Amy Perry's Assumptions, page 25
She said goodbye to Ken and rang off, then looked up, feeling Sam’s eyes on her. ‘Gran’s operation is done,’ she said. ‘Mr B says everything went fine.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said, sincerely, then looked away from her. ‘That’s very good news.’
‘Sam—’ Amy began, not really knowing where she was going with her sentence. At the same time, he blurted, ‘At least let me help you look for Bertie—’
Then her phone rang again. She jumped in alarm. Had Grace taken a bad turn? When she pulled the handset out of her pocket, though, she saw it was Nisha calling. That was weird – she was very much a WhatsApp or text message sort of person.
‘Nish,’ Amy said, ‘is everything OK?’
‘I have Bertie here!’ she cried. ‘I saw him trotting down the high street in the rain, poor little love. I’ve got him in the back of the shop. He’s wrapped up in a towel with a packet of ham slices, happy as Larry.’
‘Of course he is,’ Amy said, furious with him but intensely grateful for her good fortune, for the second time in as many minutes. ‘He slipped his harness in the wood,’ she explained. ‘I’ll be right there, just hang onto him.’
‘Will do,’ Nisha said cheerfully.
‘You’re amazing,’ Amy said into the phone, ‘a lifesaver. See you soon.’
‘Bertie’s OK as well?’ Sam asked as Amy shoved her phone back into her bag.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘At the shop. Gorging himself on Nisha’s stock, no less.’
‘Good. That’s a relief, too.’
‘Sam—’ she tried again, but he held a hand up to stop her.
‘I think you’ve probably said enough, Amy. Don’t try to backpedal now, I’ll know you don’t mean it. Go and fetch Bertie, get those wounds cleaned up, and then go and see Grace. Please give her my love.’
Amy nodded, mute but tearful again at the sound of that word in his mouth. ‘I will.’
‘Thanks. I suppose I’ll speak to you at some point on Monday, then. About work, of course.’
He turned and walked away, straightening his back and squaring his broad, sodden shoulders in the returning sunlight, now sliding serenely through fluffy white clouds. The gesture went straight to Amy’s heart.
Chapter 22
As it turned out, Amy didn’t speak to Sam on Monday. Or Tuesday, or Wednesday. In fact, it had now been more than a week since their row in the wood and she’d heard nothing from him.
Despite watching her phone and email inbox almost constantly, all she’d received were a few RomFest messages in CC – stuff he was copying her in on for the sake of completeness, and none of which addressed her directly.
She should feel happy about this. After all, he was doing precisely as she’d asked and restricting contact with her to what was professional and necessary. In reality, she felt edgy and bereft.
Grace, who was now home and recovering well from her hip replacement operation, had asked Amy repeatedly what was wrong. She was visibly glum, and knew her grandmother was worried, but what could she say? ‘I’ve had a massive argument with someone I always argue with, so in theory I ought to be fine – but actually, I feel like I want to cry, sink my head into a vat of wine and eat all the chocolate I can lay my hands on. Not necessarily in that order.’
No. Any explanation of her mood that was even half true would only lead to more questions – none of which Amy was keen to answer. Instead of admitting to her confrontation with Sam, or to the fact that she missed speaking to him, she mumbled some vague nonsense about work stress and changed the subject each time Grace checked in on her. The routine was already wearing thin.
On Friday afternoon, Amy took the train into Birmingham for lunch with Philippa Fotheringham. In theory, their date was in celebration of the Love to Hate You manuscript being fully signed off and almost ready for readers to enjoy – but it was fair to say that Amy, despite the professional success this new novel represented for her, was not in a triumphant mood.
When she arrived at Russo’s, the small but five star-reviewed restaurant they’d chosen for their meet-up, Amy saw that – like last time they’d got together for a meal – Philippa was already there. The woman was early for everything, which made perfect sense given all that Amy had learned about her since April. Like Carolyn, Philippa was the sort of person who wouldn’t ever be caught on the back foot. Today, as always, her ultra-feminine exterior belied the ferocious businesswoman within. She was dressed in a frothy pink maxi dress that reminded Amy of the stuff other girls her age used to dress Barbie dolls in. Philippa’s hair was freshly coloured and professionally styled – a voluminous, ashy blonde tumble of shiny waves that made Amy’s inky, somewhat grown-out bob feel very drab by comparison.
‘Bloody hell, bab,’ Philippa said as Amy pulled up a chair and poured herself a cool glass of water. ‘You look like you’ve lost a tenner and found a parking ticket. What’s up?’
Amy was dismayed. She’d done her best to look cheerful even though she didn’t feel it, donning a cherry-red, 1950s-style cotton dress with a sweetheart neckline plus matching wedge sandals. She ought to have known better, though; she’d come to understand that one of the reasons why Philippa wrote so well was her rare ability to read people, effortlessly and accurately. She understood what made others tick, which helped immensely when it came to crafting believable characters and the relationships between them – but God, was her talent inconvenient right now.
Amy sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Philippa … Please don’t be concerned that I’m in any way unhappy with Love to Hate You, or worried it won’t be a massive success – because it certainly will be. I just have a few personal things on my mind at the moment. But this lunch isn’t about me, so let’s not even go there – shall we order some fizz?’
‘Oh, there’s already some on the way,’ Philippa said, grinning wickedly. Amy smiled and laughed for the first time since last week. At that moment, a smartly dressed waiter appeared with a bottle of Taittinger in an ice bucket, plus two cut-glass coupes.
When they’d both been poured a glass of champagne and enjoyed their first sips, Philippa said: ‘I’m very much looking forward to your romance festival – are you and that strapping young lad all done now with the organisation?’
Amy took another gulp of her drink. ‘Er – getting there, yes,’ she said, trying to keep her face neutral.
‘Honestly,’ Philippa went on as she tore into a piece of the ciabatta the waiter had just delivered, then dunked it in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. ‘He’s a proper dish, isn’t he? Looks like someone I’d make up for one of my historical romances.’
Amy could feel heat creeping up her spine and the sides of her neck. ‘Er … sure. Yeah. I guess so.’
Philippa’s carefully pencilled eyebrows shot up, though not very far. Amy detected very subtle Botox at work.
‘Ah,’ Philippa said, ‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’ Amy asked, willing her face to assume innocence and not flush the same colour as her dress.
‘I see we have one of my favourite romantic tropes coming to life in front of our very eyes,’ Philippa said, her voice thick with glee. ‘Correct me if I get any of this wrong, won’t you – but as I understand it, you know this man from childhood, you didn’t get on well as kids and there’s been some disagreement since you’ve been back living in that lovely little village of yours.
‘Now, however, you’ve been forced to work together on this project and you’ve discovered that despite all the bickering, you can’t stop thinking about him. Don’t deny it,’ she said, flapping her diamond-encrusted hand dismissively. ‘I saw the way you looked at one another during that meeting I was in a few weeks ago. And now here you are with a face like a wet weekend, just as the whole thing is coming to an end. This is classic enemies-to-lovers stuff – surely you’ve realised that, bearing in mind there’ll be a whole area devoted to it come festival day? Aren’t you printing T-shirts?’
Amy groaned out loud, and the waiter – who’d approached with the intention of asking if he could take their food order – turned on his heel in alarm. Philippa sloshed more champagne into Amy’s glass.
‘Oh dear,’ Philippa said sympathetically. ‘Is this news to you? The fact that you have feelings for him? Sorry to be the bearer.’
Amy sighed and sipped her drink again. The realisation that there was no point whatsoever in lying to Philippa felt oddly comforting. It would be good to finally unburden herself, and she reasoned she might as well volunteer the truth; Philippa would doubtless extract it from her anyway.
‘It isn’t news,’ Amy said grimly. ‘I think … I know I’ve always been attracted to him, at the same time as thinking he’s too puffed up and privileged to be allowed. When we were teenagers, he was like this star: other people, girls especially, couldn’t help themselves from orbiting around him. I hated that – I found it infuriating and shallow. I vowed I would never become part of his pathetic fan club.’
‘Swooning over a good-looking, intelligent, well-mannered boy is pathetic?’ Philippa asked, nonplussed. ‘Sounds like rather a lot of fun, if you ask me.’
‘To me, it seemed pathetic,’ Amy explained. ‘It seemed … weak. And then one night he kissed me. After which we barely ever spoke again until I moved back to Rowton.’
‘I’m going to need more information about that kiss,’ Philippa announced too loudly, her eyes round. She signalled to the hovering, increasingly anxious waiter that they still weren’t ready to order.
‘It was …’ Amy groped for the right word. ‘Special.’
Bollocks. Had she really said that out loud?
‘God this is embarrassing,’ Amy continued. ‘But I’d never felt like that before. It was … huge. Emotion so big I couldn’t contain it. My friend Nisha has this idea – this cringeworthy thing called the “stomach drop sensation”. That night was the only time I’d ever had it until I came back here.’
Philippa nodded sagely, waiting for Amy to go on.
‘Something horrendous happened a couple of days later, though. Our friend died in a car accident – my best friend. Sam wasn’t there for me afterwards. It was like he forgot I even existed. I was so angry with him for that. So hurt.’
Perhaps her honesty was a direct consequence of so much fizz on an empty stomach, but this was the first time Amy had ever said these words out loud.
‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ Philippa said softly. ‘But can I ask – did you reach out to him when all this happened? To Sam, I mean?’
‘No,’ Amy said, her eyes bright with tears she was trying to blink back. ‘I didn’t know how to. And I suppose I was waiting for him – waiting to see if he thought I was still worth bothering with when I was a grieving mess.’
‘Hmmm,’ Philippa said. ‘I wonder how he felt during that time.’
‘I don’t think he felt anything. He was like a posh automaton from what I could see – totally emotionless. Stiff upper lip, and all that. And then he went off travelling, as his sort do when the real world’s too real.’
Philippa frowned. ‘Having met him, it seems pretty unlikely to me that he wouldn’t feel anything. You were kids, weren’t you? Eighteen or thereabouts? Based on experience with my two sons – both in their twenties now – I can tell you, lads that age aren’t brilliant at showing their emotions, regardless of how rich they are.’
Amy made a face, unwilling to concede the point even though it was a reasonable one.
‘Also,’ Philippa said, ‘and I hope you’ll forgive me for this overstep, because when you work with me you have to get used to them – did you never think he might be waiting for you to reach out to him?’
At this, Amy shook her head. When she was in her teens, she hadn’t considered herself the sort of girl boys mooned over or desperately hoped to hear from – especially not popular, wealthy, handsome boys like Sam. It had never occurred to her that she could possess that sort of power. But even as an adult, she realised, she’d been known to underestimate the feelings other people might develop for her. While Hugh’s seemed mostly founded in his weird, possessive streak as opposed to genuine affection, she’d been totally blindsided by his decision to propose.
‘Well. I’ll leave that thought with you,’ said Philippa. ‘And I’ll say one last thing before we put that waiter out of his misery and order some pasta. If I were writing this story, it would be nowhere near over yet.’
Amy smiled wistfully. ‘Thanks for listening, Philippa – and I’ve no doubt if you were working on it, it would make an excellent novel. But it’s real life, sadly, not a story with a happy ever after. No one’s writing it.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Philippa said, patting Amy’s hand and beckoning for the stressed-looking boy in the bow tie to come over to their table at last. ‘Romances are powerful because – despite all crowing to the contrary – they draw on what’s real. The novels matter to people because they recognise the feelings in them as true. And I would say this because I’m an author, but life is always a story. As for who’s writing yours, I’d have thought that was pretty clear to such a clever young woman: you are.’
After a humongous dish of pasta arrabiata (only half of which she managed to force down) and a few bites of tiramisu, Amy’s stomach was full enough that the Taittinger effect had worn off.
She’d managed to keep the rest of the conversation with Philippa light and less personal, focusing on the marketing plans that had been drawn up so far for Love to Hate You – and which were set to kick off at RomFest. Between them, Amy, Carolyn and Philippa had ardent ambitions for this book. Their confidence that it would firmly establish Philippa as a household name was high, as was the hope that it would put Torch firmly on the map in the world of publishing.
As she sat on the train back to Stratford-upon-Avon, Amy tried to imagine how she’d feel in a month’s time. Love to Hate You would be out there, hopefully topping book charts and bestseller lists everywhere. RomFest would be over and done with and – unless she performed a dramatic U-turn – she’d have no reason for any further contact with Sam.
They’d be reduced to casual, awkward acquaintances who saw one another only if they both turned up to book club meetings or happened to bump into one another in the village. She could see it now: the embarrassing, stilted ‘how have you been?’ chat that they’d struggle through if their paths accidentally crossed over the purchase of a pint of milk. Then the inevitable excitement would start, she supposed; increasingly frequent sightings of Tilly zooming in and out of Rowton Hall’s grounds in her shiny blue car would give rise to rumours of a reunion, then a wedding … Amy’s stomach lurched, drop-kicked by her own fevered imaginings.
Time and time again she’d replayed everything she and Sam had said to one another during their argument in the wood. But it was the ghosts of things unsaid that really plagued her.
I’m not going to justify or explain myself, since you’re determined to think so little of me. What had he been too proud, angry or upset to tell her?
We’ll do exactly as you wish: pretend we’re merely colleagues. But what else could they be? What other options were there?
On some level, she knew this to be a wilfully stupid question. The chemical fizz between them was sometimes so fierce she was amazed it wasn’t visible to the naked eye. She didn’t doubt he felt it too, though she had no idea what he thought it meant. In any case, in the context of his rekindled relationship with Tilly, it didn’t speak highly of him that he’d referenced it at all – regardless of how obvious it was.
Amy’s reverie was interrupted by a chiming from her handbag. When she extracted her phone, she saw that she’d received a text from Lily. She swiped and tapped to open it, only to discover an image of a tarot card captioned with three exclamation marks.
The card itself was a colourful image of a man in Renaissance-era clothing – blue stockings, a red shirt and some kind of long green waistcoat – seated on grass, with his back against a tree. Oddly, and somewhat annoyingly, it made her think of herself and the elm she used to lean against on her secret evenings spent in the wood at Rowton Hall. The man had three golden goblets at his feet. His arms were folded in a gesture of dismissal, disappointment or maybe even overwhelm. On the left of the image, what looked like a cloud was offering him a fourth goblet, but to no avail. A shining hand peeped out from the wisps of air depicted, clutching the cup by the stem and pushing it towards him – but the man seemed barely able to look at it.
Amy shook her head at the picture and sent a reply.
Amy: I don’t know what this means …
Lily: It’s the four of cups. What do you *think* it means? What vibe does it give you?
Rolling her eyes, Amy typed:
Well. I’ve just been out for lunch with one of my authors and arguably had more champagne than was sensible in the middle of the day. Maybe the dude in the picture has already had enough of whatever’s in those cups – he definitely looks a bit pissed. So perhaps this card means ‘don’t be such a lush, Amy’. In which case, I take it all back: tarot IS real!
Lily: That’s just the kind of response I’d expect from someone in the headspace to pull the four of cups. It’s concerning.
Amy: But I DIDN’T pull the four of cups! Once again, YOU did it for me. Is there some tarot police force I can complain to about this? Some authority that can stop you doing readings for me against my will?
Lily: Of course not. And it’s only bad form to read the odd card for you if my intentions aren’t honourable. I’ve explained this plenty of times before.
Amy gritted her teeth, waiting for Lily to say more as the train sped away from the city and into sunlit, rolling countryside: wheat fields studded with vivid red poppies and vast expanses of dry grass dotted with cows.
After a few minutes, it became obvious that Amy was being punished for her sarcasm. She sighed and sent her mother another message.
