Chapter 51
Heading downstairs just before six, she held her breath as she checked the door in case he’d been by.
Nothing. She hadn’t really expected there to be.
If he came it was usually half past six; probably en route to whatever it was he did with himself afterward.
What did people who committed random acts of petty violence do with their days?
It was hard to imagine him carrying on to his office job, washing any traces of cream from his hands before sitting at his desk and cracking a joke with a colleague.
The thought of him shoving his balaclava in his pocket and going about his day infuriated her enough to propel her outside to wait.
—
The street was quiet, pale morning sun casting the other side of the road in shadow.
She’d grabbed her sunglasses from behind the counter, and she hid behind them now as she scanned left and right, on high alert.
It was a typical wide suburban road scattered with a mix of shops and residential flats, chosen years ago by Liv for its footfall and passing trade.
Not that you’d know it at that hour of the morning.
It was usually deserted, but this morning Kate could see a gaggle of people in the distance.
She squinted hard behind her dark glasses, trying to make the figures out.
It looked for all the world like an eccentric hen party, but they’d have to be pretty hardcore hens to still be on it at six a.m .
, especially on a weekday. They were making their way along her side of the road.
She checked the time again. Six-fifteen.
Maybe he wouldn’t come. Or maybe he would and get derailed by the hen party, so she’d have to stand outside and wait again tomorrow.
God, please cross the road, girls, she thought, I can’t stay in this state for another twenty-four hours.
She checked the time on her mobile again, thoroughly confused. Six-twenty a.m. One of the crowd spotted her outside the shop and called her name, and they all picked up their pace to a trot, louder now as they approached.
“Morning, Kate,” someone said. One of the bridesmaids.
“We’ve come to help,” another said as they clustered outside the fancy-dress shop. There were at least twenty of them, maybe closer to twenty-five. Kate slid her sunglasses into her hair and pressed her hand to her throat, overwhelmed.
“What…? I mean, how…?”
“We saw you on TV,” someone said, threading through to the front of the crowd. “No way we’re letting some guy harass you like that.”
Kate looked at the women grouped around her, dumbfounded. And then she spotted a face she recognized: Claire, the supermarket assistant whom Liv had thrown the trifle at in the first place.
“We’re all book people, and we get it now, you’re one of us,” Claire said, a tremor in her voice. “I hate how this trifle thing has gotten out of hand, it was all something and nothing and should have stayed that way. I’m really sorry, I wish I’d never posted it.”
“We saw people talking in our online book club about gathering here to help you today,” one of the bridesmaids said. “Liv has been so great to us, we wanted to show our appreciation.”
“Same,” one of the Peaky Blinders said, her feathered headband quivering as she nodded her head.
“ The Power of Love is the best book I’ve read this year,” someone said.
Everyone started to speak over one another about the book, and Kate took a moment to pull herself together as a car drew up.
“Is he one of this lot?” Claire jumped to attention as a bunch of guys tumbled out of the doors.
Kate sucked in a sharp breath; she recognized those soccer shirts.
“Did someone order security?” One of them laughed, rubbing his hands together as if he’d come for a rumble. Kate remembered him as the guy who’d first offered her a beer on the train.
“What are you all doing here?” she said, her hand on his arm.
He shrugged. “We know a thing or two about being judged a certain way,” he said.
“Thought you might fancy a beer,” his mate said, pulling a can out of his pocket which he’d obviously had there for comedic effect.
Kate started to laugh, slightly hysterical as the gold soccer shirts threaded among the Bridgerton dresses and the Peaky Blinders girls.
Six twenty-four a.m . “Okay, form a line in front of the shop,” someone called, and everyone shuffled haphazardly into a rowdy barricade.
“He might not even come,” Kate said, still wrapping her head around the idea of these strangers all wading in to defend her and Liv. She stood near to the door, flanked on each side by Bridgerton bridesmaids.
“The absolute nerve of him,” someone whispered, and they all turned their heads in unison to see a bike approaching from the far end of the street.
“Quiet, everyone,” Claire whispered, like the floor manager on a costume drama. They were scattered in a line, a statue-still bracelet of color and drama.
An expectant hush fell over them, like guests waiting for the lights to flick on at a surprise party.
There was no exact plan as balaclava man drew closer, one hand jauntily on his handlebars, the other reaching inside his jacket for his ammunition.
It was as if he hadn’t spotted the difference that morning, distracted maybe, by his task.
He was too close, slowing to a stop almost, by the time the crowd erupted, lunging toward him with a battle cry that filled the air with expletives and heaving bridesmaid cleavage.
To give the guy his credit, his reflexes were sharp, throwing trifle down the front of his jacket as he whipped his bike around and pedaled hell for leather in the opposite direction.
He’d probably have made his escape too, if it wasn’t for someone else coming toward him down the middle of the road.
“Charlie,” Kate breathed.
The rider tried to swerve but Charlie was faster, blocking his path, sending the bike in one direction and the rider sliding on his backside in the other. The crowd swept forward like a wave, encircling him to block all possible escape routes.
Kate stepped up and pulled the balaclava off his head, staring at last at the person who’d been making her life a misery. Messy blond hair, defiant gray eyes, a twenty-something nobody of note, not recognizable to her at all.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” someone hissed behind her, loud and disgusted. Claire moved forward to stand beside Kate, staring at him in disdain. “Ciaran?”
The guy on the road wiped his hands down his legs, smearing trifle and grit on his jeans.
“I was only doing it for you,” he said, scowling at Claire. “You’re so obsessed with your blog and your bloody love stories. This book, that book, every fucking other book.”
The crowd gawped. If the Bridgerton girls had had their fans, they’d have flapped them furiously.
“Don’t even, Ciaran,” Claire said, hands on her hips. “Of all the people, my own sodding fiancé…” She raised her eyes to the skies. “I can’t believe this is happening. I want the ground to literally open and swallow me up.”
“Swallow him up more like,” someone said. “Dissing love stories.”
“How are normal men ever supposed to compete with twatty book heroes?” Ciaran moaned, wiping trifle through his hair.
“By not throwing pudding at us, for starters,” an older woman in a straw hat shouted from the back.
“Or terrorizing us every day,” Kate said.
“Maybe you should read some of those love stories instead of insulting them, you might actually learn something,” Claire said.
“You could start with Kate’s book,” one of the Peaky girls said, taking an elegant drag from her elongated cigarette holder, even though there was no cigarette in the end of it.
“It’s not mine anymore,” Kate said, not prepared to go down that particular road again.
“Oh, trust me, everyone gets that after yesterday, but it kind of is still yours too,” Claire said. “You were really heartfelt on TV. I felt like such a cow. I think most booklovers would have done the exact same thing if they’d been in your position. I know I would.”
A ripple of agreement went round the crowd, and out of the corner of her eye Kate saw Ciaran try to get to his feet and sidle away. Charlie was behind him, a heavy hand on his shoulder to hold him down.
“Not until they say so, pal.” He looked at Kate to give her the choice, and the crowd fell quiet, many of them enthralled by Charlie’s cool presence. They had no idea who he was or where he’d come from, but they were totally here for whatever it was zinging between him and Kate.
Kate stared at the trifle-splattered man spread-eagled on the road. He was no further threat to Liv. She turned to Claire.
“It’s your call,” she shrugged.
Claire stared at her fiancé, the look of a truly disappointed woman. “Just go to work,” she sighed.
Ciaran clambered up, a sticky, undignified mess, and when he opened his mouth to plead his case, Claire held her hand up, not ready to listen. The crowd parted for him to leave, their arms folded, their faces all set in the same “don’t mess with the book community” expression.
He scuttled away and picked his bike up, giving it a shake before pedaling off, not daring to glance back.
“There’s not enough flowers in the world to make up for this one,” someone shouted after him.
“Or diamonds, or chocolate,” one of the bridesmaids chippedin.
Kate cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Or books,” and the women erupted into noisy whistles and applause.