Chapter Forty
17 August, 5 p.m.
Lori stood at the back of the marquee and inhaled the scent of bruised grass, wet umbrellas and new books. It was by no means one of the biggest or oldest of the literary festivals of the summer, but it still had a lot of prestige. She’d had lunch with some of the committee, a right honourable, two merchant bankers and a sculptor who had known her mother in the dim and distant past and wanted to hear all about what her parents were doing now.
And her agent had been there as well.
She still hadn’t got used to the sound of those words. Maybe she never would. When she’d asked, rather hesitantly, if someone could get her tickets to the festival, a three-day pass had appeared, within forty-eight hours, along with the invitation to lunch and to the reception tonight for new and aspiring authors. Everyone had seemed amazingly gratified when she accepted. She already had a booking to speak at next year’s festival.
Surreptitiously she put her hand on the canvas of the tent behind her, spreading her fingers to feel the texture of the fabric. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Grounding herself. Making sure that everything was real. That she was real.
It had all happened so fast, so incredibly. She’d hoped for a publishing deal, maybe with a small independent press. She hadn’t expected a whirlwind. Dan and Nevada had supported her from the sidelines. Without their help, and the tie with Misty, to keep her feet on the ground, she wasn’t sure how she would have coped. Of course, Griff remained totally unimpressed by any of it.
The afternoon of the auction, when each of the bids was more outrageous than the last, she’d nearly broken Nevada’s fingers, hanging on to her hand. Now at last she was Mallory Francis and there was no going back.
The knowledge was terrifying.
Almost as terrifying as the thought of seeing Drew again. Her heart lurched, making her feel sick.
The crowd in the tent was clapping, all eyes focused on the stage. One of the committee members – the Rt Hon – was introducing the three speakers as they filed on to the platform to take their places. Lori slid quickly into an empty seat, afraid her knees would give way if she remained standing. Debut author faints at festival.
The committee member introduced Drew last. Lori drank in the sight of him and the sound of his voice. The beard was gone, so the planes and angles of his face were more pronounced. He looks tired. No one else would notice it, from the banter that was going on between the three panellists, but the slight stoop of his shoulders sent a spasm of concern into her already churning stomach. Oh, behave yourself. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need you mooning over him.
The talk was going down well. The audience was laughing. Drew was talking about his latest book. Lori focused on his mouth. That mouth …
Alarmingly, a flood of heat washed over her. Oh God, she wanted … She wanted … We all know what you want, girl. The voice in her head was a filthy low-pitched whisper. Going to go up there and rip his clothes off, are we?
Horrified, Lori swallowed the wrong way, choked, and smothered the cough with her hands, earning her a reproachful look from the woman sitting next to her.
‘Sorry,’ she wheezed, getting control of her breathing. Andrew Vitruvius brought out the absolute worst in her. It was shaming and exciting and she couldn’t tell which was which.
They were answering questions now, deftly dealing with a forest of hands. Most were directed at Drew, leaving the other man and the middle-aged woman who were with him on the platform, looking slightly out of it. The woman wrote historical romances that Lori had read and enjoyed. The other man, Lori thought his name was Phipps, looked unwell, but maybe that was the effect of the greenish light in the tent? When he wasn’t speaking, but just following the discussion, his faced looked … haunted.
Lori shook off the idea. Writer’s imagination.
Although she tried not to focus too much on Drew – this was a panel discussion – her eyes kept sliding back to him as he batted questions to the others, seeking support, opinions, argument, bringing them back into the conversation.
He’s good.
Not just a pretty face and a hot body.
‘Oh, do go away.’ Lori put her hands to her reddening face as the woman sitting next to her shot her an alarmed look.
I’m a writer. Writers often talk to themselves.
The burst of applause signalled the hour was over. The rest of the row was reaching under chairs for festival tote bags and producing books to be signed. Lori didn’t know whether to be amused or horrified to see one of the women had brought a massive pile of dusty second-hand paperbacks for signing.
‘You’re going up there?’ A woman sitting in front of her, dressed to the nines, in what looked like her best wedding outfit, with matching shoes and handbag, brandished Drew’s latest book.
‘Er … no. I don’t think so.’
‘Ah, never mind love.’ The woman looked sympathetically at Lori’s simple beige sweater and white jeans. ‘Expensive things, these hardbacks.’ She wagged her head, knowingly. ‘You want to wait until the paperback comes out, love – maybe you’ll get the chance to have him sign it then.’
Lori suppressed the laughter that had just the tiniest edge of hysteria in it, as the woman waddled off to join the signing queue, which was being directed to a side annex of the main marquee. Marshals were retrieving litter and forgotten umbrellas, and gently clearing lingerers from the seats, in preparation for the next session.
Lori hesitated a moment. What would it be like, if she joined the queue? If Drew looked up, and into her eyes? Her heart was beating in overdrive, just at the thought of it.
She stood up slowly. She wasn’t going to do it. She’d seen Drew again. She had what she came for. Unfortunately she hadn’t achieved her objective. Quite the opposite. Her stomach sank with the knowledge of what she’d just effortlessly proved to herself. Andrew Vitruvius’s power to turn her inside out hadn’t diminished at all.
In fact, it seemed to be getting a whole lot worse.