Before I could go anywhere, I felt a hand on the back of my waist, and my shoulders snapped back straight as our group was joined by the old pussyhound himself.
‘Anthony,’ Joe said, an equally broad and equally fake smile spoiling his handsome face. ‘How are you? I heard you’d moved back.’
‘Good, busy, you know me, always making moves.’ He gave a humiliating shimmy that I think we all regretted. ‘I’m doing my civic duty by warning this young lady about you.’
‘Yes,’ I replied pleasantly. ‘Anthony was just telling me how you’re a total pussyhound who hogged all the top tier totty in New York.’
The four of us stood in an uncomfortable square, no one sure what to say next.
‘I know!’
Anthony broke the impasse with a look of delight on his face. ‘What happened to that editor girl you were so pally with over at Knoll? I haven’t seen her in a dog’s age. Was she American? Australian, maybe.’
‘Canadian. She’s fine.’
I’d only known Joe for a little more than forty-eight hours but I knew when someone was looking shifty. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so quick to leap to his defence with Mal and William.
‘Heard all sorts about that one,’ Anthony said, making a show of speaking out the corner of his mouth even though we could all hear him far too clearly. ‘You did the right thing cutting your losses.’
‘Anyway, what about those spare ribs?’ William, always able to read a room, clapped his hands then rubbed his stomach. ‘I’m ravenous, who wants to hit the buffet?’
‘Bloody talented though,’ Anthony went on, either ignoring or simply not caring about mine or Joe’s discomfort. ‘And I know you can’t say it these days but, fit as.’
‘But here you are, saying it anyway.’ Joe turned his attention to me, lips pursed, jaw rigid. ‘Sophie, do you have a minute?’
‘Watch out, Willy,’ Anthony gasped. ‘He’s cracking on to your sister, right in front of you. Before I even had a chance as well.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Anthony, give it a break,’ William snapped. ‘We both know you’ve only ever slept with one woman.’
‘I told you that in confidence!’ I heard him yell as Joe pulled me away, dodging one of Mum’s newspaper colleagues dressed as the bearded lady.
‘Khan is the worst,’ Joe fumed as he strode away. ‘No talent, no creativity, no business skills, the only reason he has a job is because his dad owns the agency.’
‘Publishing nepo babies strike again.’ I looked around at Dad’s guests noting more than a few multi-generational groups. ‘We’re the worst.’
‘We’re nothing like him,’ Joe countered.
‘I know I’m not,’ I replied. ‘For starters no one has ever accused me of being a pussyhound.’
‘You should try it some time, you might like it,’ he tried to laugh but the joke fell flat and instead he rubbed the back of his ear with an anxious finger.
‘Didn’t you want something?’ I asked, searching the crowd for a glimpse of Sarah. How long could it take to house a cone of mini fish and chips?
Digging one hand deep into the pocket of his charcoal grey trousers, Joe poked the toe of his shoe into the grass. ‘Soph, I’m not going to pretend I haven’t done my fair share of dating. More than my fair share probably, but I don’t see why I should have to justify what happened in my past.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ I agreed. ‘You don’t do relationships, you’ve been very clear about it. No one is judging you.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I couldn’t care less.’ The words definitely came out more loudly than I would’ve liked. ‘You can do whatever or whoever you want to. It’s got nothing to do with me.’
Even though it was very difficult to turn on your heel and flounce away in a pair of slides, I did my best. The party was in full swing, dozens of guests were packed in the huge garden, laughing and talking under the string lights, Pimm’s and champagne flowing freely. Mum was surrounded by a group of young writers as always, all of them trying to locate her good side and get on it, Dad was bouncing through the crowd, coiled whip on his hip, seamlessly introducing his pub friends to his publishing pals, William was still trapped in conversation with Anthony Khan, and Charlotte was still frisking latecomers like a very angry airport worker. Everyone, except for William, seemed to be having the time of their lives.
I took off down the garden and leaned against the back of the oak tree to watch the sun start its descent over the fields. The sky was beyond beautiful, shafts of light slicing through the gathering clouds, so clearly defined I felt I could almost reach out and touch them. The wheatfield that stretched out past the back of the cottage and out into the distance was brilliant in the fading sun, glowing and gold, uncut sheaths shimmering. Once, before Charlotte was born, while we were visiting, my grandfather took me and William out to pick the wheat and when I closed my eyes I could feel their feathery leaves and spiky heads against my palm, soft and sharp at the same time. When we got home, he showed us how to grind the seeds between two stones to make flour.
It was miraculous, the fact you could take one thing and turn it into something else entirely. It was the same with words. It never ceased to amaze me how many different books could be written by so many different people, all using the same words. And those words were available to anyone, everyone, all the time. One minute you could be writing an email or a text and the next, you’re banging out a novel. Not to say writing a novel was easy but it was possible, there was nothing stopping anyone from giving it a shot as long as they had something to write on, an imagination and the time to do it. And from what I heard, time was usually the trickiest part. I was lucky, it was a gift CJ didn’t even know he’d given me, unlike the edible underwear he left on my pillow on our last Valentine’s Day together that went straight in the bin.
I felt something on my shoulder and saw a ladybird alighted there, settling for a moment before I lightlyblew her on her way and she flew off towards the rosebushes. Joe was wrong. I wasn’t judging him. I didn’t care about his past, not really. What I cared about was his future. I wanted him so badly, my body ached with it. I pressed my bare shoulders against the rough bark of the tree and told myself it was his hands. I let my own fingertips drift across my collarbone, wishing he was there in front of me, and tipped my head back for a kiss that wasn’t coming. If this was my book, Eric would’ve appeared before a despondent Jenna, scooped her up off the ground and carried her away to relieve her frustration and smother her doubts with the undeniable force of his love. But it wasn’t my book, it was my life. And like he’d already told me, Joe was not Eric.
