Chapter Sixteen
The alcohol makes me feel a little better. More than a little actually. And while River’s general demeanour and astonishing arrogance is still annoying me, we manage to get into a conversation without too much snipping. So when River suggests another drink, I readily agree.
Three hours later we are decidedly pissed. At least I am. River has had multiple bourbons and seems just as sober as when we arrived.
As the sky outside dims into a lilac twilight, a band starts up in the corner of the pub.
River watches them perform, tapping his booted feet, an impressed grin on his face.
And then, when the band’s song is finished, and with all the confidence of a man who has never been turned down, he stands up from our table and strides over to the musicians.
‘River! What are you do—?’ I try to call after him, but I don’t even manage to get the full sentence out because next thing I know, River has dug his harmonica out of his jeans pocket and when the band kick into a Tom Petty song, he leans in to share the singer’s microphone and starts casually playing alongside them.
What is he doing? You can’t just join a whole band without preparation! They rehearsed. They have a plan for their show! A set list and a hierarchy!
But, as it turns out, you absolutely can join a whole band without preparation.
At least River Oakley can. Within thirty seconds, he has managed to eclipse the lead singer as the star of the show, and the lead singer doesn’t seem to mind.
In fact, he, and almost every other human being in the pub, is turned towards River, beaming like they’re in the presence of a great.
A couple of people have their phones out.
One particularly excited woman has taken an electric fan out of her bag to cool herself down even though the pub has air conditioning on at full blast.
River closes his eyes as he plays, fingers flying dextrously over the harmonica, foot stomping happily against the floor, lost in a world of his own.
*
‘That Yorkshire pudding was like a perfect bready cloud in my mouth,’ River muses once we leave the pub and make our tipsy way back to my flat.
‘You’ll have to make them for yourself,’ I suggest. ‘I’ve got a great recipe. My sister’s recipe. Super easy, always a winner.’
‘You have a sister?’ River glances across at me as we make our way down Clipstone Street, the scent of salty chips wafting beneath our noses. ‘You guys fight as much as Cassidy and I do, or do you have a healthy sibling relationship?’
I shake my head. ‘Josie and I only ever fought one time. She actually died four years ago.’ I take my phone out of my trouser pocket and flick to my screensaver, a picture of Josie and me having a picnic in Regent’s Park.
Josie is doing her ridiculous jazz hands dance and I’m clutched over laughing at her. ‘This is her.’
River sighs sadly. ‘She’s … really hot.’
A laugh bursts out of me, my eyes flicking up to meet his. ‘I know. She was amazing and I’m not exaggerating when I tell you she was not only hotter than me, but better in almost every conceivable way.’
‘But could she summon grown men unwillingly to her apartment without them having any knowledge of how they got there?’
‘You’re joking, but Josie probably could do that. She could do anything she set her mind to. She was a very unique woman.’
River nods. ‘How did she d—’
‘And she was an excellent cook. I’ll dig out her Yorkshire pudding recipe when we get home. It’s in the back of my closet somewhere.’
The road is swarming with beeping cars, red buses and an endless stream of bikes delivering evening meals to hungry people all over the city.
The pair of us wait for the traffic light to go red and as we do I notice that River shifts his body in front of me slightly, as if to protect me from the traffic.
‘Shame I don’t have time to cook back home,’ River says once we’ve safely crossed the road.
‘Surely you must have some time? Don’t ranch owners have days off?’
He laughs lightly. ‘Not really. I mean I do, technically. But I’m usually called in for one thing or another.
A sick horse, a contractor needing to be paid, staff issues, unexpected repairs.
And, you know, I live there on the property.
It’s beautiful and I’m a lucky man. But, see, even when I’m not at work, I’m literally at work. ’
We turn onto my street, the traditional amber-lit lamp posts lined up on either side making it look like Victorian London. ‘But you love it, right? You love your work?’
The River in my books adores Oakley Ranch, is obsessed with it, wants full control at any cost, even if it means icing Cassidy out of her rightful heritage.
River shrugs. ‘It’s what I was born to do, I guess. Ranching is in my blood. And Oakley Ranch? Well, that place matters to a lot of people. Now that my father’s gone, there’s only me to take care of things the way they ought to be taken care of.’
‘Cassidy can help!’ I suggest, thinking of lovely Cassidy who wants nothing more than to become a real part of the family business, show what she’s made of. ‘If you’d just stop pushing her out, she’d be a great asset.’
River stops on the front step and turns to me, jaw tensing. ‘Look, I know that for whatever kooky unknowable reason, you seem to have some insight into Bedlam Creek and its inhabitants. But I reckon you only really know one side of things. And that’s Cassidy’s.’
I bite my lip. ‘She is my protagonist. Everything I write is through her eyes.’
‘So then you don’t know the whole story.’
‘Tell me then!’ I demand as we trudge up the stairs. ‘Tell me the whole story.’
Once we’re outside my door, River turns to me. His eyes flash. ‘It’s … private. Family business. And anyway, we need to focus on what’s going on over here. Operation Windbag needs more preparation before we leave for … what’s it called? Crumble? Tomorrow.’
‘Little Crumpet.’
River shakes his head. ‘I thought Oatmeal was the twee-ist town name I’d ever heard, but Little Crumpet? That takes the cake.’
‘Over here we say “That takes the biscuit”.’
River side-eyes me as I slot the key into the lock. ‘Biscuit? Like biscuits with grits?’
‘No, a biscuit. A sweet baked biscuit.’
‘Ah, you mean a cookie.’
‘No, that’s something a bit different here.’
‘Fucking England.’
‘Speaking of biscuits though …’ I sway over to the kitchen to flip the kettle on, then I open up the cupboard and grab a big tin full of treats.
I take it over to the kitchen table and open the lid with a flourish.
‘Here are some of the best we have to offer. I especially recommend this one.’ I point out a custard cream.
River grabs the biscuit and takes a tentative bite of the corner, crunching thoughtfully. He quicky grabs another and stuffs it into his mouth, eyes closing with hammy, over-the-top bliss. ‘Mmmmm! Holy cow.’
The unexpected silliness of it makes me snort. ‘You know, you’re funnier than I thought you’d be,’ I muse, helping myself to a chocolate digestive and eating it with as much grace as someone four vodkas deep would.
River’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Funny? Now that’s not a note I’ve had before.’
‘No?’
‘Natural leader? Yes. Insanely good-looking but also impossibly bright? That one comes up a lot. Expert horseman, strong as an ox, very generous lover? Ye—’
‘Argh, I take it back,’ I laugh-shout over him. ‘I didn’t mean it, I take it back!’
River shrugs and this time, in an even more exaggerated way, stuffs another two custard creams in his mouth and pretends to keel over onto the floor with the pure delight of it.
‘You can’t take it back now, Gertie,’ he protests, mouth full of biscuit.
‘It’s out there. It exists in the world, floating about as a matter of fact. You think I’m funny.’
I snatch the biscuit tin off the table and put it safely back in the cupboard.
‘No more custard creams for River Oakley.’