Chapter Forty-One

17 August, 7.15 p.m.

Drew lurked close to the wall of the tent, sipping a dry white wine that wasn’t as bad as he’d feared it might be, and watched the show. The small side tent, where the official signings took place, was thronged with the newly and very nearly published, and those who wanted to be. He was indulging in a mildly malicious guessing game of separating the sheep from the goats. Was the smug air of the hipster with the amazing beard because he was published, or because he knew it was only a matter of time, as he was self evidently a much better writer than anyone else in the tent, published or unpublished? The girl in the white frock looked too young to be drinking. She had to be aspiring, surely?

Brandon Phipps was holding forth in the centre of an attentive crowd and a few of the other panellists in the afternoon sessions had also gathered small groups around them, dispensing words of wisdom. Drew had snagged a glass and sidled for cover before he’d been recognised and buttonholed. In a moment, when he needed another drink, he’d make a move and mingle, but now he was content to watch.

Actually he wasn’t sure he was up to chatting intelligently to a lot of strangers. He rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he was tired. Or maybe it was just the contrast of weeks of self-imposed solitary confinement, with the press of people at the reception. He’d poured every emotion he’d ever had into Stren’s story.

It hadn’t stopped him thinking about Lori.

He’d even imagined he’d seen her, for a second, this afternoon, at the very back of the audience. By the time he’d been free to investigate, the woman, whoever she was, was gone. Which proved it wasn’t Lori, or she would have come forward to speak to you.

There was some sort of announcement being made at the other side of the tent. People turned to listen. Drew sidled towards a break in the crowd, where he could see, even if he couldn’t hear. One of the festival committee – the sculptor Jessmayne, who lived in one of the houses on the square, was standing in front of the long trestle table that held the drinks. He seemed to be introducing someone to the audience. Drew knew the guy slightly. He’d bought one of the sculptor’s smaller pieces for his flat, once his royalty cheques had become large enough to support art and gas bills. Jessmayne had been instrumental in Drew’s invitation to speak, so at some point he really did need to go and say hello, and thanks. Now the guy was ushering forward the person the fuss was about. The crowd surged and Drew got a partial glimpse of a young woman with fair curly hair, in a sleek dress of pale blue linen, before the crowd shifted again and blocked his view completely.

‘Who is it?’ A loud stage whisper came from an elderly woman in front of him. He caught the tell-tale pink stub of a hearing aid as she turned her head to her companion.

‘That new author. Mallory Francis. She’s going to speak here next year.’ Drew took a few steps forward, curious. This was the woman Brandon Phipps had been talking about. He edged around the clump of people, realising with half an eye that a man at the edge of the group had spotted him and was nudging the person next to him.

Well you did intend to mingle. Eventually.

There was a smattering of applause, signalling that the introduction was over. Relieved from the need to be polite, the volume of chatter immediately rose again. Unable to get a glimpse of the debut author, Drew put his head down and aimed for the bar. If he was going to do the right thing, then he was going to do it with a fresh glass of wine in his hand. With luck he’d catch Jessmayne too, before he was swallowed back into the crowd.

Jessmayne was still standing beside the improvised bar. He looked up as Drew emerged from the press, smiling and waving him over.

‘Andrew, good to see you. Great session this afternoon.’ The woman in the blue dress was standing beside him. ‘Come and meet Mallory.’

It happened so fast he barely had time to take it in.

Someone on the other side claimed Jessmayne’s attention, at the very moment that the woman turned towards Drew.

Drew really thought the marquee swirled over his head as he looked into the face that had stalked his dreams for months. Everything else seemed to fade away.

All he could see was Lori.

She was looking up at him. He couldn’t read her expression, but what he saw in her eyes looked like dismay. Fuck, fuck, fuck. ‘Um – Mallory?’

‘Mallory Francis.’ She held out her hand. He took it. It was warm and familiar.

So, that’s the way it is. This is the first time we’ve met. Well, you did agree never to talk about Christmas.

He let her go, instead of taking the firm hold on her that his body was suddenly demanding, so he could carry her out of the tent.

For God’s sake, to do what?

The breath he took was shaky, but the tiny hint of challenge he could see in her eyes fired something. ‘Andrew Vitruvius. Pleased to meet you,’ he said demurely.

He could be part of the game.

‘Oh, good.’ Jessmayne had turned his attention back to them. ‘You’ve introduced yourselves.’

‘We have.’ Lori looked at the sculptor with a dazzling smile.

Look at me like that, dammit.

They didn’t get any further. The two men who had spotted him in the crowd made their move, and a woman with startling pink hair pounced on Lori, and they had to turn away from each other to make conversation.

But I’ve got you back.

His brain and his heart and all his senses were skittering about like newborn lambs, seeing grass for the first time. He inhaled, trying to catch her perfume. Nothing. Just damp canvas, too many people and warm wine.

He really didn’t want to make conversation about the technical intricacies of writing believable fantasy. Just bloody do it and leave me alone, so I can focus on enticing this woman into joining me in a quiet corner somewhere.

He rocked on his heels. For God’s sake, get a grip!

With a conscious effort he relaxed, from the shoulders down. He could afford to be generous to these people, who were really interested and interesting, he discovered. And they bought his books. He’d found Lori – Mallory – and what the hell did anything else matter?

The crowd was thinning. The evening programme of talks would be beginning in a few moments in the main tent. People were drifting away to claim seats or find places to eat dinner. Arrangements were being traded and confirmed around and across the tent.

Dinner. He could take Lori to dinner.

When his last interrogator departed and he was blissfully free, he turned and touched her arm, holding his place in her attention while she finished talking to Strawberry Hair and a cheerful looking girl with a round face and a sweater with a corgi on the front.

At last they were alone.

‘Have dinner with me,’ he blurted it out before anyone else could grab either of them. Thank heaven Jessmayne had disappeared too.

‘I can’t. Jess and his wife have invited me to supper at their house.’ Her face wasn’t telling him anything.

He took a deep breath. ‘But if you could, would you?’

She nodded, and the tension in his chest went away so suddenly he almost fell over. ‘Then let me take you home, afterwards.’

‘But …’ Now she was smiling, no, she was laughing. At him. It felt wonderful. ‘… you have no idea where I’m staying.’

‘Hampstead? Notting Hill? Inverness? Wherever you want to go.’ The further the better.

Something flickered in her eyes. God, I think she would go to Inverness with me.

‘Gerard’s Cross.’

‘I can do Gerard’s Cross. It’s closer than Inverness.’ Over her shoulder he could see Jessmayne and his wife approaching to claim their prize and take her away. ‘I’ll wait outside their house.’

‘But you don’t know what time—’

‘However long it takes,’ he said firmly.

She was still laughing, and shaking her head. ‘You’re crazy.’

Yes, about you. He put out a hand, she put hers into it. As natural as that.

‘I’ll wait for you, Lori. In the words of that famous cliché, we need to talk.’

Bad choice of phrase. He hoped that the hollow ring of the words wasn’t an omen. ‘I’ll wait …’