On the Same Page, page 15
‘Is he going back to London after that?’
‘Wouldn’t bet on it.’
I’d rather not know, but I have to ask. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “Tell Miles it’s over.”’
I’m too afraid to ask her to be more specific. Will Lars sue Emma for failing to appear at the conference? Does he know I’m Emma?
Chapter 27
There are two men in the workshop audience, Adam and Billy, and ninety-eight women. The numbers were limited because of the room size, but the session is also being streamed on the Historical Romance Readers’ website, so the audience will be much larger.
Anime Emma—Pippy incarnate with a rounded belly—appears on the screen and welcomes the guests. She apologises for not being able to come to the conference in person and explains that she hasn’t been feeling well, and wasn’t sure she’d be up to it. She doesn’t need to say more. Most in the audience will understand how debilitating morning sickness can be.
‘Miles, dear, stop fidgeting,’ Grandma Myrtle says, patting my arm. She and her friend are both wearing dresses— Myrtle’s is bright yellow and her friend’s is vibrant orange. They look lovely together, like poppies.
I unclasp my fingers and take deep breaths. Pippy, who was Myrtle’s forty-eighth foster child, wasn’t at all concerned when I told her Emma couldn’t make it today. I’m almost certain Pippy at least knows I’m Emma now, because I’ve been so worried about Iconic that I haven’t covered my tracks as carefully as I used to—I keep sending her directions and documents that are supposed to come from Emma.
‘This is so exciting,’ Myrtle says as Anime Emma reads an excerpt from Cupid’s Trap. The animation of Emma speaking holds up well, given that Billy had to put it together almost overnight. Beyoncé, wearing a serviceable blue gown, appears on the stage as Victoria. When she is Violet, she wears a velvet dress and waltzes with an imaginary Sebastian. As Annabelle, she sneaks into Edward’s room wearing a dampened corset. The audience cheers when Beyoncé appears in jodhpurs. They haven’t read Cupid’s Chariot yet and this is their first glimpse of Evangeline, but everyone knows how excited the hero gets when he spies the heroine’s derrière for the very first time.
‘Poor Rupert,’ Myrtle says after Beyoncé waves goodbye to the audience. ‘I hope Evangeline changes her mind and marries him.’
‘Ladies!’ Adam taps the microphone for the third time. ‘If I may I have your attention?’ The noise level dims. ‘Emma suggested that, as part of the workshop, you might like to talk about an aspect of her writing that resonates with you.’
When a woman with curly red hair stands and waves her hand, Adam looks a little taken aback. ‘Annie?’
Adam’s wife has freckled pale skin and a lovely smile. ‘As a musician,’ she says, ‘I’m fascinated by sensory exploration. I’d like to examine the use of orchid imagery in Cupid’s Arrow.’
The audience is happy with her suggestion, so Adam invites her to start the discussion.
Annie speaks into the microphone. ‘The orchid is obviously a metaphor for the labia majora and minora, and the clitoris,’ she says. ‘I enjoyed the passages where Sebastian suggested Violet touch the petals of the orchid as he stroked between her thighs.’
Adam takes a sip of water. ‘I see.’
‘This was not only a sensual and evocative experience for Violet and Sebastian,’ Annie continues, ‘but also for the reader.’
When the discussion extends to metaphors used elsewhere in the novel, particularly those relating to male genitalia, it becomes increasingly clear that Adam is out of his depth. Nevertheless, his wife blows him a kiss at the end of the workshop, and the other women give him a round of applause.
I’ve almost made it to the door when Lucinda approaches. ‘That went surprisingly well,’ she says. ‘Lucky for you.’
I look across the room and see Beyoncé, surrounded by a group of women. ‘Thanks for lending Beyoncé your jodhpurs. I’ll get them back to you as soon as I can.’
‘Have you heard from Lars?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘No.’
‘Please tell him that flying here won’t make Emma appear, so he shouldn’t bother. You can also let him know the workshop went to plan. And so,’ I smile bravely, ‘will my reading tomorrow.’
Chapter 28
I’m sitting on the end of the bed in my hotel room considering the Cupid’s Chariot manuscript. It has a sticky note marking the chapter I’m going to read to the two hundred and forty people waiting for me downstairs. Evangeline and Rupert aren’t dancing in the scene I’m reading, but I can’t get the image of Sebastian and Violet’s one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three waltzing out of my head. I picture myself on the stage downstairs, gripping the sides of the podium. The polished floorboards beneath my feet start to move and I have to run to keep up. I lose my grip on the podium and fall headfirst into the crowd. My skirt is around my ears and I’ve forgotten to put on underpants.
I’m rifling through my briefcase for a paper bag to breathe into when I catch a glimpse of myself in the liquor-cabinet mirror. My eyes are huge. The bottles on the top shelf are tiny. I’m careful with alcohol, a dangerous crutch for anxiety, but maybe I should take a sip from one of the bottles. For medicinal purposes.
Galliano. Nice.
Cointreau. Nice.
That’s a pretty green one. What’s that?
***
‘Is that you, Jack?’ I sit up and look around, but when the room spins in a kaleidoscope of colours I lie back down again.
‘Your door was wedged open with one of your shoes, you idiot,’ I hear Jack say. I can’t see him, so he must have gone into the bathroom. He’s probably looking in the mirror, checking that his tie is straight, and smoothing his hair. ‘Hurry up. You’re on in five minutes. Let’s get this over with.’ I think he’s near my bed now. ‘At least you’re dressed.’ He touches my shoulder. ‘Miles?’
I have my best grey suit on and I’m wearing a royal-blue Lucinda-like lawyer shirt that enhances my professional look. I gaze up at Jack, though he’s a little blurry. When he says, ‘Fuck’ I know he’s carefully analysed my situation and formulated a considered response.
‘You’re drunk,’ he adds.
‘Drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk.’
‘What?’
‘Barnardine’s line in Measure for Measure.’ I gesture to the three bottles on the side table. ‘Aren’t they pretty?’
‘Sweets,’ Jack says. ‘Not funny.’
‘Yes, it is. It’s one of Shakespeare’s comedies.’
I hear a knock. ‘Is that you, Jack?’
Jack sighs. ‘No. It’s the door. I’ll get it.’
I close my eyes and concentrate. The door clicks open and shut. Footsteps. I open my eyes. Now there are two men standing at the side of my bed. Lars is glowering.
‘Christ!’ he says to Jack. ‘Is she drunk?’
This is the first time I’ve seen them together. I look from one to the other. Jack has short brown hair and the prominent cheekbones and slim build of a Calvin Klein model. Lars has piercing blue eyes, broad shoulders and longer brown hair which kinks up at his collar. He must be six foot two like Jack thought, because Jack is six foot one and Lars has an inch on him. I wriggle to the edge of the bed and lean over the side to check they have the same shoe-sole thickness. I want to make an informed judgement about their respective heights.
‘Don’t throw up there!’ Jack says, grabbing my upper arms and lifting me into a sitting position.
I avoid Lars’s gaze as I rub my arms and lie down again. Jack can be so embarrassing sometimes.
‘I have no attention … intention of throwing up.’
‘What have you done to her?’ Lars asks.
‘Don’t blame me,’ Jack says. ‘I just got here.’
I hear someone picking up the bottles from the side table.
‘If she’s only had these,’ Lars says, ‘why is she flat on her back?’
‘Cheap drunk,’ Jack says.
‘Miles?’
I open my eyes. Lars is still looking very stern. He has the little lines at the sides of his eyes he had at Maurice’s house. Maybe he gets them when he’s tired after a long flight? The fabric of his grey suit has a fine weave. It’s not shiny, but there’s a certain lustre. Perhaps there’s silk in the fabric? He’s wearing a blue-and-silver tie and a white shirt. The whole ensemble looks lovely on him.
‘Was that tie a present from Cassandra?’
‘What on earth …?’ Lars looks at his tie. ‘No, it was not.’
‘Oh.’ I turn to Jack. I’m speaking carefully, trying not to slur my words. ‘It’s a nice tie, isn’t it, Jack? Gorgeous. The colours. They match his eyes.’
‘Sweets, just shut the fuck up, okay?’
Jack smooths my skirt over my legs. Then he takes off my remaining shoe and puts it under the desk. He removes my black lacy bra from the back of the chair and pops it into my case.
Lars’s lips are tight and he’s frowning. ‘Can you do the reading?’
I shake my head. ‘Maybe Lucinda …’
‘Christ.’
‘I didn’t mean to …’
‘What? Lie? Let people down? You’re the most infuriating, incompetent—’
‘That’ll do,’ Jack says. He sits on the edge of the bed with his legs stretched out. One of his hands rests on my leg. Lars scowls in my direction, spins on his heel and stalks out of the room. I hear the door open and slam closed.
‘I think I’ll go to sleep for a while.’
‘Good idea,’ Jack says. ‘I’ll tuck you up and get back to work. Will you be all right?’
‘’Course. Sorry.’
‘He’s not happy, sweets.’
‘Do you think he’ll come back?’
Jack whistles. ‘I’d be surprised if he didn’t.’
***
It’s after five in the afternoon when I wake, ashamed of myself for letting Emma’s readers down. I have a shower, wash my hair and put on my new pyjamas, standing back to admire them in the full-length mirror. They’re linen with a mint-green background and white polka dots. The long pants have a cord drawstring and the short-sleeved jacket has white-and-yellow buttons in the shapes of daisies. I pick up the room-service menu and lie on the bed to consider it.
It’s dark in the room when I hear the door click closed. I must have dozed off again. When I hear footsteps my heart races and I sit bolt upright. ‘Pippy?’
‘No.’
Lars is standing in the small hallway off the entrance. The bathroom light is on behind him, so I only see his silhouette.
‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’
‘Pippy gave me her key.’
I untwist my pyjama bottoms and straighten my top. ‘You had no right—’
‘Jack called Pippy and asked her to check on you, but she was sorting out a problem with her grandmother. She delegated to me.’
‘Oh.’
‘You failed to answer when I knocked, so I thought I ought to see you were all right.’
‘Sorry. I was asleep, and then … I got a fright.’
‘May I put a light on in here?’
‘If you want.’
Lars walks towards me and switches on the lamp next to my bed. Then he moves to the other side of the room near the desk. I don’t know why I didn’t turn on the lamp myself. I’m sitting on the bed, blinking as my eyes adjust to the light. My hair was damp when I lay down and it must be sticking up everywhere by now, but I don’t want him to think I care so I leave it as it is.
He takes off his suit jacket and throws it over the back of the desk chair. I remember Jack moving my bra from the chair when he was here—thank goodness he did. Lars unbuttons his cuffs, rolls up his shirtsleeves to his elbows and puts his hands in his front pockets. His arms are lightly tanned.
‘You can tell Pippy I’m fine.’
Lars looks at the large white plaster between my thumb and index finger. I cover it with my other hand and put my hands in my lap.
‘The tea burn?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you fine? Really?’
‘Yes. Thank you. What happened with the reading?’
His brow furrows. ‘It’s done.’
‘I did intend to do it.’
‘Did you?’
He’s difficult to read and his diction is different, not as sharp as usual. ‘Yes, I … Do you want a drink or something?’ I gesture to the cabinet facing my bed.
‘Is there anything left?’
I’m flustered, not knowing whether he’s serious or sarcastic. His eyes are on the pyjama button at the base of my throat and I cross my arms over my breasts.
‘Miles,’ he says. ‘Please stop blushing.’
I glare. ‘It’s not like I can help it.’
He takes his hands out of his pockets and runs the fingers of one hand through his hair. Then he says, ‘Fuck,’ and in three long strides he’s standing at the side of the bed. He reaches out to cup the side of my face. His hand is cool against the warmth in my cheek. I stiffen, resisting the temptation to lean in closer.
My voice is a squeak. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Christ knows.’ His voice is gruff. ‘Why did you refer to Cassandra earlier?’
‘Cassandra?’ I frown. He’s bending over. His tie hangs down and touches my knee. I remember saying something about Cassandra and his tie. ‘I don’t know.’ I link my fingers together so he can’t see how shaky they are.
He takes a deep breath and sinks to his knees on the floor. I’m looking at the top of his head as he reaches for my hands and separates them by tugging on my fingers. He cradles the plastered hand, palm up, in one of his hands. Then he traces the outline of the plaster with the index finger of his other hand. My heart is thumping so hard that I have to open my mouth to get my breaths out.
‘Did Tom put the plaster on?’ he says.
‘He’s good at first aid.’
We’re both staring at my hand. ‘Do you live with him?’
‘He’s just a friend.’
He rubs a finger over my wrist, back and forth. He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses the base of my thumb. It’s not a polite peck kiss. Or a kiss it better kind of kiss. It’s a proper kiss. I feel the tip of his tongue on my skin.
‘You and Jack are obviously close,’ he says. ‘Are you still together?’
‘He’s …’ Jack and I are a long story; it’s difficult to know where to start. Do I tell Lars Jack is gay? Should I let him know we only had virtual sex in the carriage?
‘Just a friend?’ Lars says, trailing his lips to the end of my thumb and taking it into his mouth. My thumb is in Lars’s mouth? I nod and wriggle to the edge of the bed as he gently sucks. Our eyes meet. Goodness knows what he sees in mine. His are heated blue.
I touch his face near the base of his jaw. ‘You have a pulse here.’ I stroke it with my index finger. ‘It’s forever … pulsing.’ Maybe everyone has a pulse there and I only notice his because it throbs when he’s angry. And when he’s aroused. It’s beating madly now as he presses his face against my hand like I wanted to press mine against his. He’s still sucking my thumb and I’m struggling to breathe.
He pushes my thumb out of his mouth with his tongue. He keeps hold of it, turns it, and kisses the tip. Then he rests it against his bottom lip and looks up at me. ‘I’m sorry you hurt your hand.’
I’ve described hooded eyes in my novels, but I’ve never really understood what they looked like until now. Lars’s lids are half closed, but the expression in his eyes isn’t somnolent. It’s intent, passionate. I’m spellbound.
‘That’s okay. I’m very clumsy.’
He raises his other hand and pushes my hair back from my face. ‘That’s a challenge for a man who’s protective.’
I blink. ‘Oh.’
He wraps a curl of my hair round his finger. ‘I’ve never seen it loose.’ He gives me his lop-sided smile as he combs with his fingers. ‘Is your head all right?’
I’m not sure what he’s talking about at first, but then I remember hitting my head on the tree last time I saw him. I nod as I take my hands from his mouth and jaw and put them in my lap again. He covers them with his hand and taps my wrist with his finger.
‘Miles? You know what we’re doing, don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’ My uneasiness intensifies and I inch away.
He leans forward and puts his elbows on the bed. ‘Take care not to fall off.’
I wriggle towards him again, pressing my knees against his chest. He joins his hands behind my back.
‘I need to know you’re aware that I’m …’ He shrugs.
I pull gently on his tie as he slips his hands beneath the waistband of my pyjama pants and traces the lace edge of my undies.
‘You want to know whether I’m sober enough to consent to your seduction?’
He smiles. ‘Yes.’
His hair has flopped onto his forehead and I neaten it up. It’s just as thick and silky as I’ve always imagined it would be. ‘I like your hair.’
‘Miles? Yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
We share breaths as he puts his hands either side of my waist and runs his fingertips up and down my sides, over my pyjama top. When he works out I’m not wearing a bra his breath catches—and expels in a rush when I press my breasts into his hands. He touches my bottom lip with his tongue as if he’s asking permission to kiss me. And I’m just about to angle my lips over his when he draws back a little.
‘Tell me you’re Emma,’ he murmurs against my mouth.
My brain is mush. ‘What?’
‘Tell me.’ He trails kisses over my cheek and down the side of my neck. ‘Please, Miles.’
He wants me to do that now? He wants me to tell him I’m Emma? Now?
I push hard against his chest. ‘No!’
He sits back on his heels and stares as if he can’t think what went wrong. Then he leans forward again, taking my face in his hands. His breathing is ragged. ‘Please forget I said that.’
I’m sitting stiffly on the bed. My lips are tightly closed. He kisses one side of my mouth then lifts his head as if checking that’s okay. Is it okay? It’s not nearly enough. I’m weak with wanting more. When I whimper and bring him closer, he touches my bottom lip with the tip of his tongue again. We look into each other’s eyes. He whispers, ‘Miles?’
