Perfect. This was just perfect. I’d spent the whole afternoon drinking with one publishing wanker I never wanted to see again and now I had to spend the entire weekend with another.
‘How mad would you be if I threw up right now?’ I asked, rubbing my stomach unhelpfully.
William pointed at a black car in the corner. ‘Soph, it’s after eight in Chessie train station. As long as you puke on that Tesla, it’s fine by me.But,’ he paused for added emphasis, ‘allow me to share a theory as to why you shouldn’t be stressed about it in the least.’
‘Go on?’
My stomach gurgled and I took one side step towards the Tesla.
‘You broke up what, two years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘And CJ is so insecure, he’s still clinging to his ex-girlfriend’s dad to protect him from the big bad publishing bullies? That’s just sad.’
‘Say more things like that,’ I suggested.
‘He’s obviously still single.’
‘So am I.’
‘Yes but CJ is utterly insufferable and, yes, he might have written one poncey, literary flash-in-the-pan book but he definitely doesn’t have the bestselling debut novel of the year that’s already been sold in twenty-nine languages.’
‘Thirty-two,’ I said quietly and he swiped a palm down his face.
‘Really? I should know that, shouldn’t I?’
‘Might be helpful,’ I agreed. ‘Since you’re supposed to be my agent.’
William pressed the key fob in his hand, the taillights of his vintage BMW flashing obediently.
‘Este Cox’s agent,’ he corrected with a toss of his shiny chestnut hair, the exact same colour as mine. ‘If I’m correct in assuming you’re still not ready to tell Mum and Dad.’
I shook my head as my stomach settled itself. ‘This is hardly the right weekend, is it?’
‘What are you saving it for? Christmas? Wedding anniversary? Deathbed confessional?’
‘Mine or theirs?’ I said as he led me towards the car with one arm wrapped around my shoulders as though I were a frail old lady incapable of making it there herself. ‘I swear I’ll tell them. Just not this weekend.’
There was a reason my big brother was the only person besides Mal I’d trusted with my secret and it wasn’t only because he was one of the best literary agents inthe business. William was honest, loyal and kind. He never sugar-coated anything and he had an uncanny knack of always putting everything into perspective. Also, I was the only one who knew it was him who’d got drunk and smashed the conservatory window by driving through it on a dirt bike when Mum and Dad were on holiday twenty years ago, and not Richard Filby from Year Thirteen who conveniently moved away right before they got back. Yes, two decades had passed. No, I was not about to give up that kind of leverage.
‘Seriously, Soph, are you ill? You do look awful.’ He pulled his arm away and shoved me halfway across the car park. ‘You’re not contagious, are you?’
‘No, you arse,’ I replied, bouncing off the boot of a Fiat 500. ‘I’m fine. I had a couple of drinks at lunch, that’s all.’
‘Of what, cyanide?’
‘If I had to choose between cyanide or CJ, I’m not entirely sure I know which one I’d go for,’ I admitted. ‘Is it too late for me to go home?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Get your shit together. This weekend is going to be a circus.’
He opened the back passenger side door to put my suitcase in the backseat of his precious car as I let myself into the passenger seat. Once upon a time it belonged to our dad and it still smelled like the school run and summer holiday drives to the seaside.
‘If I’m being completely honest, I have felt better,’ I said as I closed my eyes and relaxed into the nostalgia. ‘So if you felt compelled to stop at the drive-through McDonald’s, I wouldn’t be mad about it.’
‘I’ve never knowingly turned down a Big Mac when someone else is buying.’
‘Did I say I was buying?’
