Chapter Three
The room was silent, except for the clangs and tinkles from the anteroom, a muffled Italian exclamation, the rustle of a bread bag.
‘Well,’ repeated Beth, mischief now transforming her flushed features. ‘How did you come to write the same scene?’
Olivia finally exhaled, then attempted a high kind of laugh.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I wrote a restaurant scene with some – all – of that food. It was between Kath and Justice, after Justice’s overseas position had kept them apart for so long, and, of course, there’s the whole business with the artwork conspiracy, and the injury, and Kath’s baby .
. . not to give too much away, of course .
. .’ She was trying to deflect. It hadn’t worked.
The audience was rapt. ‘. . . and I can’t comment on Leo’s book because I haven’t read it. ’
‘You’ve never read any of my books,’ Leo said slowly, to a rippling quill of laughter in the crowd. ‘Not since the first one.’ He trained his eyes on her, steady and unblinking.
‘No,’ Olivia agreed. ‘And you, none of mine, not since the first one, either.’
The audience looked at each other, bemused.
‘Maybe I could start The Curator tonight?’ he added. ‘I’m overdue a little romance in my life.’
‘I don’t believe that!’ Olivia’s return was quick-fire, but her shot almost went off target.
She was distracted by his eyes, his lips, that warm skin at the base of his throat .
. . and by all of their shared memories.
For she had once revealed herself to him, too; had stepped forward, for him to embrace her, to know her heart and be its salve.
She didn’t like this showman version of Leo.
She remembered it only too well. And she didn’t like the quick-fire side of her, either.
Once upon a time, they had been real with each other.
‘Well, you’ve written the same scene,’ said Beth conclusively. ‘Anyone who happens to read both books would say that as well.’
Lit in pale winter sunlight from the window, there was a certain obstinacy about Beth, Olivia thought.
She imagined that Beth had been a very forthright little girl, one who always had her hand up at school, who read and read, and wrote lists of the books she wanted for Christmas, presenting them to her father in September, along with the things she wanted from the Grattan catalogue.
A little girl very similar to the one Olivia Sackville had been.
‘Well,’ Leo said generously, his voice like maple syrup, ‘it happens. It’s just a coincidence,’ he added. ‘Really.’
‘So, you’ve never shared a meal like that together?’ Beth pressed.
‘Us?’ Leo looked at Olivia and smiled confidently, but there was a note of something else in that look, she thought. Melancholy? Reproach? Or was that just her? ‘No, of course we haven’t.’
Olivia’s heart still thudded. Were they done with this now? What on earth had just happened? Where were Beth’s usual questions about writing processes and how an author ordered their desk?
‘Of course we haven’t,’ she echoed. ‘Who on earth would want to go for dinner with Leo Greene?’
The members of the audience laughed. Somewhere in the anteroom, a coffee cup fell to the floor and smashed.
Leo muttered, ‘Bloody hell!’ – either to the cup, or Olivia’s put-down, it was hard to tell – to much amusement.
They were still showboating, Olivia thought, her and Leo.
They were sparring like actors in a sparky comedy, not acting like two people who had laden each other with guilt and anger before disappearing from each other’s lives for three years.
Except, that wasn’t quite true, was it? They had seen each other, eighteen months ago.
Olivia had been escorting a rather worse for wear Maeve King, fantasy romance author, out of the London Reads summer party at the Victoria she no longer knew him.
Their past was a drifting ship that had long sailed from shore.
But somehow, in the last couple of years, they had both written the same scene about a meal they had once shared right here in Italy.
They had described the same food, the same candles.
As soon as she got back to the hotel, she was going to download a copy of his book.
‘Alright,’ said Beth, good-natured. ‘I’ll pretend I’ve got it all wrong.’ And she sat down to a smattering of light applause, put her notebook back in her pocket and adjusted her glasses, but not before shooting Olivia another quick wink.
Olivia shook her head imperceptibly. Book bloggers, she thought.
They were fantastic. Those who got behind your books could promote them online like nobody else.
But this one had put a cat among the pigeons here in Venice, and that was a lot of pigeons for one cat.
She could feel Frances Holland staring at her, eyes wide and amused.
Anthony Beau had a silly look on his face.
And Leo, sitting next to her, was Leo. He was always Leo. Complicated. Creative. Inescapable.
‘OK, that was enlightening. Thank you very much,’ said Valentina. She turned disapprovingly to the floor again, straightened the lapel of her jacket and consulted her notes, while Felicity looked on. ‘Next question?’