Chapter Fifteen
‘No way. We are not calling our mission “Operation Windbag”,’ I grumble as River and I head down Marylebone High Street. I glance across at him, relieved that he’s now wearing a size-appropriate black T-shirt we found in Marks & Spencer. ‘Henry is not a windbag.’
‘I watched the videos you showed me. The one of his book launch speech? The man’s a real chin musician. You couldn’t shut him up. Anyway, it’s my operation. I get to choose the name.’
‘How about “Operation True Love”?’ I suggest.
‘How about “Operation Can We Focus and Get River the Fuck Home As Soon As Humanly Possible”?’
‘How about “Operation River Oakley Has a Terrible Attitude”?’
River looks mock wounded, a half-smile crossing his surly face. ‘I thought folk were supposed to be well-mannered in England. You’re awful snippy.’
‘We are well-mannered,’ I protest. ‘I pride myself on my impeccable politeness. I am actually not a snippy person at all – in fact I’ve only ever had one single argument in my entire life, so … I guess the problem is you. You are … you are …’
River stops in the middle of the street. I notice, as he does, that every single woman, and a fair few men, stare up at him with heart eyes. ‘What am I, Gertie?’ he asks, taking a step closer and peering down at me.
‘Unexpected,’ I say eventually.
‘Ah yes.’ River starts walking again, commanding the pavement, his sheer size and presence meaning that everyone scatters out of his way.
‘Not the evil 2D villain you thought I was, huh? A living, breathing man with complex emotions and opinions and a lived history that is more than just a vague backstory to augment Cassidy Oakley’s narrative, yes? Not so fictional after all? I see …’
I huff because he is right. And it’s completely confusing.
This man refers to things I know nothing about, which doesn’t make sense because if he’s just a character I made up then surely I would know everything he knows?
He’s clearly a lot more multifaceted, a lot more …
real than anything I could ever hope to write on a page.
And while he’s very obviously an overconfident, obnoxious asshole, my gut instinct tells me he’s not evil.
The River Oakley of my Bedlam Creek novels is evil.
He makes Cassidy’s life a misery. None of this makes sense.
‘Aha.’ River points into the window of a boutique where a sexy mannequin sports a teensy strapless dress made entirely of silver sequins. ‘How about something like that?’ he muses. ‘For Jim’s main campfire party on Sunday?’
‘Ha! I don’t think so. My vibe is more demure than that. Henry’s vibe is definitely more demure than that.’
‘A dress like this is eye-catching, Gertie. It can’t be ignored. A dress like this will make you the centre of attention.’
I shudder at the very thought. ‘Centre of attention? No, thanks. That sounds like a nightmare.’
‘Oh, but being the centre of attention is great fun,’ River smirks, winking at a married couple who saunter by, the pair of them blatantly lusting after him. ‘Howdy,’ he drawls, hammily tipping his hat at them.
I roll my eyes.
His confidence reminds me a lot of Josie – a sparkly sort of energy that isn’t exactly warm or welcoming but somehow manages to cast a spell over everyone who comes into its orbit.
And no matter how annoying it is, I can’t help but be fascinated by it.
It’s the same feeling I got when I saw a Monet painting in real life for the first time.
Like, how? How does that happen? How did that get made?
‘So you like to blend into the background, huh?’ River asks. ‘And how’s that working out for you?’
‘Not all of us want to be main characters,’ I explain, glancing across at him while he grins wolfishly at a modelesque-looking woman on the other side of the street.
‘Some of us are happy sidekicks. I’m a sidekick and it suits me down to the ground.
Anyway, I still don’t see what’s wrong with taking my own clothes to Little Crumpet. ’
River glances pointedly at my nice comfortable baggy black trousers and cream lace blouse.
I squirm under his gaze, an annoying flashback of our stormy cheek kiss popping up unbidden in my mind.
I fling it away and try to focus instead on how it feels when Henry kisses me.
Like sinking into a warm bath on a chilly day.
‘Men are magpies and this dress will get Henry’s attention,’ River continues, opening the door to the boutique and gesturing for me to go in ahead of him. ‘Come on. Let’s go try it on. It’ll be perfect, I know it.’
‘You don’t know, though,’ I tut, halting.
‘You don’t actually know Henry. Or me for that matter.
Our relationship is much deeper than me showing up in some glittery dress and winning him over because my thigh flesh is on display.
Henry is a more cerebral man than that. You saw the videos I showed you. He’s smart and funny, a … a thinker.’
River nods. ‘You’re right. I’m diminishing poor Henry, tarring him with the same brush as every single other man I have ever met in my thirty years of life.
How about after we go into this store and try on this dress, we go grab a bite to eat and you can tell me all about your thinking-man’s windbag. Give me the full oral history.’
‘Are you manipulating me right now?’
‘That depends. Is it working?’
I can’t deny that the thought of getting to talk about Henry in depth to someone, anyone, even this guy, is appealing for a person who has been keeping it all in for the sake of not burdening or boring anyone with my drama. And he is offering …
‘Fine,’ I say breezily, pushing past him into the boutique. ‘I’ll try the dress on. But there’s no way in hell I’m buying it.’
*
By the time we reach the Merryweather Arms a couple of hours later, River and I are swamped with glossy shopping bags containing not only the silver sequin dress, but a pair of tight blue Wranglers, a short button-down floral dress in cream and pink, plus a long-sleeved fitted black T-shirt with a deep square neckline that River described as ‘stealth hot’.
‘Operation True Love better work,’ I grumble as we reach the bustling bar. ‘I’m really going to need to finish this book to pay off the massive incoming credit card bill.’
River examines our surroundings, nodding, impressed.
I follow his gaze, seeing the place through his eyes – plum shabby velvet armchairs, rickety dark-wood tables, flock wallpaper in a smoke-tarnished maroon, old men nursing pints of bitter at the bar.
‘So this is a real-life, authentic English pub. It’s a lot like a saloon. I like it. Reminds me of home.’
‘Ooh, they do Sunday roast!’ I say excitedly, catching sight of the menu on the bar. ‘Sunday roast is the best meal on planet earth and very British. You have to try it.’
‘But it’s a Thursday.’
‘It’s a carvery. It’s on every day!’
‘A carvery? I’ve never heard of that word … Is this like a googly?’
‘It’s Google. And a carvery is a serve-yourself meal of meat, potatoes and vegetables. Like a buffet.’
The barman, a moustachioed guy covered in tattoos smiles at us in greeting. ‘What can I get you?’
‘An orange juice, please.’
‘Bourbon. Rocks. Thanks.’
‘And two carvery lunches.’
When we sit down in a cosy back booth, I take a sip of my orange juice, wincing as I realise the bartender has accidentally given me pineapple juice, which I hate more than most other liquids that exist.
‘Something wrong?’ River asks.
‘No, no! No. Just a little accidental pineapple juice. No big deal.’
‘You look like you’re about to throw up. Should I take it back?’
‘Dear God, no.’ I wriggle uncomfortably at the mere thought. ‘I don’t want to make a fuss.’
River throws me a look. ‘Make a fuss? But he got your order wrong.’
‘Yeah, but he didn’t mean to,’ I say. ‘It’s fine.’ I take another sip, shuddering as it goes down. ‘If I take it back he’ll just feel bad and I don’t want him to feel bad. No worries!’
‘No worries? Wow.’ River leans back in his seat and takes a long slow sip of his bourbon. ‘Not to be an armchair psychologist, Gertie, and I know you “pride yourself on your politeness”, but that’s some pretty hefty people-pleasing behaviour right there.’
I sniff. People-pleasing. Josie said that to me once and I tell River exactly what I told her.
‘If pleasing other people in this crazy world is wrong then I don’t want to be right. Maybe you should try it sometime …’
‘You did it in the store earlier too,’ River muses. ‘When the cash register assistant asked if you wanted to sign up for the newsletter, you said yes, although it was plain on your face that you didn’t want to.’
I shrug a shoulder. ‘She said she makes a commission with every new sign-up. No skin off my nose.’
‘And your neighbour. All those hats you bought from her. You really wanted all of those hats?’
‘Yes! Of course!’
‘You wouldn’t say those hats are … ugly?’
‘No.’ I lift my chin. ‘I love those hats. Those hats are … stunning.’
River nods. ‘Hmmm. And … is this how you act with Henry?’
‘What?’
‘All pliable. Folding yourself up, quieting down for the sake of “being polite”?’ He says ‘being polite’ in a weird syrupy voice.
I think about all the plans I cancelled if they didn’t align with Henry’s diary.
Or how I always said sorry first if we had a disagreement, just so we could go back to normal as soon as possible, even if I wasn’t technically in the wrong.
Or the time we watched three seasons of Narcos one after the other even though I found it boring, but it was his favourite and he liked cuddling me while he watched it.
But that was just me being a nice girlfriend. Patient. Romantic.
‘Even if it is how I act with Henry, why is that such a bad thing?’
River picks up a beer mat and flips it over again and again, the size of his big workman’s hands making it look like a doll’s house miniature. ‘Just gathering more intel for our operation, is all. Like you say, it’s probably gonna take more than a hot dress to win back a man as cerebral as Henry.’
‘Henry actually loved that I was so polite and easy-going. He literally once said “I love how low maintenance you are, Gertie”.’
‘Low maintenance?’ River echoes sardonically. ‘What a compliment.’
‘That’s how he meant it.’
‘And that’s how you received it?’
I open my mouth and then close it again. Ugh. My blood pressure starts to rise with sudden indignation at River’s arrogance. How dare he sneer at a relationship he knows absolutely zero about.
I fold my arms across my chest, my eyes suddenly steely.
‘For your information, River Oakley, I’ve had a romantic partner pretty consistently since I’ve been old enough to date.
So I am not brand new to love and I certainly don’t need your judgement.
Sorry for not being psyched to take advice from a thirty-year-old man who is too emotionally stunted to have ever been in a real relationship.
Or are you going to tell me I got that wrong too? ’
‘Ouch,’ River says, mock wounded, but the tips of his ears turn deep pink.
I stare at him, my face flaming, a surge of energy making my heart pound. I immediately want to apologise for being so sharp, but I try extra hard not to because he’ll probably just hold it up as another example of my having no backbone.
‘I’m going to get our carveries,’ I say haughtily instead, stalking off towards the pub dining room. ‘Please order me a fresh orange juice. Thank you.’
‘Happily,’ River says with a gentle tip of his hat. ‘And if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to try one of those gigantic puffy things that fella over there is enjoying.’
‘It’s called a Yorkshire pudding.’ I tut, following his gaze. ‘You’re not gluten-free or dairy-free or vegetarian, are you?’
River raises an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you already know?’
Seems I don’t know much of anything any more. Not my characters, not my relationship, not even myself.
‘Please get me some vodka in the orange juice,’ I clip, before shuffling off to get our lunch. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, make it a double.’