueen. This probably isn't something that's often said by writers, but I've never had copy edits that actually made me laugh out loud before.
  In the US, at Penguin: Emily Murdock Baker and Angie Messina, who have not only made an art form of guiding and supporting a foreigner through the mystical realm (and the things Americans would notice that Brits just wouldn't), but who are also splendid, talented and thoroughly stand-up individuals.
  Mum and Bunny, Will, Cathy, Ali, David, Elinor, Tora, Archie and Geordie, who are the light of my life.
  Enid Shelmerdine, Valerie Laws and Angela Collings for the illuminating discussions on you-know-what. I hope you like what eventually came out at the other end!
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I put the car back into gear and we trickle on round another corner. And there's Sean Jackson's final achievement: Blackheath House. A country house turned, with his ineffable eye, into a country house hotel. A Queen Anne house that looks spray-blasted and painted and pointed, the roof tiles in perfect rows and the balustrade along the first-floor platform where the front door lets out replaced at an expense that normally belongs in the Hollywood hills. It's as old as the trees around it, this house, but Sean has stripped it of its antiquity and made it horribly, painfully perfect. Even if I'd not known whose house it was, I would have recognised his hand the moment I saw it. Everything gleams, the way it does at Disneyland.
  A collection of cars sits on the gravel sweep below the front door. Two Mercedes, a Bentley and a Range Rover, and a V-reg Ford Fiesta with the front wing bashed in, scattered like Tonka toys discarded by a careless child. The Clutterbucks are by their big shiny car, which I notice has rental plates – keeping up appearances as they come back to the country – unloading a huge, ugly bouquet of flowers from the back seat.
  I pull in at the edge of a swath of lawn that has either been kept with love for four hundred years or was laid last autumn. I'd hazard the second. We step out. The house is silent. No one has come out to see us arrive, to enfold us in the family bosom.
  He feigns a jump of surprise, as though he hasn't noticed me approach. It must be a politician thing; I'm sure I've seen Boris and Dave and even John Prescott pull the same pantomime. You're insignificant, it says, you matter so little I'm surprised you're even addressing me; but it does so in a way that you can't pin on them, because the surprise, you never know, might be genuine.
  Imogen stands back by the suitcases, her eyes running up and down my body, working out if I'm worth acknowledging. She was always like that. Only ever spoke to me when I was in my father's company. After all, back in those days I didn't even have a vote to offer. Can't think why I didn't realise it before, but she's a big old Dependent, is Imogen. Can't do a thing without the Great God Charlie's approval. That's why they've stayed married so long, of course. Only a big old Dependent would see life with Charlie Clutterbuck as preferable to life in a gutter.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' Caresses her cheek, gently.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Ruby grizzles and tries to push her away. She lifts the little girl up to a sitting position, puts a hand behind her back. 'It's all right,' she soothes. 'Come on, darling, just a little drink.'
  Ruby doesn't even open her eyes as the glass touches her lips; just lets the liquid into her mouth and gulps until half of it has gone. Curls straight back up and is asleep again the moment she does so.
  She crawls up to the other end of the bed, wakes Coco. I'm sorry, she says, inside her head. Sorry, little girls. But you're making him so very, very unhappy. You won't even know about it. Just drift away and never wake up, and then he will be free. Nothing to tie him to her then. He said so. If it weren't for you...
  Coco is easier. She doesn't even protest, just squeezes her eyes shut tighter as she takes the syrup into her mouth. Simone lays her back down and looks for a moment. Caresses her cheek, gently.