Chapter Eight
It’s funny, I always suspected I would lose my mind one day.
Sometimes you can just tell you’re the kind of person it’s gonna happen to; regular bouts of anxiety over objectively low-stakes situations, an out-of-control addiction to any and all pickled foods, the fact that I practised kissing on my nana’s ornamental bust of Michelangelo’s David and then immediately afterwards googled ‘human fall in love with statue?’ The signs have been there all along.
And now it’s finally happened. I am fully unhinged, no doubt triggered by the stress of Henry’s desertion, coupled with the panic of not being able to fulfil my book contract, plus an over-abundance of Tucci cocktails.
Is this man before me even real? Or is this some weird manifestation of my writer’s block?
Whatever it is, he’s so close to me now that I can smell him.
I sniff the air discreetly. Bonfire and whisky and … apple pie?
‘Now, you listen to me,’ the cowboy says in a low, growly voice, green eyes darkening into hard onyx. ‘You damn well better—’
‘I will cut you!’ I yell out frantically. ‘Believe you me, if you take one step closer to me I will … I will … end you.’
End you feels like an overshoot, but one thing I learned from books, films and growing up on the mean streets of Finchingfield village is that half the battle in these situations is to act like you know what you’re doing.
While I’m not a naturally confident person I did complete a whole summer acting camp with Josie.
We performed the musical Chicago, both of us playing murderesses in the Cook County jail.
I narrow my eyes and lift my chin, murderess style. ‘I mean it! I will do it!’
River’s jaw tightens. And then, so quickly that I have no chance to stop what’s happening, he grabs my wrist with his big calloused hand, yanking it towards him so that my palm opens uselessly and the knife drops onto the floor with a tinny clatter.
‘Ow,’ I moan, even though it didn’t actually hurt.
I search immediately for another weapon.
Aha! There’s the vegetable knife! I pick it up, wondering briefly if I have lost the plot and this is like that scene in Fight Club when Edward Norton is beating himself up.
Am I talking to thin air right now? Am I waving a vegetable knife at … nothing? Do I need to call a doctor?
‘You planning to zucchini me to death, sweetheart?’ River asks with barely concealed scorn. ‘Put the damn apple cutter down.’ And then, voice a smidge softer, ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you.’
At a loss for what else to do, I place the vegetable knife back onto the kitchen countertop.
I flinch as River reaches out and takes hold of my wrist once more. ‘Easy now,’ he murmurs. ‘I ain’t gonna hurt you.’ He lightly touches his thumb over the bone. ‘Painful?’
I shake my head.
He swirls my wrist in a slow circular motion. ‘And this?’
‘No.’
‘Then I suspect you’ll make it through.’
Taking a step back he loops his thumbs into the belt of his jeans and exhales slowly, mouth a perfect O.
‘Now. Seems we’ve gotten ourselves into some sort of a tangle.
You don’t want me here and I sure as hell don’t want to be here.
So how about you just give me the keys to my truck.
All right? Then I can be on my way. And if you don’t have the keys, then for the love of God would you tell me exactly where I am?
I’d check my current location on my phone but I do not appear to have my phone.
All I’ve got with me is a bag full of denim and my daddy’s harmonica. ’
I glance at the harmonica discarded in front of the TV. His daddy’s harmonica? Hmm. Big Chip Oakley never had a harmonica … I never wrote that …
I almost jump out of my skin at a sudden almighty banging on the front door.
I move to answer it, but before I can, River strides ahead of me, a single step of his matching four of my own short-legged ones.
‘That better be Buddy McGinty with my keys,’ he hisses.
‘This whole thing is beyond the damn pale.’
The knock comes again, even more insistent now.
‘Gertie? Gertie! Are you okay in there?’ Mrs Casablancas calls through the keyhole. ‘I heard a ruckus! Gertie! It’s me, Mrs Casablancas! Gertie? What was the ruckus I heard? Open your door to me!’
With an irritable grunt, River yanks open the door. I half expect Mrs Casablancas to walk right through him, like he’s a ghost, because some part of me still believes that this man, claiming to be a character from one of my books, is nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
But no. Instead Mrs Casablancas leans idly against the door frame, eyes unabashedly roaming the torso, which … I get.
‘What in the Matthew McConaughey is all this then?’ she breathes, raising both eyebrows and tracing a slow hand across her collarbone. Her gaze slides across to me. ‘Well, well, well … Gertie Bickerstaff. Good. For. You.’
‘You can see him?’ I blurt out.
At this, the pair of them gawk at me like I’m crazy, which I clearly am.
Suddenly, from across the hall, with a speed the likes of which I have never seen from him, Squish bolts into my flat and starts to scramble up River’s denim-covered leg. River tries to shake him off, but Squish won’t let up.
‘Squish, no!’ I command. ‘Sit! Heel! Reuben sandwich!’
With a cluck, Mrs Casablancas scoops Squish up and plops him right into a startled River’s arms. ‘He just wants to say hi. We all do. Hi!’
Squish immediately licks River’s face, his thirst audible. As his tongue darts for River’s earhole he makes the ecstatic snorting sound he usually only makes when he’s eating the premium-brand kibble.
‘This ain’t a real dog,’ River growls, holding Squish out in front of him and inspecting him through narrowed eyes. ‘This is … a tiny cartoon dog.’
‘Awwww, look at that!’ Mrs Casablancas croons. ‘Look how much he likes you! He’s not usually so affectionate with new people! He must sense a pure heart.’
With visible distaste, River hands Squish back to Mrs. Casablancas.
Struggling to contain a madly wiggling Squish, Mrs Casablancas peers at River, then at me and then back to River. She grins so widely it makes her eyes scrunch right up. ‘Gertie, I am glad you have taken my advice. I knew sowing your oats would be a good idea—’
‘No, no – that’s not—’
‘Ma’am,’ River cuts in gruffly, bending his knees slightly so that he’s not towering over Mrs Casablancas quite so much. ‘Do you know how far we are from Bedlam Creek?’
‘Is that in the suburbs?’ Mrs Casablancas’ nose wrinkles at the mere thought. ‘Piccadilly Line, maybe?’
‘Pickled dill?’ River murmurs to himself, trying to work it out.
‘Everything’s fine here,’ I reassure Mrs Casablancas, although I’m not entirely sure that it is. I’m not entirely sure of anything right now. ‘Thank you for checking on me! And thank you again for last night. I’m feeling more creative already!’ I lie. ‘Anyway, bye for now!’
‘Has anyone ever suggested you should wear a hat?’ Mrs Casablancas muses, ignoring my polite ‘please leave’ cues and eyeing River with an unhurried appreciation.
‘I’m in the business of heads, and in my expert opinion your particular head would look remarkable in a bowler hat.
It’s just the right shape. I could make you one, bespoke?
With some bedazzling maybe? I think you’d suit a sequin.
Something olive green to match your eyes.
I could do you a deal, if you like? Four percent discount if you place an order today? ’
River looks completely bewildered, once again rubbing his eyes, as if hoping he’ll wake up from a trippy dream. I suspect he will not be ordering a bespoke Millinery by House of Casablancas hat anytime soon.
‘Okay! Bye, Mrs Casablancas. Thank you. Bye!’
Apologetically closing the door on her, I turn to River and blow the air out of my cheeks.
Mrs Casablancas can see River … Which means, either she is trapped in the dream/psych ward with me, or …
No.
It can’t be.
It’s simply not possible.
‘I … I think we need to talk,’ I say, pushing my glasses up my nose and indicating that River should come and join me at the kitchen table.
‘I don’t think so, crazy lady.’ River grabs his cowhide bag from the side of the sofa, picks up his harmonica and throws it in amongst the jeans.
He zips up the bag decisively. ‘I’m not staying here with you any longer than I have to, and if you won’t help me figure out where the hell I am, then I will bid you a good day.
’ He picks up his Stetson from the coffee table, drops it back on his head, and tips it lightly in my direction.
‘Wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but we both know that’d be a tall tale, and River Oakley ain’t a liar. ’
And then, without a backwards glance, he leaves my flat, slamming the door so hard that my entire apartment shakes.
I stare after him for a moment, jaw dangling open.
What was that? What on God’s green earth was … that?
With trembling hands, I grab my phone from the mantlepiece and scroll onto BBC News to double-check the date and the year, to try to anchor myself somehow.
Yep. It’s right there. 20 August 2025. I am here. Right now. On 20 August at 11 a.m. I quickly text Bridget.
Hi! Did you by any chance send an actor to my house?
The reply comes back immediately.
There you are! Is all okay? No actors from me. You need one? Would it help?
No, all good. Will call soon.
How is the writing?
Will send something v soon!! Am writing right now!
CAN’T WAIT TO READ! NO PRESSURE OBVS!!
I swipe off the screen with a grimace and head over to the bathroom cabinet, where I take a thermometer and shove it under my tongue. Maybe I have a fever? Maybe I’m getting some terrible infection and it’s spread to my brain. I stare at myself in the mirror. I do look flushed …
The door knocker bangs again, making me jump again and I vow there and then to get myself a doorbell – something nice and soothing, flute-y, like ‘Spa Music Track 1’.
‘Coming, Mrs Casablancas,’ I yell, before she can start calling through the keyhole again. But when I open the door, it’s not Mrs Casablancas standing there. It’s a shirtless River and his bag of jeans.
The thermometer beeps. I take it out and study it. No fever to speak of, in fact I appear to be a little chilly, considering the blistering summer weather we’re having right now.
Oh God.
I think … I think this might actually be happening. I think I might be trapped in my own personal Enchanted and I’m Patrick Dempsey.
‘Hello again,’ I say to the massive cowboy with the wild eyes.
‘Am I in fucking England?’ he grumbles, looking utterly dejected at the mere thought.
‘Yeah,’ I sigh and nod my head. ‘Yeah, I’m afraid you are. You’d better come in.’