Amy Perry's Assumptions, page 31
‘Anytime, darling,’ Lily said. ‘Maybe come and see me for a holiday when you next get time off work. Or perhaps I could come and see you in the UK sometime.’
‘Either, or both,’ said Amy, ‘I’d really like that. I love you.’
Chapter 28
Amy arrived at Rowton Hall just after seven o’clock, ready to help with whatever last-minute preparations were needed before the gates opened at nine. Amazingly, the event was a sell-out – and several magazines and newspapers had stated their intent to turn up, take photos and report on what one feature had already called ‘the RomFest phenomenon’.
As Amy wandered around the stalls, stages and food and drink stations that had been set up over the previous week, she felt pride surge in her chest. She and Sam had done this: between them, they’d taken what had seemed a crazy idea and created something that promised to be great. As usual, Carolyn had been right. They made a great team.
He saw her coming and ducked into the house before she could reach him, clutching a clipboard as if to indicate there was something urgent he had to attend to. Dismayed, Amy got stuck in to helping one of the drinks vendors unpack stacks of recyclable cups, then with writing out the romance-themed cocktail menu in chalk paint on several large blackboards. As she artfully scribed the words ‘Ice Queen: £6’, she was confronted by how much had changed since she and Kit had drunk giant G&Ts in his kitchen after she’d refused Hugh’s marriage proposal. He’d insisted then that there was a soft centre beneath the chilly persona she affected, and he’d been right.
She caught another glimpse of Sam as she surveyed the various stages that had been set up for authors’ talks, then checked the T-shirt stalls to see if they needed any help. There was a variety of slogans on offer, all linked to stations around the festival that celebrated beloved romantic tropes: #historicalheroine, #forbiddenlove, #friendstolovers, #enemiestolovers and #soulmates. Again, he found an excuse to avoid her. It was miserable; every time he disappeared from view, determined not to be anywhere near her, felt like a punch in the stomach.
‘This is fucking crazy,’ Kit said when he arrived just after nine. His eyes swept up and down the fields to the rear of Rowton Hall, already alive with traders, volunteers, RomFest employees and the first guests. The car park was filling up, the distant windows of stationary vehicles glinting in the late-August sunshine. ‘I’m amazed, Amy, and not because I didn’t expect this to be great – but because even I hadn’t imagined the size and scale of what you’ve achieved. Carolyn must be cock-a-hoop.’
‘She seems pretty chuffed,’ Amy said. ‘She’s coming later, so I hope she’s as impressed in person as she’s been from a distance.’
‘Something tells me you have nothing to worry about,’ Kit said, eyeing a nearby food stall that sold pancakes topped with edible prints of famous heroes’ faces. ‘As a young lad, I used to dream of smothering Mr Rochester in something edible,’ he sighed immediately after buying one and squeezing a bottle of maple syrup over his plate. ‘You, Amy Perry, have made a dream come true this morning.’
The day unfolded almost exactly as planned. By lunchtime, Rowton Hall’s grounds were full of people in hashtag T-shirts, flower crowns (a last-minute innovation, and a popular one) and carrying ‘RomFest’-stamped paper bags, presumably containing merchandise they’d bought. Food and drink vendors were doing a roaring trade, while the author talks and Q&As Amy had set up were going smoothly. People were smiling and laughing … There was joy in the air. Hope. A belief that love, whatever form it took and however it might end, was always worth celebrating. In spite of Sam’s continued coldness, Amy felt elated.
As the afternoon wore on and Philippa’s much-anticipated talk drew nearer, Amy’s nerves began to fray. She met Nisha at one of the large caterers’ tents, where she’d kindly been allowed to store her costume for the dance showcase. As Nisha helped her into her stays and gown, then fiddled with her hair until it had been coaxed into an impressively authentic updo, Amy tried not to nibble on her nails or tap her feet.
‘There,’ Nisha said. ‘You look perfect. Go get him.’ Amy didn’t bother to ask what she meant.
Walter had been given the job of compèring the dance showcase, and he made a great fuss of praising Sam and Amy’s efforts before calling them to join him on the hardwood portable dance floor that had been laid especially for the event. Amy gulped and made her way towards him at the same time as Sam emerged from a crowd on the opposite side of the spectators’ circle. It was all she could do not to gasp.
He should have looked ridiculous. He was dressed up like the lord of the manor she’d always sneered at him for being: leather boots, black breeches, a white shirt, plus a silk-fronted waistcoat and jacket with tails. The effect was magnificent. Heart-stopping.
When Amy got closer, she could see that the blue pattern on Sam’s waistcoat almost exactly matched the shade of her dress. Had this been Thomasina’s plan all along? If so, Amy couldn’t help wondering why the hell she’d foisted the Quality Street monstrosity on her.
She smoothed down the soft fabric of her dress nervously and felt his eyes follow her hands, skimming over her body in precisely the way that the original designers of such gowns had intended. Silently, she thanked Thomasina for convincing her that the ‘put them on display’ stays were a must, if she was going to look authentically Regency.
This was the first time Sam had properly looked at Amy all day, and now it seemed he couldn’t tear his gaze away. When his eyes met hers the familiar current of their mutual attraction sparked. Pure and perfect heat filled the space where witty barbs or complaints would normally be discharged to dampen it.
The small ensemble of musicians, positioned to the left of Philippa’s little stage, struck up. The sweet, now familiar melody of the waltz sang through the air, and Sam took Amy’s hand as they joined the rest of the dance troupe.
They didn’t speak. As they began the dance, Amy found that anything more than remembering her steps would have been impossible. She slipped into a mesmerised, almost dreamlike state, only vaguely aware of Pearl standing at the edge of the dance floor, clapping and grinning.
Amy had been horrified at the thought of dancing in front of so many people, but now she was barely registering their presence. As the sound of string instruments soared, filling the warm summer air, she was utterly consumed by the magnetic ebb and flow of herself and Sam as they moved together.
She followed the steps Walter had taught them, briefly joining hands with other members of the dance troupe and circling them as she was supposed to. But she couldn’t meet the eyes of the men who, momentarily, were her partners: her gaze was locked on Sam, just as his eyes were fixed on her.
As they returned to one another, Amy revelled in the familiar, almost gravitational pull of him – the fragrance she could detect rolling off his skin, the feel of his fingertips grasping hers and the firmness of his hold on her waist. As they stepped together, arms raised so that their hands were almost palm to palm, the intensity of Sam’s stare was almost enough to ignite her. Their hands weren’t supposed to touch, Walter had told them – but maintaining the prescribed few millimetres of distance was agony.
Each time the music drew them towards one another, their faces were so close that she could feel him breathing, taste his air – so near she could see the different shades of dark in his eyes.
When the music stopped, applause thundered around them. It was like a spell had broken. Amy placed her hand over Sam’s, which was still lingering at her hip – his arm wound around her so she was pressed close into his side. She wanted to stay there forever, to melt into him completely.
‘Sam,’ she said, ‘I need to talk to you. Please.’
‘I have to go,’ he said, looking as dazed as she felt but twisting away from her.
On the far side of the floor was Tilly, stood among an array of cameras, clapping and cheering.
Chapter 29
Amy felt like the bottom had dropped out of her world. Everything was slipping away – sinking into an abyss – and she found she didn’t care. She wanted to go with it.
She felt like howling. Screaming. But before her misery could find voice, she felt a smart tap on her shoulder. It was Carolyn.
‘I never thought I’d see the day,’ she said. ‘Amy Perry in Regency costume, dancing for an audience.’
‘Carolyn,’ Amy said, recovering some composure, ‘of course you were going to see the day. You literally made me do this.’
‘That’s a fair point,’ Carolyn nodded. ‘In any case, you were very good. Both of you were very good. You looked wonderful together.’
Amy flushed, then felt sick at the memory of Sam leaving her side for Tilly’s.
‘I’ll find you once Philippa’s talk is over,’ Carolyn said, reclaiming her attention. ‘I have an update on Torch and H-K that’s pertinent to your decision about whether or not to stay on.’
Amy nodded. No doubt the ‘Hugh is the new CEO’ announcement was imminent. According to him – and out of sheer spite, rather than any sort of business sense – that spelled an end for the imprint this event had so successfully launched.
Up on stage, Amy introduced Philippa. Within seconds the author had her audience sitting in spellbound silence, lapping up insights into her writing process, hints about the content of her new novel and gossip about a possible TV adaptation of And So We Meet Again. Philippa was garrulous and down to earth – the perfect headline speaker on a day that celebrated reading for sheer pleasure.
She took questions, then sincerely thanked her army of fans for coming to see her. As they drifted off to make their final purchases from the few stalls that remained open, Philippa descended from the stage and Carolyn reappeared.
‘Have we got some news for you, bab!’ Philippa gushed.
Carolyn made an exasperated face. ‘Let’s find somewhere to sit down, shall we?’
She led them to one of the temporary picnic tables that had been set up for RomFest visitors to rest, eat and drink at, then said: ‘Right. I won’t beat about the bush.’
When do you ever? Amy thought.
‘It’s no secret that I don’t see eye to eye with H-K’s incoming CEO, and so I’ve parted ways with the firm.’
‘You’ve resigned? Quit?’
‘In a blaze of glory,’ Carolyn smiled. ‘And I’d like you to come with me, if you’re keen.’
‘Come … where?’ Amy asked.
‘Well, I should say with us,’ Carolyn corrected herself. ‘Philippa and I are setting up an independent house. We’re both investing. Taking what began as Torch and expanding it.’
Amy was struggling to take this in.
‘But how can you pick up the authors I’ve signed to H-K, take them with you and get away with it all?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t there contracts in place? Doesn’t H-K own all the manuscripts I bought? There must be legal issues that can’t be got over without a fight … I mean, you’re going to get the arses sued off you, surely?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Philippa said with satisfaction.
‘No,’ Carolyn confirmed. ‘Let’s just say I’ve been at H-K plenty long enough to know where the bodies are buried – and believe me, there are a lot. The place is steeped in nepotism, which is deeply irritating but also leads to incompetent handling of appointments, financial and HR issues. Hugh’s treatment of you these past few months has been beyond unprofessional – and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.’
‘God,’ Amy said, gulping. ‘We’re not talking about abuse, or assaults or anything, are we?’
She thought better of Carolyn than to sit on something like this, but had to ask.
‘Hmm,’ Carolyn said thoughtfully. ‘Not that I’m aware of. More about a culture of entitled idiocy. But let’s face it, these things are on a spectrum – albeit at different ends.’
Amy nodded, recognising how right she was.
‘In any case,’ Carolyn went on, ‘H-K doesn’t want a commercial imprint like Torch as part of its stable – Hugh has made that quite clear. It’s neater all round if they sign over the project to me, and if we all say farewell in a civilised fashion that doesn’t involve spending lots of money on lawyers. We’ll be a small start-up to begin with, and if you choose to be part of this new venture, very little will change for you compared with how you’ve been working since the spring.’
‘And if I don’t come with you?’ Amy asked, though really the question was academic.
‘Then it’s back to the Howard-Knight offices for you, I should think,’ Carolyn said. ‘Hugh’s announcing his new regime on Monday, I believe. Given the chance, my guess is he’ll have you back at your old desk in a flash – or in the office next door to his if he can wangle it.’
Amy made a face and shuddered again.
‘In that case, my choice is clear,’ she said. ‘Except … What are your plans, location wise?’
‘I’d like to keep Torch based in this region,’ Carolyn said. ‘Philippa’s here too, so it makes sense. Were you keen on heading back to London?’
‘No, actually,’ Amy said, realising this was true. ‘Staying here or hereabouts sounds perfect.’
‘Well then,’ Carolyn announced, ‘I’ll have my lawyer draw up the necessary paperwork for your new role and send it to you ASAP. I suggest you submit your resignation directly to Julian, since I’m no longer in post. He should accept it without argument and will probably allow you to leave with immediate effect, so I can rehire you the following day. I’ve given him fair warning that if his nephew bothers you again there’ll be severe consequences for both Hugh and the firm.’ She grinned almost evilly at this. To the victor the spoils, Amy thought.
Smiling, she shook her head in disbelief. ‘This is … perfect. Wonderful. I’m … overwhelmed. Thank you both so much.’
‘No tears,’ Carolyn said sharply, recognising the quiver in Amy’s voice. She stood up, and Amy and Philippa mirrored the movement.
‘Now. I think it’s time for me to head off,’ Carolyn said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Without further ado, she sloped off to the car park before she could be asked to pitch in with any of the RomFest jobs that staff and volunteers had now begun: litter picking, the reloading of unsold goods into vans and the deconstruction of a lot of flat-pack and foldable furniture.
‘I’m off, too,’ Philippa said, waving her preternaturally long nails in Amy’s face. Amy reasoned they weren’t well suited to manual labour.
‘I’ll speak to you next week,’ Philippa went on. ‘And by the way, bab – put that lovely man out of his misery. He’s obviously mad about you. Write yourselves a happy ending, OK?’
‘I’m afraid it might be too late for that, Philippa,’ Amy said, determinedly holding back tears, even though Carolyn was no longer there to disapprove of them.
After changing out of her dance costume, Amy got stuck into packing pallets of unsold soft drinks into the back of a minivan. Generally, though, it seemed the vast majority of the day’s food and drink had been bought by festivalgoers.
With a glow, she thought of what a good cause the RomFest profits would serve: keeping people like Barbara and Dave in the homes they loved. Her misjudgement of Sam had been sweeping, almost total, she realised again. His determination to make this event work, his insistence on obliging Carolyn and his tolerance of Hugh’s rudeness had all been about achieving his desired outcome for others, not himself.
She felt someone standing behind her and breathed in a waft of fruity perfume. ‘Amy? Can I have a quick word?’ She turned to see Tilly smiling sweetly, apparently unaware that the mere sight of her made Amy feel as though her heart had been put through a shredder.
‘What about?’ Amy asked testily.
‘I’d love it if you could sign this consent form for me,’ Tilly said.
Amy felt like she must have blacked out – as if she’d missed a chunk of conversation that would have made the phrase ‘consent form’ comprehensible. What was Tilly on about?
‘I don’t understand,’ Amy said eventually.
Tilly frowned and tipped her head prettily to one side. ‘Did Sam not mention it to you?’
‘Obviously not,’ Amy retorted. This was torture. Take him if you must, Amy thought, but spare me the bullshit.
‘Ugh, I did ask him to bring it up,’ Tilly said. ‘I need you to sign the form if we’re going to include your dance in the documentary, and I really want to – it was just stunning!’
‘Documentary …?’
‘Yes,’ Tilly said. ‘You know I do a bit of producing, as well as presenting? I’ve been working on a programme about the resurgence of romance: a celebration of the genre. I asked Sam if I could do some filming here today, and I’ve been up a couple of times already to interview him and get shots of the grounds and the festival prep. He was supposed to tell you all about it.’
She sounded annoyed.
Amy was baffled, but something that felt scarily like hope flickered to life in her chest. Meg had said she thought Sam and Tilly were all business … Had she been right?
‘He didn’t,’ Amy said. ‘But I’ll sign the form. What channel is the documentary for?’
‘BBC One!’ Tilly grinned. ‘And it should get mentions on The One Show and Breakfast, as well as a write-up on the website and presence on iPlayer. I’m very excited about it.’
Amy quickly took a wad of paperwork from Tilly, filling in all the fields she’d helpfully marked with crosses for participants’ signatures.
‘I already have forms from Sam and the rest of the dance troupe,’ Tilly said as Amy scribbled away. ‘I can’t believe he never mentioned this … Still. I suppose you’ve had other things to talk about,’ she smiled.
Amy shot her a look. ‘Such as …?’
‘Old times! The future! He and I were useless as a couple but we were always good friends. He told me all about you one evening not too long ago. Said he’d been mad about you since you were children. Since he was sixteen!’
