‘I’d love to but I don’t see how it could work with me staying anonymous?’ he replied as I managed to gather my senses just enough to tip back half my glass of wine in one gulp.
Charlotte beamed up at Joe, still hanging on his arm like a nineteenth-century heroine caught mid-swoon, and he smiled awkwardly back, manuscript held securely to his chest. Then she pulled out her phone from her pocket and snapped a photo of him, stack of papers in hand.
‘You can’t expect to stay anonymous forever,’ she reasoned, releasing him from her vice-like grip as she reviewed the incriminating image. ‘Either you do anin-person live event at my bookshop or I post this to TikTok tomorrow night. It’s totally up to you.’
Joe’s eyes opened so wide it was a wonder they stayed in his head. ‘Call me cynical but that sounds a lot like blackmail.’
She turned her phone around to show him the photo. It wasn’t his best. Deer in the headlights fear didn’t look good on anyone.
‘It does, doesn’t it? You have twenty-four hours to decide.’
‘I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re not entirely pleased with me.’
‘Whatever gives you that idea?’ I asked Joe when he found me alone at the back door of the cottage after the fuss died down and the gathering dispersed.
‘Couldn’t really say. Just a hunch.’
I smiled pleasantly as I continued to hurl his belongings, one by one, off the little porch over the wall and into the field behind the cottage.
‘I was trying to help,’ he said. ‘But given the fact you’ve just chucked my pants into a pile of cow shit, I’m going to guess that wasn’t obvious?’
‘Help?’ I paused, his overnight bag in one hand, a very nice pale blue cashmere sweater in the other. ‘You were trying to help?’
It was finally dark outside, but the moon was full, casting a milky luminance across Joe’s face, highlighting the high planes of his cheekbones and the downward curve of his mouth.
‘You didn’t want your family to know you’re Este Cox,’ he replied, nervously eyeing the sweater as I pulled back my arm.
‘And you couldn’t think of a better reason why you might have the manuscript?’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as you’re the creative director at Este Cox’s publishing house and you have the manuscript because you’re working on the cover?’
He barely flinched when I balled up the lovely sweater and threw it as far as I could.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered. ‘That would’ve made more sense.’
‘Yes,’ I said, the sweater sailing through the air before catching on the willow tree behind the cottage and waving back and forth like a fancy flag of surrender. ‘It would.’
‘Sophie, I’m sorry, I really am, but you looked so freaked out, I had to do something.’ Joe took a speculative step forward and I retaliated by pulling a black leather sunglasses case out of the bag. He retreated at once. ‘Telling them I’m Este was the first thought that came into my head and please don’t throw those, they were very expensive.’
‘Obviously there were very few obstacles blocking its way,’ I said through gritted teeth as I chucked the glasses case. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’
‘Aside from save your arse?’
I’d crossed a line with the sunglasses. He crossed the porch in two long strides and grabbed one handle of his overnight bag.
‘It was a stupid thing to say, I see that now, but I can fix it. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll explain it was all a joke and, like you said, I only have the manuscript because I’m working on the book. They’ll believe me.’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’ I agreed, refusing to let go of the bag. ‘People will believe anything that comes out your mouth.’
We stood face to face, each holding onto one handle of his open and half-empty bag until Joe yanked it out of my grasp. He let it fall to the floor, the rest of his belongings spilling out onto the ground.
‘Everyone except for you.’
I wasn’t prepared for his voice to be so soft.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again as I rubbed a sore spot on my palm where I’d been holding on to his bag too tightly. ‘I am genuinely sorry. I should’ve known better. Every time I try to help someone, it only makes things more complicated.’
