The truth was, he didn’t want Noah to leave. With their hot chocolates and the flickering candles, everything felt safe. Comfortable. The snow outside, the chill in the air – it all felt secondary with Noah nearby.
‘It’s alright,’ Noah said, heading away from the table. ‘I don’t think I can hear this yet.’
‘Noah…’ Hermione began.
‘Mum, it’s fine,’ Noah said. He placed a strong hand on Quinn’s shoulder. ‘You speak to Quinn. I’ve got some writing to do, anyway.’
And with a pat of Quinn’s shoulder, he was gone, leaving Quinn feeling lonely, but also curious.
Being with Hermione was like a fever dream. He watched her, aware that she was probably feeling his gaze, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She possessed something, no doubt what the producers and the directors saw in her all those years ago. He compared her to the photos he had seen of her, and, of course, her appearances in films. She still looked the same, ever so slightly older, though of course many years had passed. Either she’d aged well or knew an excellent surgeon, and if it was a surgeon, he wanted the number.
She looked like Noah. The same strong nose, the same eye shape, the same shaded hair.
Noah’s footsteps faded away. Not surprising, considering this house was however many square feet with twisting hallways and god knew how many rooms.
‘Why now?’
‘Oh, plenty of reasons,’ Hermione said. ‘We’ll get to that. I’m just ready for the world to know what happened all those years ago, amongst other things.’
‘Do you want me to record this?’
‘Do what you wish,’ Hermione said. ‘I have to admit, when I saw your name come through, I was relieved.’
‘Relieved?’
Hermione stood up and headed to a nearby cabinet. She crouched down, reaching for something he couldn’t see. Quinn watched, fascinated. As she turned around, she held a bouquet of red roses.
Thered roses.
Quinn’s gasp was louder than he thought possible. ‘Hermione. Dad. You?’
Hermione returned to her seat and handed Quinn the roses. The aroma greeted him, almost transporting him back to his father’s grave. The sweet, earthy tone felt familiar, yet strange, in this setting. ‘I loved your father.’
Quinn didn’t want to hear it. Couldn’t hear it. He would forever regret signing up for this and finding out his dad had been having an affair with Hermione.
‘Not romantically,’ Hermione said, as if she suspected where his thoughts were going.
‘But the roses. Your love?’
Hermione nodded. ‘Your father was the kindest man to me. When everyone else hated me, made fun of me, laughed about me, your dad didn’t. Your dad always had time for me, Quinn. He would write to me. Come visit me. He’d recommend books. Talk to me like I was a normal person. One time, I asked him if he was playing a trick on me. He said he didn’t care about any of that stuff, but if I ever wanted to talk to him, I could. And you know what? I did. I felt safe with your father.’
The times his mum thought Gerald had been having an affair. All the evenings he would come home late. Roses being delivered to the shop, then to the graveyard. The fleeing figure. All of it had been Hermione?
‘Why did you run from me?’
‘I thought you might be the press,’ Hermione said. ‘I try to avoid people. I hate their stares. Hate what they’re thinking about me. Like I say, your dad was my only friend here in Hay. He never judged me.’
Quinn leaned back in his chair, dumbfounded.
‘Wow, Hermione.’
‘Drink your hot chocolate.’
The drink helped him process everything he was thinking and the way Hermione’s admission made him feel. She watched him the whole time as he thought of his father and the secret life he’d led with the Hollywood actress. As soon as Quinn got out of here, he would go straight to the graveyard and wait until the robin hopped on by and he would question everything. This time, he would make sure the robin responded.
‘If you’re going to write for me, Quinn, then we can’t dance around the subject.’
Quinn cleared his throat, feeling that familiar sting of embarrassment in his cheeks. ‘You’re ready to talk about the sex tape.’
