Chapter Nine
‘I need a real drink,’ River barks as I hand him a mug of hot English Breakfast tea, which he immediately pours down the sink. ‘Where’s your whisky?’
Reasonable request, rudely requested. I open up the booze cupboard and take out a bottle of whisky I got in the Sainsbury’s sale last year.
It’s called Bagpipe Distillery and the picture on the front is of the Loch Ness monster for some reason.
I pour out two shots, one for each of us.
River grabs one and tips it back as if it’s water.
Then he snatches up my glass and tips that back too.
His manners are appalling and he doesn’t even seem to care.
I’ve come across my fair share of impolite people, but I’ve never seen anything like this. He drank my whisky without even asking!
‘You sure that’s whisky?’ River grimaces, wiping his mouth with his fist and examining the bottle with a wince. ‘Tastes like boiled piss.’ Despite the review, he swipes the bottle off the counter and carries it over to the kitchen table. ‘Gertie, right? That’s your name?’
‘Yes. Gertie Bickerstaff.’
‘Right. So, Gertie, you’re saying you have no idea how I got here? How I got all the way from Bedlam Creek, Texas, to your house in – is this London?’
‘Yes. Bloomsbury.’ I lift my chin. ‘The nice bit. Not as nice as Marylebone or Mayfair, but I happen to think—’
‘—How I got all the way from Bedlam Creek, Texas, to your house in Bloomsbury, London, England, without remembering a single damn thing about the trip?’
He pronounces Bloomsbury as two words. Blooms Berry.
I grab my shot glass, and give it a quick rinse under the tap.
Then I seat myself opposite River at the kitchen table and pour us both fresh shots.
I knock mine back before he can steal it, flinching as the hot liquid burns my oesophagus.
With all the Tucci cocktails plus the recent increase in the amount of pickles I’ve been scoffing, it really has been taking a bit of a hammering lately.
I stifle a burp – yes, because I’m a polite, well-mannered grown-up, but also because this man is so astonishing to look at, it would somehow feel wrong to belch in his vicinity.
Like farting in front of the Mona Lisa. I swallow down the indigestion and pour myself another shot.
‘I have a theory …’ I halt, biting my lip. How to say what I’m about to say? It’s objectively bonkers.
‘Well?’ he snipes. ‘Is it a secret?’
‘N-no,’ I stutter. ‘You just … you might want another one of these first … What I’m about to say will … You might not like it.’
I slide the bottle across the table to him and watch as he pours out another shot, gulping it down with no sign of oesophageal burn at all. Must be nice.
He clears his throat. ‘I’m waiting.’
Hmm. Okay. How to say it? How to tell someone that they are … possibly not real? That they are perhaps the invention of a romance writer’s stressed-out mind.
How to say that to a man my protagonist Cassidy Oakley once called ‘A domineering brute with the temperament of a constipated mule and a rotten apple core in place of a heart.’
I take a deep breath.
‘So, you see, the thing is … Um, so actually … hmm. River. You are still definitely saying that your name is River Oakley? You are absolutely convinced of this?’
He shoots me daggers. ‘I already told you that. Now quit wobblin’ your jaw and tell me what you know.
’ He taps one booted foot rapidly against the floor.
‘I need to get home. I have business to attend to. I have to get back for the big land auction. The whole town is counting on me. The integrity of Bedlam Creek is at stake, and I made promises that I would protect it.’
A land auction that the whole town knows about? I didn’t write that.
The thought doesn’t get a chance to take root because with an exasperated sigh, River lifts both arms, placing his hands on the rim of his Stetson.
The motion fully bares the corded ripples of his torso and I find, much to my embarrassment, that I can’t look away.
It’s like a magic eye poster that’s hypnotised me.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve never been a torso girl.
Good forearms and a caustic wit have always been my kryptonite. But this particular torso …
‘Just a second,’ I say, my breath pathetically short.
Then I dash over to the wardrobe where I quickly rifle through for anything that Henry left behind.
Right at the back of the closet I find the T-shirt I got him for Christmas last year.
It’s avocado green and has a picture of William Shakespeare on the front.
Beneath the picture it says You know I put the LIT in Literature.
‘Here.’ I hand it to him. ‘I can’t focus with your … you know …’
He holds the T-shirt out in front of him. ‘My what?’
‘Your whole deal. You surely know what you look like.’
With an eye-roll and what appears to be a slight smirk, River stands and pulls on the T-shirt. It’s about three sizes too small, riding up to show his hard lower stomach and straining so much over his biceps that the material looks in danger of splitting, Hulk-style.
He holds his arms out wide and frowns. ‘Are you serious right now? You got anything bigger?’
‘No. My ex was a size medium. Look, at least it covers your, uh, your nipples, okay? I need to concentrate.’
River considers this for a moment and then plonks back down onto the kitchen chair with a force that makes me worry for its integrity.
Getting a sudden brainwave, I hurry over to my bookcase. The top shelf is filled with various editions of the Bedlam Creek series, books one through four, a space waiting ominously for book five.
I grab them all and carry them over to the table, placing them down one by one in front of River.
‘I’m an author,’ I explain. ‘I wrote these books.’
He picks up a paperback, eyes widening. ‘Why the sweet hell is Cassidy on the front of this book?’ He picks up the next one.
‘And that ten-cent weasel Ethan Calhoun? Why do you have books about Bedlam Creek? About my hometown? What the hell is this? A trick? Is this a prank show? Am I on camera right now?’ He peers up into the ceiling corners, presumably searching for a hidden recording device.
I shake my head no. ‘I wrote these books because, well, the thing is … I … invented Bedlam Creek.’
‘Excuse me?’ River glares at me as if I just suggested he poke out his own eyes and serve them on toast.
‘I … well, there’s no easy way to say this, but I actually … invented … you. See? There’s my name.’ I point to the book. ‘Right there. Gertie Bickerstaff.’
River lifts the bottle of Bagpipe Distillery, bypasses the pouring into a glass bit, and swigs straight from the bottle, three hefty glugs. He slams it down and nods towards the books. ‘You saying I’m in those books, crazy lady?’
I pick up the second book, where River Oakley makes his first on-page appearance in a fight at a saloon bar called The Tiddly Tap.
‘I’m saying River Oakley – a character I created – is in there.’ I flip to page 40 where he first shows up and point at the name right there in crisp Garamond type, clear as day.
River leans over and examines the page with narrowed eyes. ‘Holy fuck.’ He jumps up from the chair, the movement making it skid across the floor and hit the radiator where its integrity does indeed fall apart.
Okay. That is the reaction of a man who really truly believes he is a real person called River Oakley.
He picks up the book again and scans the page. ‘Heart of stone?’ he scoffs. ‘Silken curls? Is this a romance novel? About me? How? We’ve never even met. Are you stalking me?’ He clenches his fist so that the paper creases up into a smush.
‘No, no, it’s not about you,’ I explain, gently taking the book from his hand. ‘You’re actually more of a side character.’
He blinks. ‘I’m not even a main part?’
‘You’re not a main part. Your sister, Cassidy Oakley—’
‘Half-sister.’
‘Half-sister … is the main part. But you are, like, an important part, narratively speaking.’
For a moment I sort of leave my body and look down on myself trying to make a character I dreamt up feel better about his page time and level of importance to the arc of my book series. ‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘you’re, um, so you … you’re the villain of the story. Very important.’
River looks briefly hurt at the statement before scowling right at me. ‘I’m no villain.’ He swipes the stack of books off the table in a manner that is, well, totally villainous. ‘And I’m not some character you invented. I’m a person. An actual person.’
In a way he’s right. I didn’t exactly do a great deal of research for his character.
He was the big bad rancher brother causing havoc in the distance, refusing to let Cassidy be a part of Oakley Ranch after Big Chip Oakley died.
The cold-hearted cowboy who, apart from a few key details on his looks and personality, plus a brief history of key events that moulded his ruthless character, was supposed to be nothing more than a plot obstacle; there for colour and context, a common enemy for the people of Bedlam Creek, for Cassidy and Ethan to rail against while finding love with one another in the main storyline.
If Bedlam Creek was the movie Armageddon, River Oakley would be the asteroid.
‘Listen …’ I try to keep my voice even as I pull up an image on my phone and show it to River. ‘This is a movie called Enchanted. It’s about—’
River’s eyes widen. ‘You better not be trying to infer that I’m the Giselle of this scenario?
’ He glares at me, fully furious now, jaw clenching and unclenching at double speed.
His voice gets low as he slowly annunciates every word of his next sentence.
‘I’m not Giselle, all right? River Oakley is not Giselle. ’
‘You know Enchanted?’ I gasp. ‘But how could you know it if I’ve never written about it in my books?’
‘Because I. Am. Real. You are demented.’
And then, with a snarl of pure unfettered frustration, River snatches up the whisky bottle and stomps over to my bathroom, slamming the door behind him with an almighty bang.
I hear the click of the lock.
Wonderful.