‘Oh, thank God,’ Amy sighed. ‘Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
There was no point in relaying the Bertie disaster right now. If she was going to have to confess to losing him, far better to do it in person; it was the least Amy owed her grandmother after everything she’d done for her.
The storm seemed to be receding; the air felt almost steamy as the heavy rain gave way to a light, dwindling drizzle. Perhaps if she spent a few minutes looking for Bertie now before heading back to the car, he’d come out from wherever he was hiding.
She said goodbye to Ken and rang off, then looked up, feeling Sam’s eyes on her. ‘Gran’s operation is done,’ she said. ‘Mr B says everything went fine.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said, sincerely, then looked away from her. ‘That’s very good news.’
‘Sam—’ Amy began, not really knowing where she was going with her sentence. At the same time, he blurted, ‘At least let me help you look for Bertie—’
Then her phone rang again. She jumped in alarm. Had Grace taken a bad turn? When she pulled the handset out of her pocket, though, she saw it was Nisha calling. That was weird– she was very much a WhatsApp or text message sort of person.
‘Nish,’ Amy said, ‘is everything OK?’
‘I have Bertie here!’ she cried. ‘I saw him trotting down the high street in the rain, poor little love. I’ve got him in the back of the shop. He’s wrapped up in a towel with a packet of ham slices, happy as Larry.’
‘Of course he is,’ Amy said, furious with him but intensely grateful for her good fortune, for the second time in as many minutes. ‘He slipped his harness in the wood,’ she explained. ‘I’ll be right there, just hang onto him.’
‘Will do,’ Nisha said cheerfully.
‘You’re amazing,’ Amy said into the phone, ‘a lifesaver. See you soon.’
‘Bertie’s OK as well?’ Sam asked as Amy shoved her phone back into her bag.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘At the shop. Gorging himself on Nisha’s stock, no less.’
‘Good. That’s a relief, too.’
‘Sam—’ she tried again, but he held a hand up to stop her.
‘I think you’ve probably said enough, Amy. Don’t try to backpedal now, I’ll know you don’t mean it. Go and fetch Bertie, get those wounds cleaned up, and then go and see Grace. Please give her my love.’
Amy nodded, mute but tearful again at the sound of that word in his mouth. ‘I will.’
‘Thanks. I suppose I’ll speak to you at some point on Monday, then. Aboutwork, of course.’
He turned and walked away, straightening his back and squaring his broad, sodden shoulders in the returning sunlight, now sliding serenely through fluffy white clouds. The gesture went straight to Amy’s heart.
Chapter 22
As it turned out, Amy didn’t speak to Sam on Monday. Or Tuesday, or Wednesday. In fact, it had now been more than a week since their row in the wood and she’d heard nothing from him.
Despite watching her phone and email inbox almost constantly, all she’d received were a few RomFest messages in CC– stuff he was copying her in on for the sake of completeness, and none of which addressed her directly.
She should feel happy about this. After all, he was doing precisely as she’d asked and restricting contact with her to what was professional and necessary. In reality, she felt edgy and bereft.
Grace, who was now home and recovering well from her hip replacement operation, had asked Amy repeatedly what was wrong. She was visibly glum, and knew her grandmother was worried, but what could she say? ‘I’ve had a massive argument with someone Ialwaysargue with, so in theory I ought to be fine– but actually, I feel like I want to cry, sink my head into a vat of wine and eat all the chocolate I can lay my hands on. Not necessarily in that order.’
No. Any explanation of her mood that was even half true would only lead to more questions– none of which Amy was keen to answer. Instead of admitting to her confrontation with Sam, or to the fact that she missed speaking to him, she mumbled some vague nonsense about work stress and changed the subject each time Grace checked in on her. The routine was already wearing thin.
On Friday afternoon, Amy took the train into Birmingham for lunch with Philippa Fotheringham. In theory, their date was in celebration of theLove to Hate Youmanuscript being fully signed off and almost ready for readers to enjoy– but it was fair to say that Amy, despite the professional success this new novel represented for her, was not in a triumphant mood.
When she arrived at Russo’s, the small but five star-reviewed restaurant they’d chosen for their meet-up, Amy saw that– like last time they’d got together for a meal– Philippa was already there. The woman was early for everything, which made perfect sense given all that Amy had learned about her since April. Like Carolyn, Philippa was the sort of person who wouldn’t ever be caught on the back foot. Today, as always, her ultra-feminine exterior belied the ferocious businesswoman within. She was dressed in a frothy pink maxi dress that reminded Amy of the stuff other girls her age used to dress Barbie dolls in. Philippa’s hair was freshly coloured and professionally styled– a voluminous, ashy blonde tumble of shiny waves that made Amy’s inky, somewhat grown-out bob feel very drab by comparison.
‘Bloody hell, bab,’ Philippa said as Amy pulled up a chair and poured herself a cool glass of water. ‘You look like you’ve lost a tenner and found a parking ticket. What’s up?’
Amy was dismayed. She’d done her best to look cheerful even though she didn’t feel it, donning a cherry-red, 1950s-style cotton dress with a sweetheart neckline plus matching wedge sandals. She ought to have known better, though; she’d come to understand that one of the reasons why Philippa wrote so well was her rare ability to read people, effortlessly and accurately. She understood what made others tick, which helped immensely when it came to crafting believable characters and the relationships between them– but God, was her talent inconvenient right now.
