Nine
Greg was in a kind of trance. Or possibly a dream. Or maybe a bit of both. It had been a very long time since he had felt like this, and although he wasn’t quite sure what ‘this’ was, he was sure that it felt good.
But he had to be careful. Jemma was only here for a month, and not only that, she was a famous, and no doubt very wealthy, author.
She had told him during their walk along the beach, that she didn’t have a boyfriend and she rarely went out on dates. She had also said that making friends was something she found difficult. Yet the two of them had hit it off today without even trying.
Was she a workaholic, like him? Or were there other reasons why she didn’t go out that often? Was she as settled in her ways as he was?
And what would happen if things went further between them? He was undeniably attracted to her. From the moment he’d bumped into her in fact. But long-distance relationships didn’t work in his experience. Added to which, his heart had been broken once, five years ago. He was in no hurry to risk it again.
But did he have a choice?
He did, of course. Except it wasn’t a choice he relished. He could keep his distance from Jemma, and put up a metaphorical wall between them.
That wouldn’t work. There was an actual wall between them, and he was already wishing it wasn’t there.
Was he overthinking this? They’d only met today. He might feel as though they had known one another forever, but the cold hard truth was, they hadn’t. And Jemma might not even be attracted to him. He could be living in cloud cuckoo land for all he knew.
Why had he suggested lunch at The Royal Oak? He should’ve taken her to Folkestone. There were several upmarket restaurants there.
He could’ve taken her to The Harbour Arm and to The Lighthouse Champagne Bar at the very end, where, on a day like today they could have sat outside beneath clear blue skies, and people watched, bathed in warm summer sunshine. Although he would’ve spent his time watching Jemma.
The Lighthouse Champagne Bar was situated in the renovated lighthouse which still functioned to this day, and that was definitely part of its charm. The vista from there was superb. The White Cliffs stretched along the coast, and there were views of the fishing harbour, the beach, and the Market. You could see Locke Isle in the English Channel, and as far as the coast of France on days like this.
That would’ve been so romantic. Listening to soft music drifting on the breeze, while breathing in the fresh sea air, and drinking champagne.
Instead, like the idiot he was where women were concerned, he was taking her to his local pub, The Royal Oak.
But there was always another day. And going to the pub might be a better way to start. After all, he didn’t want to begin with a bang – figuratively speaking of course – and go out with a whimper. He could build up to a romantic afternoon, or better yet, a sultry summer evening, at The Lighthouse Champagne Bar on The Harbour Arm.
And now, thanks to his daydreaming, if he didn’t put a spurt on, he’d be late. He said he’d be at Oak View Cottage at noon on the dot. That meant he had exactly one minute to get from his bedroom to Jemma’s front door.
He scanned the room for his phone and spotted it on top of the chest of drawers. He checked the back pocket of his chinos for his wallet. Damn. Where had he put that? Asking Jemma to pay for lunch because he couldn’t find his wallet would be a brilliant start. Not! Perhaps he had left it downstairs with his keys.
Had he forgotten anything else? He spun around so fast it almost made him dizzy. Or perhaps that was due to the excitement building in his head. And not just his head. His chest felt tight and his heart was acting strangely. And so were his legs. They felt a little like jelly.
Was he coming down with something? Knowing his luck of late, he’d probably caught pneumonia due to his soaking in yesterday’s downpour.
He took a few deep breaths, glanced at his watch again, let out a strangled gasp, and ran downstairs like lightning. Then he raced along the hall, and turned back again remembering where he’d left his wallet; it was in the kitchen. He ran and grabbed it, and then he grabbed his keys, finally dashing back to the front door. Unfortunately, he tripped over the mat and banged his head against the door.
‘Oww! That hurt.’ He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. ‘Don’t be such a wimp, Greg,’ he reprimanded himself. ‘And act your age for God’s sake. You’re thirty-five, not fifteen.’
He took a deep breath to compose himself before opening the door and stepping outside, just as the clock on St Gabriel’s Church struck twelve. Luckily for him it was a mere five strides of his long legs from his front door to Jemma’s.
‘Sorry I’m late, but I couldn’t find my wallet,’ he said, smiling nervously when Jemma came to the door. ‘Wow. You look … breathtaking.’
Her face flushed crimson and her smile lit up her stunning, green eyes. His heart hit his chest harder than his forehead had hit his front door.
She had looked good earlier, but now she was wearing some make up. Nothing heavy, thank goodness; he hated that so called ‘perfect’ look several women aimed for. It made them resemble porcelain dolls, in his eyes. And who wanted to date a doll? The mascara, hint of eyeshadow, and subtly glistening vermillion lips almost the same colour as her fiery red hair, but softer, simply enhanced her natural beauty. Although she had tried to cover some of her freckles, which was a pity, in his opinion. She had also changed her dress. The one she had worn earlier had been a sleeveless, turquoise, cotton. This one was strapless, emerald green, like her beautiful eyes, and although not clingy, fitted her like a glove.
‘Thank you,’ she said, sounding almost as breathless as he felt. ‘You look pretty good yourself. That blue polo shirt matches your eyes.’
He gave her a playful frown. ‘Shouldn’t that be my line?’
Her laughter sent rivers of delight rushing through him. ‘I believe in equality for women.’
‘Excellent. Does that mean you’re paying for lunch? Sorry. That was a joke but as soon as I’d said it, I knew it wasn’t a good one.’
‘I’m happy to pay for lunch,’ she said, stepping outside and locking the door behind her. ‘After all, you did show me the best views of the beach today. And the easiest access to it, rather than walking up and down all those steps at Lookout Point.’
‘Lookout Steps. Lookout Point is where the wooden bench is situated.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘And now I’m correcting you. I apologise most sincerely. I think my brain is having a malfunction. And there is no way you’re paying for lunch. I asked you, remember? That means this is on me.’ He grinned at her as they walked towards the pub. ‘I’ll send you a bill for this morning’s guided tour.’
She giggled, as did he. Now they were both behaving a bit like teenagers. But he found he rather liked it.
‘Do I get a discount if I book another tour?’ she trilled.
‘We can probably come to an arrangement. What did you have in mind?’
‘You’re the tour guide. You tell me.’
He didn’t dare tell her what he had in mind right now. It was far too soon for that.
He coughed to clear his throat … and to expel the images in his mind’s eye. ‘Well. I could put together an itinerary.’
‘That sounds good to me. Ooh.’ She stopped so suddenly he had to turn around to face her. ‘There is one thing I can think of that I would absolutely love to do.’
‘And that is?’ So could he, and he waited with baited breath.
Sadly, they weren’t the same thing.
‘I would love to have a tour of Betancourt. The ancestral home of the Betancourts, not the village. Although that would be good too.’ She pointed towards the ornate iron gates of the stately home just a short distance away. ‘Do you know the family?’
He smiled at her excitement. ‘Everyone in the village knows the family. I think I can arrange that. Leave it with me.’
They had reached the door to The Royal Oak and he pulled it open for her to go in first, and then he laughed, as she held out her hand indicating he should go before her.
‘Equality for women, remember?’ she said.
‘Ah. But I should inform you that I adhere to the rules of chivalry. We could be here all day.’
‘Then we should be thankful we didn’t meet yesterday. We’d be drenched by now.’
‘Oh how kind of you, young man,’ an elderly woman said as she hobbled past both of them into the pub, her walking stick narrowly missing Greg’s right foot.
Greg and Jemma burst out laughing.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold it on the way in. You hold it on the way out. Wait. That didn’t sound right.’
But Jemma was laughing loudly, and she shook her head and went inside before him.
The pub was popular, and not just with the residents of the village, and despite the fact it had been open for less than five minutes today, there was already a bit of a crowd at the bar. People came from far and wide because despite Greg’s earlier misgivings, lunch at The Royal Oak was a delicious treat, particularly on a Sunday.
Luckily, he had phoned ahead and booked a table by the window that overlooked the ancient oak tree, and because Jemma had just told him that she’d love a tour of Betancourt, he suggested she sit in the seat that also gave a view of the stately home.
‘That oak tree is why this pub is called The Royal Oak,’ he informed her, as she looked through the leaded glass panes. ‘Legend has it that King Richard The Lionheart once sat beneath the ancient oak, on his way to join the Crusades.’
She looked doubtful but she smiled. ‘Really? That would make it eight hundred years old.’
‘It would need to be a bit older than that if King Richard sat beneath it. He became king in 1189 and left for the Crusades in 1190, eight hundred and thirty-four years ago, so if he sat beneath its branches, it has to be another five to ten years on top of that. Which would make it one of the most ancient oaks in the UK. Oaks can live for more than one thousand years, but there aren’t many that do, as far as I’m aware. Not that I know that much about oak trees. Or any trees for that matter. Sorry. That sounded rather like I was giving you a history lesson, didn’t it?’
‘It was interesting. I like history. I write historical romance novels for a living, remember?’
He smiled. ‘Historical romance is a bit like my love-life.’
‘And mine.’
Their eyes met across the table, and locked.
‘Perhaps we can change that,’ he said, his voice cracking as he spoke.
‘That would be nice.’
‘Hi, Greg. Are you and your friend ready to order?’
The spell momentarily broken, Greg looked up and into the face of Charlotte Tollard, the twenty-eight-year-old daughter of Freddie Tollard, owner of the pub.
‘Hi, Charlie. Erm. I know what I’m having, but Jemma might need a few minutes to look at the menu.’ He glanced at Jemma who smiled and shook her head.
‘Nope. I saw the blackboard over the bar the moment we arrived, and as I’m at the seaside, I’d love the skate wing with prosecco, capers, and brown butter sauce, baby potatoes, and steamed samphire and kale, please.’
Greg raised his brows. ‘Excellent choice!’
Charlie chuckled. ‘That’s what he’s having.’
Jemma glanced from Charlie to Greg, clearly astounded. ‘It is?’
Greg nodded. ‘It is. It seems we have similar tastes in food, on top of everything else. It’s sort of my regular meal if I come here on a Sunday.’
‘New girlfriend?’ Charlie asked with a wink and a grin. ‘It’s about time.’
Jemma blushed and Greg almost chocked.
‘We only met this morning,’ Greg said hastily.
‘My mistake,’ said Charlie, still grinning. She looked at Jemma and smiled. ‘I’m Charlie. My dad, Freddie, owns this place and I’m his slave. You look familiar. Have you been here before?’
Jemma smiled back. ‘Hi, Charlie. I’m Jemma. No, I haven’t. I only arrived in the village yesterday evening. I’m renting Oak View Cottage for a month.’
‘Really?’ Charlie shot a look at Greg. ‘Just being neighbourly, then are you, Greggie?’ She winked again. ‘Wine?’
Greg rolled his eyes. Charlie was lovely, but she didn’t care what she said. He looked at Jemma.
‘Is white good for you, Jemma? Or would you prefer something else?’
‘White’s perfect.’
‘Usual?’ Charlie asked.
‘Usual,’ Greg replied.
‘That’s a bottle of our cheapest, sweet, sparkling white, then.’ Charlie sniggered.
‘Bugger off,’ said Greg, with a laugh.
‘Only joking,’ Charlie told Jemma. ‘He likes Sancerre. And that’s expensive.’
‘It is here,’ Greg said, oozing sarcasm.
‘I don’t believe this!’ Jemma exclaimed. ‘Sancerre is one of my favourites.’
‘You two should get married,’ Charlie said, laughing as she walked away.
‘It is incredible how much we have in common,’ Greg said, after a few moments of awkward silence while he wondered if that wasn’t such a bad idea, and whether anyone had actually married someone they’d only known for a day. Meanwhile, Jemma was blushing so deeply that her face was almost the same colour as her hair, and he thought she might catch fire.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s unbelievable.’
His phone rang just at that moment and he gave her an apologetic look while he checked who was calling.
‘Sorry. It’s Laurence. I do need to take this.’
‘Of course. Go ahead. I’ll nip to the loo.’
He watched her as she got to her feet, and the sigh that escaped him was louder than he’d expected. Thankfully, she didn’t appear to have heard it.
‘Greg? Are you there?’ A voice said in his ear.
‘What?’ He’d already forgotten he’d answered the call. ‘Sorry, Laurence. Yes, I’m here. I was miles away for a moment. How are you today?’
‘Bruised, broken, bedridden, bored.’
‘Better?’
‘Barely.’
‘But breathing.’
‘Badly. But being brave.’
Greg chuckled. ‘Okay. I give up. Shall we move on to C? Or do you just want to tell me when I should come and pick you up?’
‘Sadly, not today. Blood pressure’s a concern, apparently, so they’re keeping me here for another night. I should be freed tomorrow. But don’t worry about coming to get me. You’ll be at work. I can get a taxi.’
‘I’ll come and get you. I can take an hour or so off. I am the boss. Just let me know what time and I’ll be there.’
‘You’re a true friend, Greg. And speaking of friendship. Even though I won’t look my best, and I’ll be hobbling around on crutches, I’ll still do the event on Tuesday evening. I won’t let you down. I know how much it means to you.’
‘Forget the event. There’s no way you can do it. You’ve just been in a massive accident and you need to rest for at least a week. I’ll sort something out. Worst case scenario is I’ll cancel it and give the food and drink to the other bookshops taking part. Or to Naomi and Luke in Betancourt Bay Café for their ‘free meals for the needy’ table.’
‘I didn’t realise you were a doctor! I can sit and talk and then sign a few books. I’m not paralysed from head to foot, thank God.’
‘But you do have a broken leg, and even if I was okay with you coming to my bookshop, battered and broken, I don’t think my insurance company would be. Or yours.’
‘Ah. Good point. I’d forgotten the insurance side of things. I’m so sorry, Greg.’
‘It’s not your fault, as I told you on Saturday. Stuff happens. We have to deal with it.’
‘Doesn’t it just? Are you in the pub?’
‘I am. How did you know?’
‘I can hear Charlie’s voice in the background.’
‘You can hear Charlie’s voice in France. She’s on particularly good form today. I’m here with … a friend. Someone you’ll want to meet, as it happens. And Charlie has done her best to embarrass me.’
‘It’s her forte. Are you on a date? Do tell?’ Laurence was clearly excited, judging by the change in the timbre of his voice.
‘Just having lunch with a new friend. I’ll reveal all when you’re home.’
‘Tell me now. I need something to cheer me up. This place is dull, dull, dull.’
‘It’s a hospital, Laurence. It’s not meant to be exciting. Unless you’re having a baby.’ Why had he thought of that? ‘It’ll give you something to look forward to.’
‘You’re such a tease. Well, if you’re on a date, I suppose I’d better leave you in peace.’
‘It’s not a date.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Call me tomorrow, Laurence. Bye.’
Greg rang off and shook his head, smiling. He could’ve told Laurence about Jemma, but he knew what his friend was like. Laurence would be signing himself out of the hospital the moment he heard.
He glanced towards the Ladies’ loos, and saw Jemma deep in conversation with Charlie. A moment of panic rushed through him and then he relaxed. Charlie might be a joker but she wasn’t mean or spiteful. She wouldn’t be saying anything to Jemma that he wasn’t prepared to tell her himself. Unlike some people in this village. Well, only one person really, and that was Barbra Brimble. That woman was nothing but trouble.
He watched Jemma walk back to their table. She seemed to be reading a leaflet.
‘Charlie said you told her to give me this.’ She blushed as she sat down. ‘She said, at first, that it was about safe sex, but then she told me it wasn’t really.’ Jemma smiled sheepishly as she held the leaflet out to him, looking a little perplexed.
‘I didn’t tell her to give you anything. And I certainly wouldn’t have mentioned sex.’ He gave a quick cough as he took it from her. ‘She’s winding us up.’
It was a leaflet advertising the Indie Bookshops Event in Folkestone this coming week. He’d forgotten all the bookshops and the local council had got together to produce a batch of advertising leaflets, booklets, and even bookmarks to help promote the week-long festival.
‘You didn’t mention it.’ She looked a little hurt. As if she had discovered there was a party taking place and she hadn’t been invited.
‘I was going to. But it’s a bit of a sore point at the moment and I thought if I did, I’d start moaning and whining. Or something. But I had planned to tell you about it because, of course, I knew you’d probably be interested.’
‘Probably? Definitely. And not just because I’m a writer and bookshops mean a lot to me in my own career. Also because, as a reader, I support independent bookshops and all the wonderful things so many of them do for their readers.’
He pulled a face. ‘Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘Why is it a sore point?’
‘What? Oh. Because of Laurence’s accident. That was who that call was from, by the way. He’s not getting out until tomorrow. Anyway. It couldn’t have happened at a worse time for me and it’s put me in a tricky situation. The week-long schedule of events in Folkestone is to celebrate independent bookshops, as this leaflet says, but what it doesn’t say is that all the bookshops taking part are personally responsible for their own events. And that means all the planning, organising, running and execution of the same. Plus all the costs. Laurence was due to give a talk and do a book signing in my bookshop, to a sell-out crowd of would-be writers, avid readers, and devotees of independent bookshops like mine. Now my event can’t go ahead on Tuesday, because although his injuries aren’t as serious as they could’ve been, it’ll take him a good few days to recover from the shock, and a lot longer for the broken leg to heal. He’s a close friend, and he wants to participate. He said again just now that he’ll be fine to do it. But he won’t. And I won’t let him. His wellbeing comes first. It’s too late for me to cancel all the food and drink I’ve ordered, but I don’t have time to find another author to take Laurence’s place. It means Bishop’s Books will be the only bookshop no longer holding an event. Not to mention that I’ll be considerably out of pocket, because I’ll have to give refunds for all the tickets. Unless I can quickly come up with something else, I’m going to have to cancel, but I don’t want all that food and drink to go to waste, so I’ll donate it to the local café here in Betancourt Bay. Or give it to the other bookshops. I did think about just having a sort of book club type discussion on Tuesday and giving ticket holders a voucher for an event at a later date, but that’s not really in the spirit of this week. Anyway, that’s my problem. But that’s why I hadn’t mentioned it. Feeling a bit sorry for myself, I suppose.’
‘Is it too late to find another author?’ Jemma had an odd expression on her face.
‘It’s this Tuesday, so yeah. Far too late. Even Saturday was too late. Believe me. I thought about it long and hard. And there’s … Oh God! Sorry. I definitely shouldn’t have gone on about it. I wasn’t hinting or anything. I truly wasn’t.’
Jemma looked him directly in the eye. ‘Well,’ she said, smiling warmly but also nervously. ‘I’m no Laurence Lake, and I hate public speaking, even now, but if you need to find a replacement author, I’m happy to step in.’
Greg vigorously shook his head. ‘No, Jemma! I honestly wasn’t asking. I was just rambling. I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
‘You didn’t ask. I offered.’
‘Yes. But only because I went on and on about it. God. What was I thinking? We’ve only just met and the first thing I do is try to get you to save one of my events. Please forget I said all that. I hope we can be friends and I haven’t blown things with you. I’m truly not the sort of guy who tries to use people for his own ends.’
‘I’m sure you’re not. I asked you about it. You didn’t tell me. I think you told me all that because we’re getting on so well, and because you knew I’d understand how important bookshops are, and how much this event means to you. Unless, what you’re trying to tell me is that I wouldn’t be a good substitute, in which case, that’s fine. But if you think I might be able to help, I’d honestly be delighted. Plus, it just so happens, I’m free on Tuesday evening.’
‘Not a good substitute? Good God, Jemma! How could you possibly think that? You’d be fantastic. But now I feel so guilty. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’
‘I’m sure, Greg. So is that a date? I mean, a booking? Or whatever.’
‘Absolutely, Jemma. You’ve just made my day. I’m not sure I’ll be able to find a way to thank you. But I promise you, I’ll try to think of something.’
‘You’re buying me lunch. That’s thanks enough. Although you’ll have to give me some pointers for Tuesday, and tell me what you want and how you and Laurence had planned it all out. I don’t have any promotional items with me. Or any of my books for a book signing, so we’ll have to think of a way around that.’
‘I stock all your books, so I have some. But they do fly off the shelves so I don’t have enough for a full signing. We’ll work something out. I could tell people they can order them and, if it’s okay with you, you can sign them when they arrive, and then the purchasers can come and collect them. Or is that too much of a cheek for me to ask you to do that?’
‘No. I’m here for a month so it won’t be a problem.’
‘Here’s your wine,’ said Charlie. ‘Sorry for the delay. It’s busy today.’ She placed an ice bucket containing the bottle on the table, together with the glasses. ‘Want to try it?’
‘No. It’ll be fine. It always is.’
‘You know I’ll swap it if today’s the one day it’s not,’ she said, grinning. ‘Your meals won’t be too long. Looking forward to next week?’ She nodded towards the leaflet that now lay on the table.
‘I am now,’ said Greg.
‘Weren’t you before? You’re usually so excited about these things. Oh. But of course. Sorry. I heard this morning that Laurence is in hospital and he’s broken his leg and bashed his head, so I don’t suppose he’ll be doing his talk, will he? Hope you can find someone to replace him. Give him our best when you speak to him. And good luck for next week.’
‘News travels fast in this village,’ Greg said, as Charlie dashed away. ‘It won’t take long for everyone to hear that Jemma Granger, the famous author, is staying in Betancourt Bay. Don’t be surprised if people come knocking on your door asking for selfies and autographs.’
Jemma gave a loud gasp, and the colour drained from her face. She seemed anxious now. And even … a little afraid.
‘What’s wrong, Jemma? Has something I said upset you?’
She nodded slowly and swallowed hard before taking a deep breath.
‘I … I came here to escape from all that,’ she said, her voice just a fraction above a whisper. ‘And to concentrate on writing my next book. Will they really find out I’m here?’
‘Not from me,’ he said, suddenly feeling he would do anything he could to protect her. ‘I only meant the residents of the village, and they’re all very friendly. But I’ll tell them to leave you in peace. Better yet, I’ll ask Griff Betancourt to tell them. And they will, believe me. When Griff says something, everyone takes notice, as crazy as that seems in this day and age.’
‘Thank you. That would … make me feel better.’
‘Jemma? You don’t have to do the event on Tuesday,’ he said, now riddled with even more guilt than before. ‘If you’re trying to keep a low profile, taking part in next week’s event might not be wise.’
‘But … you need someone to replace Laurence.’
‘Yes. But not at the expense of your wellbeing either. I’d rather cancel than cause either you of any harm. You should’ve told me you wanted to be incognito. I would’ve respected that. But I haven’t told anyone you’re here. Not even Laurence, yet, so your secret is safe with me. In fact. That’s it. I’ve made up my mind. I’m cancelling my event.’
‘No! You … you can’t do that. I’m being silly.’ She sat upright and pushed out her chin and her chest, almost as if she had stepped into some sort of warrior’s armour. We won’t tell anyone I’m staying here and then everyone at the event will think I’ve just come down for the day. And if no one in this village says anything, then no one will find out, will they? I’ll ask Molly to keep it quiet. And if anyone thinks they recognise me, I suppose I could always say I’m one of those lookalikes, and my name is … Esme. I’m doing your event, Greg. Whether you like it or not.’
He beamed at her. ‘That’s the spirit. And I like the name Esme. Not as much as Jemma, but it has a nice ring to it. That’s similar to the name of your main character in your bestselling series, ‘The Fitzglover Legacy’, isn’t it? She’s called Esmeralda, isn’t she?’
Jemma brightened like a cloud had lifted from her, and she nodded vigorously.
‘My gran’s name was Esme. I named Lady Esmeralda Fitzglover after her. And gran told me never to be scared of anything. Unless it is a wild animal, a person wielding a weapon, or a deadly disease. Even then, I shouldn’t be scared, just sensible. And I should keep a safe distance and be prepared.’
‘Well I don’t think there are any of those in Betancourt Bay. And I promise I will keep you safe and sound in my bookshop. But please, Jemma. If you do decide you’d rather not do the event, all you have to do is say so.’