Romance is Dead

Chapter 21

Chapter twenty-one

Ed

Itake a deep breath, remind myself Bess doesn’t know I wrote the letter and pull up my big boy panties.

"This really has to stop." I ease myself into the sun lounger beside her.

I've pulled my panties just high enough so that I don't run away from sharing space and words with her, but not high enough that I'm going to actually admit to writing the letter.

That requires a whole other level of bravery.

"What has to stop?"

I pull out my phone, open the TikTok app, and play the latest video on 'Romance is Dead's channel. I hope she doesn't notice the trembling of my hand.

Two women sit at one of the library tables. One of them is a patron I don't recognise. The other is Bess.

Bess reads from a romance novel called Meet Me in This Life by Dianna Fitch.

The unknown woman taps one nail on the tabletop. Tap-tap-tap-tap. With the other, she runs a yellow highlighter over a sentence in the book in front of her. At the top of the page is a large, mostly blurred out stamp. The third word, the word "Library", has been left unedited and is clear to read.

Her nails are of the acrylic sort. Long and mauve with silver tips. The tapping is loud in the otherwise quiet library.

With a sigh, Bess looks at her and places her book on the table. Then she reaches out of shot and produces a badminton racket. In two quick movements, she swats the woman's tapping hand so that it collapses flat on the table, and hits the highlighter out of her fingers. It flies out of shot.

Then she leans forward, grabs the book and snaps it closed before sweeping it under her elbow where she leans on it. She picks up Meet Me in This Life and resumes her reading.

Real Life Bess doesn't look like she regrets her actions with the wisdom that time affords most people. She looks like she's reliving the satisfaction of thwacking the highlighter into orbit. "That was a good one. I particularly enjoyed that one."

I peer at my phone. "And so did your viewers, judging by the number of them."

"Right?" Bess beams and her beauty becomes almost unbearable.

I have to look away from her.

"I'm thinking of upping my fee."

Busying myself with pouring a G'n'T, I say, "How about you think of sourcing content from outside the library."

"She was defacing library material – ruining it for other readers. You should be thanking me."

I do look at her then. I marshal all the frustration I've felt in the last few hours over this event and bring it to the surface so that it can subdue any other emotion simmering under my skin.

"Had Mistral acted according to library policy, the patron would have been made to pay for the book.

Seeing as Mistral was the one holding the bloody camera, however, I've had to convince the woman not to lay an official complaint.

So the sum total is one less book in our collection and one angry patron who should have no right to be.

Angry people do silly things, Bess. Especially if they fancy themselves a keyboard warrior. "

Bess is quiet. It's very rare that I reduce her to thinking and not reacting.

Eventually, she says, "Alright. I'll use material outside the library." She flashes me a grin. "You have to admit, it was good while it lasted."

I try very hard not to grin back at her. "No, I don't."

She reaches out an arm and pokes me in the cheek with her finger.

It's just a fingertip, but it sends a tiny bolt of lightning to ricochet off the walls of my stomach.

I pull my head away from her reach.

"I see the smile you're trying very hard to hide. You think I'm a master of candid comedy who incidentally is going to pull enough attention to save the gallery and this community."

"I think you're a reckless individual who continually pushes her luck."

"Sure. But a very funny one."

Oh Bess. If only you knew how highly I think of your bold talents. I busy myself with pouring a drink from her thermos. "You do amuse me. On occasion."

"On occasion. You can don the staid librarian persona all you want, Ed Chakrabarti, but you don't fool me." She raises the binoculars again.

And that right there is what I'm worried about. How long before she sees through my pretence and our friendship is irrevocably changed? Damaged? Over?

So I change the subject. "Any advance on your plan to prevent a Pinkerton take over?"

Bess removes the binoculars to look at me. "Yes and no. Which would you like first?"

"The 'yes'."

"The online store for the gallery is booming for everyone. I’ve sold nine paintings in total and all the artists have had the shock of their lives by having to up production from intermittent to consistent in order to restock the store.

I now have to pay Jeanette, Elly and Lutek to wrap stuff for postage after the café closes for the day. "

So the hard dox worked. "That's amazing. I knew it was picking up, but I didn't realise it was to that extent." And now I have to have it confirmed. "Is it off the back of the letter TikToks?"

"Definitely. There's a massive spike in ordering after each one. I'm desperately hoping more letters are going to turn up."

Well. Shit. That puts me in an untenable situation.

If the letters are doing the heavy lifting and making Bess enough money to do what needs to happen to protect Port Derrum artists, am I more of an arsehole for depriving her of the opportunity, or less of one for giving her that chance but deceiving her in the process?

"That sounds like an excellent problem to have. Is it...going to be enough?"

"Ah, I don't know. It's a great start. I just don't know what the end game's going to be yet. At the very least, I hope it'll buy me a bit of time by covering the extra rental expenses until we come up with a plan."

So. The jury's still out on which end of the scale the arsehole-ry is weighted. "And what's the 'no'?"

“The book the letter was placed inside was about twitching.”

“Ri-ight?”

“I think it might be a clue to use my binoculars to find out who wrote the letters or who’s sending them.

I can’t think of any other way a book on watching birds might point me in the right direction.

Unless the soldier was a famous twitcher or something.

” She looks at me. “Are there famous twitchers? "

“Prince Andrew?”

“Ugh. Too soon, Ed.”

I feel off my game. I so badly want to make her laugh. It’s safe ground. A mutually beneficial exchange without the taint of deceit or pretence.

“If it is a clue to use my binoculars, then it has to be someone who knows I come up here and use them on a regular basis. Which probably also means it’s someone I know.”

Fuck. How did Mistral not think this one through? Everyone in our inner circle knows Bess is a binocular-armed voyeur.

"You didn't send me the letter, did you, Ed?"

"Me?" The laugh that follows my exclamation sounds hollow and decidedly forced to my ears. "Why would I...send you the letter? That's some real crazy talk...right there." Oh God. Shut up.

Bess is already looking back through her binoculars, having clearly discounted me as soon as she said it. "Nah. You wouldn't have it in you to help feed my TikTok channel."

I let out the breath I've been holding with a woosh.

She lowers the binoculars and grabs a pen and notebook from the table between us. "I think I'll make a list of all the residents with houses I can see from here. Just in case."

After thirty seconds of her scribbling, and me sucking on an ice cube, I can't resist the temptation any longer. "You, um, seemed really affected by the writing in those letters."

"Well, yeah," she says distractedly. "How could anyone not be?"

I snort out a single laugh, even though what she's said isn't in the least bit funny. "Right?"

Bess adds three more people to the list.

"And what were your favourite bits?"

"When he signed off the first letter with In the meantime, just this – I love you."

"Yeah, that was pretty moving."

Two more people.

"What about in the second letter?" Oh God, am I pathetic or what?

"I think probably when he said the things you say and mean and do to me. That really got me in the feels."

"The things you say and mean and do to me. Got it."

"You got what?" Bess looks up at me. "You planning on sending a love letter to someone?"

"No."

"You are. You are so transparent. You've been fishing for this entire conversation."

A wave of heat engulfs me, like I've stumbled into the blast radius of a flame thrower. "I have not."

"Who is it?"

I am such an idiot for underestimating her. I should know better. Of course she'd back me into a corner in less time than it took me to not think through my line of inquiry. "No one. I haven't been fishing."

"Is it Mistral?"

"Mistral?" I say in utter disbelief. "What on earth gives you the impression I'm into Mistral?"

"I don't know. You know what they say about people who work together."

"No. What do they say?"

"I don't know, but probably along the lines of 'they inevitably end up fucking’."

Suddenly I feel on safer ground, like I've been frantically treading water and can now touch the bottom. "Is that right? Let's put your theory to the test with some empirical evidence. Exactly how many colleagues have you 'ended up fucking'?"

She raises a hand and counts off on her fingers, "Andrew Gillespie and Paul Langlands when I worked at Phoenix Group in Exeter, Mike somebody from Marketing when I briefly worked at that tech firm, and some really tall Norwegian bartender when I did some waitressing at uni. Enough 'empirical evidence' for you?"

"You don't remember his name?"

Bess points the pen at me. "Don't you dare shame me for not remembering his exotic and barely pronounceable Scandi name. Men forget the names of women they've slept with all the time and aren't made to feel ashamed about it."

I hold up my hands. "Fair enough."

"So are you?"

"No! I am not hot for Mistral!" I hold back from adding she seems to have a thing for Lutek, because that would be gossiping when the only clue I've had about it wasn't much of one.

"Who is it, then?"

I down the rest of my G'n'T in one. "I think I've had enough fun for one evening." I push myself to standing.

Bess laughs. "I'll get it out of you one way or another."

I have no doubt and absolute fear that she will.