Chapter Seven
A cowboy.
A shirtless cowboy, no less – thick, sun-burnished muscles on full display, marked with bruises and what look to be smudges of charcoal.
I don’t scream. I always thought I’d scream in a scenario such as this (i.e.
home intrusion, sudden appearance of cowboy in living room, possible upcoming murder of self).
Instead, I grab hold of the nearest thing I can to cover my own nakedness.
Of course, it’s the red spider beret I just purchased from Mrs Casablancas.
One of the spindly pipe-cleaner spider legs stabs my inner thigh. Ow.
‘Get out, please,’ I say to the stranger, my trembling voice a good two octaves higher than usual. ‘I … I don’t know what you’re doing in my house, or what you came here for, but you’re in the wrong place and you need to leave right now.’
How did he even get in here? I glance at the front door, closed and locked from the inside, as always. The window is open, but my flat is on the fourth floor of the building. Did … did he scale the wall?
The man’s eyes meet mine, unreadable beneath the shadow of his Stetson. He blinks like he just woke up, quickly averting his gaze from my naked form, which strikes me as an unusually respectful move for a home intruder with murder in mind. Maybe he’s not a murderer … perhaps he’s a burglar?
‘If-if you’re a burglar then you’d have much better pickings about a mile down the road,’ I blurt, my words tripping over each other.
‘I’m just a writer. Everything of value that I own is purely sentimental.
’ I point at my TV. ‘You can have my television if you like? It’s pretty old, though.
No OLED capabilities. They probably have much higher-spec electrical equipment at the houses over in Marylebone.
Lots of jewellery too, I bet. Silver tableware, genuine Birkins, if that’s what you’re after.
There’s this one very fancy looking house on—’
I clamp my mouth shut as it occurs to me that this is not the time or the situation to try to be the most helpful person in the room.
The cowboy stares down at his dusty boots, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. He rubs a hand across his stubbled jaw and I can’t help but notice that it’s an excellent jaw, as jaws go.
Get it together, Gertie.
‘If you leave right now, I promise I won’t call the police,’ I try, my voice attempting and failing to hold some degree of gravitas.
I’m totally lying. I definitely will be calling the police. At the very least the residents of Marylebone now need to be warned to double-lock their doors.
The man stands up from the sofa, conker-brown Stetson almost grazing the ceiling.
He takes a step forward.
‘Please don’t murder me!’ I yelp. ‘I might not have much to live for right now, but I don’t want to die.’
I get a brief vision of my funeral. Would Henry cry if I died? He’d definitely cry. Right?
The cowboy keeps his eyes trained on the floor as he reaches up and slowly tips his hat in my direction.
‘Ma’am,’ he says, his voice an unfeasibly deep American rumble. ‘I have no plans to murder you.’ He peers across towards my open window, eyes narrowing in confusion. ‘But I’m gonna need you to tell me right now – where the sweet hell am I?’
‘Um, what?’
‘I ain’t a danger to you, sweetheart,’ the man says, his low timbre gruff and toasty, almost a rumble of sound that reverberates through my tiny flat. Sweetheart? What the hell? ‘Please cover yourself up. Where am I? I … How did I get here?’
Keeping my eyes on the stranger the whole time, I do a bunch of little shuffling sidesteps over to the tumble dryer and grab a towel, wrapping it around myself and tucking it in tightly at the top.
Why is this person saying he doesn’t know how he got here?
Is he trying to confuse me before the murder?
Or gain my trust? But why would he need to do that?
While I am not what anyone would describe as delicate of physique, he is, well, absolutely gigantic.
He could probably overpower me with a flick of his huge thumb and forefinger.
The discrepancy in our height and weight ratios, plus my natural cowardice, lead me to edge backwards towards the kitchen area for reinforcements.
I feel about for the wooden knife block and grab the first knife I can find, just in case.
It’s a blunt bread knife. It’ll do. It’ll be messy, but it’ll do.
‘Who are you?’ I ask, holding the knife before me with a shaking hand. ‘What do you want?’
He lifts his head, heavy-lidded eyes assessing mine with a glint. They don’t look murder-y. They look bewildered and contemplative and really, really familiar …
‘Do … do I know you? What’s your name?’ I ask, lifting the bread knife higher as I inch ever so slightly forward to examine the planes of the stranger’s face beneath the brim of his cowboy hat.
Lightly weathered golden skin. Large high-bridged nose.
Grey-green eyes the colour of winter pine trees cast in the shadow of a storm cloud.
Wide matinee-idol jaw covered in thick, unkempt bronze stubble.
Sulky, lightly chapped lips that settle naturally into the sneer of a man no one would want to get on the wrong side of.
My memory sparks. Hold on … that’s the exact word-for-word description I wrote for the character of—
‘River,’ he rasps. ‘My name is River Oakley.’
I stare at his grubby face for a few seconds. Then … I start to laugh. Properly laugh. Laugh so hard that it barely makes a sound, just a whole body shudder and slight wheeze.
Bridget.
Bridget!
As agents go, she’s brilliant but a little nuts.
She’s done some pretty inventive things to keep me on deadline before – a care package filled with nothing but ink pens and peanut M&Ms, a Cameo video from the cast of my favourite BBC period drama.
But this? Hiring an actual actor to turn up at my flat and impersonate one of my own Bedlam Creek characters – the background villain, no less?
She’s always been an out-of-the-box thinker as a literary agent, but this is pretty fucking spunky, even for her.
God, she’s good. Unhinged, but good. Possibly not a person who should be in possession of a spare key to my flat, but good.
I eventually stop laughing and slide the knife back into its block on the kitchen counter.
‘Phewf!’ I press a hand to my chest and shake my head in disbelief.
‘Bloody Bridget. Genuinely thought you were here to murder me for a moment there. Do you have a message for me? Did Bridget send a message? Ooh, or a song? Are you a singing telegram?’ I step closer, peer at his face.
‘God, you really do look exactly how I imagined River to look when I wrote him. Just as I pictured him in my head. Amazing.’
River Oakley isn’t even a main character – he’s the bullish, estranged brother of my protagonist, Cassidy. I’m surprised and impressed that Bridget was able to get his likeness so spot on.
The actor presses his lips together, taking off his Stetson to fully reveal the shoulder-skimming ash-brown hair I described in the books as an angelic curled silk that belied the stone-cold cynical heart of its ruthless owner.
Goodness me, he is gorgeous. It’s actually quite unsettling.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such sexual charisma just emanating from someone in the wild before, not even when I went with Josie to see the Magic Mike Live show in 2020.
I try to stop myself from staring at his perfectly plump and petulant lips because, let’s face it, his job must be humiliating enough without some soggy, hungover, maudlin writer perving over him while he’s trying to work.
But it really is astonishing. In the books, River Oakley is an eternal bachelor, callously breaking the hearts of good women all over Burnet County.
This guy looks very much like someone who could pull that off. Wow.
I watch as he places the Stetson on the coffee table, noticing how carefully he handles it, like it’s precious cargo. Maybe it’s a real cowboy hat, not something from a cheap costume shop?
I clear my throat. ‘I assume Bridget has paid you already?’ I say, adopting a more professional tone of voice. ‘Oh wait, will you be needing a tip? I just gave the last of my cash to my neighbour, but if you want to give me your bank details I can absolutely do a transfer? Would that be easier?’
Brows furrowed, the man examines my flat, his eyes snagging on the used cocktail glasses on my countertop, and then the fridge photo of me and Josie wearing glittery Christmas tree headbands, and next to it the invite to Jim’s birthday weekend, before sliding across to the pile of worn socks and underwear on the floor.
‘Washing day today,’ I explain, brushing my hair down, before I realise that the pile of underwear also includes the one pair of blush-pink crotchless knickers I bought in a failed bid to sexually manipulate Henry into staying with me and had to wear yesterday because my heartbreak has led to a backlog of washing.
‘Oops, avert your eyes!’ I call out too loudly, jogging over to gather up the pile of lingerie, shoving them quickly into the washing machine and slamming the door.
The actor runs his hands through his hair, eyes flashing with frustration and I wonder if the reason he looks so familiar is because he’s previously been the star of some sort of advert, possibly for razors or motorbikes or beef.
‘Have you ever been in an advert?’ I ask. ‘Or, like, a country music video? Obviously, I know Bridget hired you because you physically resemble River, but it’s more than that. I really do feel like I’ve seen you before. Like, actually seen your face.’