‘Have you met everyone before, or should we do introductions?’ Nisha asked.
‘I think I know everyone already,’ Amy replied, looking around the room. Mr Bradley was here, perched in a high-backed armchair, though Gran had declined to come along this evening in favour of relaxing with Bertie, Miss Marple and a new box of After Eights. Simon was sitting next to Barbara and Dave on one of the velvet couches; Dave looked very much as though he’d been dragged here against his will. In another chair– the oldest, squishiest-looking one in the room– sat Meg. She smiled at Amy tentatively, but with sincere warmth.
‘What can I get you to drink, Amy? Wine? Beer? G&T?’ Sam asked.
What– you mean you don’t have a tray of champagne cocktails available for guests upon arrival? The jibe was on the tip of Amy’s tongue, but she determinedly bit it back. She had enough decorum to understand that picking a fight with Sam in his own house wouldn’t be a good look– and while the very sight of him made her itch with annoyance, it seemed clear she was the only one with a problem. Even Barb and Dave were here and sipping politely from pint glasses, despite the nightmare situation Sam’s father had put them in. This, as well as Sam’s willingness to open up the house to visitors, confirmed it for Amy: Roger and Pamela must be away, somewhere far enough afield that there was no chance they’d appear to interrupt the evening’s event.
‘Glass of red, please,’ Amy said. ‘I’m not fussy– whatever you have open.’
Sam nodded wordlessly and a few moments later passed her a large glass of what she decided was Pinot Noir. It was delicious: smooth, light and an almost translucent dark cherry colour.
‘Now we’re all assembled,’ Mr Bradley said, ‘I’m going to ask Nisha to kick us off tonight by explaining why she nominated this novel for everyone to read. Nisha?’
Nisha grinned girlishly, took a swig of rosé wine from her glass and said: ‘Well. Philippa is myfave-of-all-timeauthor, as some of you know. I love romances, and I loved this story– I think it’s maybe her best yet.’
‘I see,’ Mr Bradley nodded. ‘So in large part, this was about bringing a book you found particularly entertaining to the group– allowing us the privilege of sharing in one of your passions.’
Amy smiled to herself and reasoned that she should probably take notes as Mr Bradley pressed Nisha for why she felt it was Philippa’s best work. Ever the kindly teacher, he was the perfect unofficial chairperson for tonight’s meeting– and probably every other, she suspected.
‘So how did everyone else feel about the novel?’ Mr Bradley went on, and one by one the book club’s members shared their thoughts.
Dave struggled to articulate his view, so Barbara explained on his behalf that he’d chiefly enjoyed the sex scenes. Simon said he’d found the book’s exploration of social class interesting, while Meg lamented the fact that Lady Sarah’s life choices had been so circumscribed by her gender. Mr Bradley himself said he’d found the story affecting, and its style unusually poetic. In particular, he praised the dramatic scene where Lady Sarah’s family seat burns down in the manner of Jane Eyre’s Thornfield Hall.
‘Now, Amy,’ he said, turning to her. ‘I understand you have a personal– possibly even professional– connection to this author. So we must all assure you that whatever passes between us in the sacred confines of book club will stay confidential.’ He smiled, pleased with his own little joke.
Amy blanched as she felt all eyes turn to her. Sam’s seemed to be staring hardest, full of interest and wry amusement.
‘That’s right,’ Amy said, trying to keep her tone measured and neutral. ‘I recently met up with Philippa for work, although I can’t tell you any more about that at the moment. As for the book … I’ve never been into love stories, so even picking this up was a slightly odd experience for me. Out of character. I did enjoy it, though– more than I expected to.’
She couldn’t help noticing that Sam’s eyes were still on her. His lips had curled into a pert smile, just a smidge away from smug.
‘That’s interesting, Amy,’ Mr Bradley said, and she turned her attention back to him. ‘Is it fair to surmise that, since you moved back to Rowton, you’ve begun working on a type of fiction you’re less familiar with?’
‘Definitely,’ Amy said. ‘This genre is a new challenge for me.’
Her former teacher nodded, in a ‘we’ll come back to that later’ sort of way. He turned to Sam and asked, ‘What thoughts on the book were uppermost in your mind?’
‘I inhaled it,’ Sam said. ‘Read it in a day.’ Then, seemingly unable to resist, he added: ‘Unlike some, though, I wasn’t surprised by that. I hadn’t assumed it would be bad simply because it’s popular.’
‘A striking point, which I think we should explore further.’ Mr Bradley nodded, seeming to have missed altogether that Sam’s comment was a pointed dig at Amy. ‘Why is it that so many people assume entertaining novels have less value than more– quote unquote–seriousbooks? We might wish to remember that in his day, Charles Dickens wrote the latest must-reads– yet now his stories are considered part of the literary canon and are studied in schools.’
‘It’s rooted in a kind of snobbery, I suppose,’ Sam said, looking directly at Amy in a way that made her toes curl and her blood boil. ‘A form of prejudice.’
Other people were nodding. ‘Give me a romance or a thriller any day of the week,’ Barbara said. ‘I can’t be doing with these books where there’s no punctuation and it’s all one long chapter. I like nice, clear breaks in a story so I can peg the washing out, go for a walk or make a cuppa without losing the plot.’
‘Personally,’ Sam said, unable to stop himself grinning as he goaded her, ‘I think it’s a littlepretentiousto assume that a story can’t have depth or emotional resonance simply because it satisfies its readers, or leans into tropes they find entertaining.’
Amy could feel her pulse rate rising by degrees. He’d suggested– and in front of a room full of people– that she was pretentious. Was he kidding? He lived in aliteral mansion. And the more she looked at it, the more certain she was that the wallpaper in here contained flecks of real gold leaf.
‘I’d even argue,’ Sam continued, impervious to the glare Amy had now fixed on him, ‘that someone like Philippa Fotheringham has a more difficult task crafting a book than some of the literary wunderkinds who turn out stream-of-consciousness screeds with no clear structure, characterisation or themes.’
‘Now who’s being judgemental?’ Amy demanded, unable to contain herself. ‘I’ve worked with some amazing literary authors whose books mean an awful lot to people.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Sam said, shrugging. ‘But I’d be willing to bet you’d never say one oftheirbooks confounded your expectations simply by being readable.’ He smiled at her.
‘I never said anything about feelingconfounded,’ Amy cried, her voice edging dangerously close to shrill. She asked herself if she really was prepared to be lectured by a man who was a key beneficiary of the awful situation Barbara and Dave were in, only to find the woman herself staring daggers in Amy’s direction. The subliminal message delivered was:don’t you dare bring it up, young lady– it isn’t your place.
‘I thought you implied that you began this book with some trepidation, only to discover– to your shock– that it wasn’t total rubbish,’ Sam said into the momentary silence.
