Chapter Thirteen
As soon as we get inside the flat I hand River a clean towel to dry himself off and dive right into a tepid shower – not just to wash off the rainwater, but, frankly, to cool myself down a little.
What a strange, strange day. I always knew I had an outlandish imagination – at school I once managed to convince myself that one of our teachers was Banksy, and tried to launch a comprehensive investigation with some reluctant friends to prove it – but even I could never have dreamt up something like this.
I shrug on my pale blue jersey bathrobe and head out into the main studio room to let River know that the shower is free.
When I get there, I find him fully zonked out on the sofa, a towel wrapped around his waist, Stetson on his lap, arms spread wide as if he’s inviting someone in for a hug.
This is not ideal. I was actually going to suggest he get a hotel for the night because letting a stranger sleep over at my actual house seems like an irresponsible move.
Should I wake him? Yes. I absolutely should.
That would be the sensible thing to do and I am historically a very sensible woman.
I reach my hand out to shake his shoulder, but jump back when he makes a tiny little snoring noise, eyebrows furrowing slightly.
He sort of pushes his head a little deeper into the sofa cushion, his breathing settling with a soft sigh.
I pull my hand back. The man must be even more exhausted than I am.
I study him for a moment, his face a lot less intimidating in sleep.
Quite angelic actually; plump pink lips and a light flush on those high golden cheekbones.
Anyway, even if I did boot him out, it’s not like he could even pay for a hotel.
He said himself all he has with him is a bag of jeans and his dad’s harmonica.
And there’s no way I can justify putting London hotel rates on my credit card, especially when I’m running so late on my deadline.
I decide that it’s probably best just to leave him there for now and attempt to figure things out after some sleep.
I pad over to the other side of the flat and, as quietly as I can, open up the wardrobe door, taking out a light cotton blanket from the top shelf.
Carrying it back over, I gently pluck the Stetson from River’s lap and lay the blanket over him so that it comes right up to his neck.
There. He should be reasonably comfortable now.
After I’ve turned out every light, I crawl, bone-tired, into bed and check my phone, heart leaping as I see that, in addition to a couple of ‘super-duper casual check-ins’ from Bridget, there’s a new message from Henry.
Sorry about earlier, my Gert. The day ran away from me and I didn’t get a chance to call back. I’m thinking of you. Hope you’re all right? Sending lots of love. Speak soon
I’d been so distracted by the batshit events occurring I’d completely forgotten that Henry never called back.
I press the phone to my chest, cuddling it to me as I lay my head down on the pillow and try not to think too much about the fact that there is a fictional villainous cowboy asleep on my sofa
Henry. Henry is what’s real.
And he’s thinking of me.
A small ray of hope blooms in my chest.
*
When I wake up the next morning, River is in exactly the same position I left him in last night.
He’s not moved a single inch, blanket still tucked under his chin, arms still flung to the sides.
Whoa, he must really be knackered. I wait for his chest to rise, just to make sure he’s not dead, and then when it does, I grab my laptop from the bedside table and open the Word document of doom, which is what I’ve started calling the manuscript for the final Bedlam Creek book.
As I have done every single morning since Henry left, I scroll the empty document and hope that this is the morning that Cassidy returns to me.
If the manifestation was powerful enough to somehow accidentally drop River into my house, surely it can re-ignite the spark I’m so desperately missing?
I close my eyes and return to Ethan’s proposal to Cassidy. There he is, down on one knee, as hopeful and earnest as he’s ever been. Most of the residents of Bedlam Creek are watching them, the entire town square waiting for Cassidy’s answer.
Okay. What happens next? I ask myself.
Come on brain! You can do it! You must do it! Fucking do it!!
I open my eyes and tut.
Nothing. I’ve got absolutely nothing. Still.
Ugh.
I used to think writer’s block was a myth.
An artistic-sounding excuse for professional writers to let themselves off on the days when they simply couldn’t be arsed to do any work.
What an idiot I was. Writer’s block is very, very real.
And it’s terrible. I’ve been making stuff up in my head since I was a little kid, it’s always been second nature to me.
But now, it’s like someone’s stuffed my imagination with a great big wad of cotton wool.
I grumble with frustration, temporarily forgetting I have a slumbering houseguest. The sound of my grumble wakes River from his sleep.
His eyes flutter open, a brief look of hope on his face before he realises that he’s still stuck here in fucking England.
‘Christ,’ he mutters. ‘I was hoping it had all been a nightmare.’
‘You and me both,’ I grimace. ‘I’m sorry I woke you.
’ I point at the laptop. ‘My mojo has well and truly done a runner. This final Bedlam Creek novel is due in two weeks and I can’t seem to write a single word.
’ I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands.
‘My brain is completely malfunctioning. Apparently, losing the love of your life is the ultimate death knell for creativity.’
River picks up his Stetson from the coffee table and runs his finger and thumb over the rim of it. ‘Love of your life? I’m afraid I can’t sympathise. I ain’t ever been—’
Before he can finish the sentence, the door buzzer goes, a horrible loud electronic sound that, to my surprise, makes River jump, his hat dropping onto the sofa. The sheet falls from his chest to reveal The Torso. ‘The fuck was that?’ He frowns. ‘Sounds like an air-raid siren.’
‘Doorbell. Probably the post,’ I explain to River, remembering that, while tipsy the other night, I went online and ordered a box of platinum-blonde hair dye, some gourmet pickles and Stanley Tucci’s autobiography.
While River stands up, the towel still impressively snug around his waist, I distractedly press the intercom button that unlocks the building’s door, muttering into the handset that the postman can leave the parcel downstairs.
I turn back to River while he stretches his arms up with a big bearlike growl.
‘You’re staring,’ River informs me.
‘I am not,’ I protest, gaze dipping while I vaguely wonder whether the circumference of River’s bicep is bigger than the circumference of my thigh. ‘Rugged’ is the word that comes to mind. We don’t see genuine ruggedness much these days. That suddenly feels like a shame.
I sneak another peek.
River throws his hands up. ‘Really?’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I mutter, my cheeks reddening. ‘I will try harder. I’m just not used to—’
A triple knock on the front door interrupts me – the postman mustn’t have heard me about leaving the parcels downstairs.
Eyes respectfully lowered, I scooch past River and open the door.
‘My Gert. There you are.’
I try very hard to keep my gasp internal because this is the first time I’ve seen Henry in a month, and while I’ve become decrepit and pitiful in my heartbreak, he looks …
great. His usually slightly messy hair has been cut neatly, and he’s working a button-down shirt that’s got a much sharper cut than the usual creased linen ones he wears.
His glasses are different too – oversized black square frames that make him look like he’s wearing a costume.
Henry grins at me warmly. And then, examining me more closely, cocks a brow.
‘Your eyes are all sparkly. Your face is pink! Have I interrupted a home workout? No that can’t be it.
’ He chuckles. ‘Hmm, have you got another fella in there? My naughty Gert.’ He peers over my shoulder jokily, clearly not expecting to find River, still standing there, looking for all the world like the cover model of a romance novel.
Henry’s jaw drops. ‘Oh!’ His voice is high-pitched. He clears his throat, the timbre of his next words an octave deeper than usual. ‘I … gosh. I didn’t, uh, hallo there.’ He steps into the flat and extends a hand to River. ‘I’m Henry.’
River grabs Henry’s hand and pumps it up and down with so much vigour, I genuinely worry he might break Henry’s non-thigh-sized arm. Henry makes an odd little noise. A cross between a greeting and a yelp.
‘Hey.’ River lifts his chin. ‘I’m—’
‘Just a friend!’ I slide in quickly. ‘Just a friend who is crashing on my sofa for the night!’
Henry notices The Torso then, his nostrils flaring slightly.
‘Henry …’ River says thoughtfully, briefly looking Henry up and down. ‘Oh, you’re Henry? You’re the heartbreaker? Huh …’
‘Heartbreaker?’ Henry laughs nervously – something I’ve never heard him do before. ‘Well, ah, it’s all a little more nuanced than that, of course.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Henry?’ I ask, scowling at River. ‘Or a coffee? A juice?’ I indicate that he should take a seat in his favourite armchair and smile at him, delighted that he’s here, at home, where he belongs. ‘It’s really nice to see you.’ My voice cracks a little.
Henry’s voice is clipped. ‘I won’t stay. I wouldn’t want to interrupt—’
‘You’re not interrupting anything!’ I interject, my voice coming out a semitone higher and much, much louder than intended. I clear my throat and point at River. ‘Just a friend.’
‘I’ll take a coffee if you’re offering, Gertie.’ River wanders over to the sofa to pick up his Stetson, dropping it onto his head. Henry stares at him for a moment, as if River is a figment of his imagination.
‘Right then,’ Henry says eventually, dragging his attention away from River and back to me.
‘Um. I was only popping by to check in on you anyway. Nothing important. You didn’t reply to my text last night and you usually reply straight away so I just wanted to know you were okay. And I see now that you are!’
He’s right, I usually reply to all his texts within seconds of the phone vibrating. My heart warms at the thought of him still caring enough about me to come over in person.
‘I’m fine!’ I say brightly, reaching out tentatively to touch his arm. ‘I was going to reply to your text this morning. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay. I’m glad all is well.’
‘All is well. Is all well with you?’
Henry nods quickly. ‘All is well with me too. Busy at work. Writing away. I’ve actually been asked to speak at Cambridge University. And there’s a production company interested in optioning Good Circles for a stage play at The National. So yes. All well.’
‘Wow! The National? That’s brilliant!’
‘It is!’ Henry’s cheeks flush lightly. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t mind if it was a smaller, less prestigious theatre either. As long as the work is honestly portrayed and true to my original intention. That’s what’s most important to me.’
‘Of course. Integrity first! Absolutely.’
‘But yes. The National are incredibly taken with my story.’
I hear a soft snort come from River. He looks between Henry and I, his face on the verge of a befuddled laugh. I throw him a pointed glare.
‘Would you like to take a walk?’ I ask Henry. ‘Or we could go up to the roof and chat more? Get some privacy.’
Henry glances at River again and shifts uncomfortably. He takes off his heavy-framed glasses and wipes them vigorously on the corner of his brand new shirt. ‘Thanks for the offer, but now that I know all is well with you, I think perhaps I ought to be going.’
‘Don’t leave!’ I blurt, the panicked desperation in my voice echoing back at me embarrassingly.
Since the day Henry left, I’ve done nothing but wish for him to turn up on the doorstep.
Now that he has, I can’t let him just leave.
‘I mean, you don’t need to rush off. You just got here! Stay a while! Relax!’
Henry steps over to me, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. I inhale the scent of the lovely lemony soap he uses and tears immediately puddle in my eyes. My Henry.
‘Stay,’ I whisper, barely audible.
Henry waves away the suggestion. ‘I told Jim I’d go to Little Crumpet with him today to help him set up for the birthday shenanigans. I really should get going. I’ll see you soon okay, Gert?’
‘I … Okay.’ My voice wobbles a little bit, my shoulders slumping with disappointment.
Henry nods at River, an unreadable expression on his face. ‘Lovely to meet you, Just A Friend.’
And then, before I can run over to him, grab his leg, cling on and beg him once again not to leave me, Henry strides out of the flat, closing the door gently behind him.
I stare after him, trying my best to swallow down the sob now burning my throat.
‘That guy?’ River says eventually, eyebrows gathering to create a divot in his forehead. ‘That guy?’
I nod sadly. ‘That guy.’
And then I burst into tears.