Chapter Nineteen
We hear the sounds of jolly good British merriment before we see it – clinking glasses, low rumblings of gregarious conversation, a tinkling piano playing a jaunty jazz standard because Jim is a total Duke Ellington fanboy.
River takes hold of my hand, his big strong one encasing my average-sized one completely.
I immediately yank it away in case Henry sees, before remembering that this is the entire point of us being here.
Henry needs to see someone else holding my hand, realise he simply cannot bear it and declare that the break is over and he’s coming home.
So when River reaches for my hand again, I let him take it.
He gives it a quick squeeze of encouragement.
‘You’ve got this,’ he says plainly. I look up at him, surprised at the vote of confidence, and together we walk into the hotel bar.
I needn’t have worried about River feeling intimidated by a group of well-to-do British writers – he strides in like he owns the place, cowboy boots clomping heavily on the polished wooden floors.
He has to duck a little beneath the old-fashioned beams and his pure stature and presence means he immediately draws attention from everyone in the vicinity.
Well, that and the fact that he tips his Stetson and booms ‘Howdy, y’all,’ in the deepest, grumbliest, almost hammiest impression of himself.
I shuffle in alongside him, scanning the room, specifically the large table in a twinkle-lit alcove where Jim and the other party guests sit, now staring slack-jawed at River. The pianist, to his credit, only misses a single note at the unexpected entrance.
I vaguely remember Henry telling me about the guest list. I try to place everyone so as not to make any faux pas – I’ve learned since becoming an author myself that writers are excellent at holding grudges at any perceived slight.
There’s Jim, of course, wearing a jacquard waistcoat over his crisp white shirt with a big red badge pinned to it that says, Birthday Boy!
Next to him and wearing the most beautiful citrus-coloured halter-neck dress is Marisol Keats, whose debut poetry collection sold in an eight-way auction last month.
She’s both stunningly attractive and self-possessed.
Her Instagram – where she shares pictures of her poems, the renovations on her Mayfair mews and her insanely fluffy Persian cat Bella – has a following of 800,000 devotees, of which I am one.
She flicks her shiny dark hair over her shoulder and gives me a slightly stiff smile.
And there’s Sir Otto Derberville, who looks like if young Barack Obama had gone off the deep end in a Harris Tweed factory.
Sir Otto owns Derberville & Falcon a hugely well-respected independent bookshop chain in the UK.
I’ve only met him once, at a Booker Prize longlist party for Henry.
He was absolutely lovely, but seemed slightly befuddled when I explained to him what my books were about.
I got the impression he’d never read a romance novel in his life, which seems an awful shame for him.
And then there is Henry, situated right at the head of the table, holding a pint of his beloved pale ale.
Beautiful, poised Henry, looking delectable in a white linen shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal those gorgeous sinewy forearms I used to tell him were so hot they could get me to do anything.
After that he’d jokily hold them up in front of me whenever he asked for something.
Wave his bare forearms in the air and ask for a cup of tea or a blow job as if he was trying to hypnotise me.
He smiles affectionately as we lock eyes.
When he gives me a private little wink, it immediately sends a lump right to my throat.
It takes every ounce of my willpower to refrain from running over to him and burying myself in his shoulder.
That would be too pathetic, even for me, and River says that I should act like I am doing just fine and dandy without him.
It’s funny, I’ve had many boyfriends, pretty much consistently since I was fourteen, and have been dumped a lot, for reasons as diverse as ‘I’m moving back to Canada’, to ‘I need to focus on my career at the bank’, and once, ‘I accidentally overheard you weeing and it gave me the ick’.
But the knowledge of those relationships being definitively over was far easier to deal with than this ‘break’.
I feel like I’m standing on a clifftop, not sure if my destiny is to be rescued from the edge or pushed over it.
A short, friendly-looking woman with long pink and purple curls waves us over to the table. She pats the bench, indicating that I should sit beside her.
‘Hi everyone,’ I say, my heart thudding nervously as I head over to sit next to the pink-haired woman, who introduces herself as Jim’s assistant Zo.
‘Gertie!’ Jim chirrups delightedly as if he didn’t just see me a couple of hours ago in the car park. ‘You all know Gertie, right?’ he asks the other guests, most of whom nod politely. ‘A wonderful romance novelist and a delightful human indeed.’
‘This is my, uh, this is River,’ I return in response to their various greetings. ‘He’s a, um, from Texas. A Texas boy, yes …’
God. My decorum is already failing me.
‘River Oakley,’ River rumbles, reaching out to pump everyone’s hand one by one. ‘Pleasure’s mine. Happy to be shenaninganning with y’all. Nice to see you again, Henry.’
‘Your name is River Oakley?’ Henry almost sputters out his drink. ‘Like … your Bedlam Creek book character, Gert?’
Oh no. Shit. Henry only ever read my first Bedlam Creek book and that was years ago now.
How does he even remember the character of River Oakley?
God, he really does have the most incredible memory.
Fuck. This is a massive oversight on my part.
How could I not have considered that Henry would recognise River’s name?
What the hell am I supposed to do? How do I explain this without revealing that I am, in fact, unhinged? Shit.
‘I … I … so …’ I begin, starting a sentence I have no clue how I’m going to finish. ‘It’s uh, I …’
The rest of the guests stare at me blankly. Sir Otto wiggles uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Use your words, Gertie!’ Henry says, smile a little stretched.
‘Uh …’
‘That’s actually how Gertie and I met,’ River cuts in smoothly, beckoning the waitress over and settling himself on a velvet stool next to me, legs spread wide in a way that makes Henry – on his other side – move his chair a little to accommodate him.
‘Bourbon, splash of water,’ he instructs as the waitress appears at his side. ‘Owl?’ He eyes me expectantly.
Owl? Am I Owl? Why is he calling me Owl?
‘Owl?’ Henry echoes, one eyebrow raised.
‘It’s her glasses,’ River explains with a tender grin that magically softens his whole face into something much less intimidating. ‘Don’t y’all reckon those round glasses make her look like the cutest little owl.’
Oh God. Oh God.
Yesterday, River did briefly mention the possibility of using a pet name for me in front of Henry. But we never fully agreed on it. And I certainly never would have agreed on Owl.
‘Ah yes, they rather do!’ Sir Otto agrees, peering at me and nodding slowly. ‘Yes. A wise owl.’
‘A sexy owl,’ River murmurs, grinning down at me devilishly.
He reaches out and slowly trails his middle finger up my bare arm.
It’s so unexpectedly, overtly, publicly sexy that I feel myself start to blush.
To my annoyance my whole body erupts with goosebumps at his touch.
I send River a discreet warning glance. While we talked about our histories in order for it to seem more realistic that we were ‘dating’, we did not discuss any public physicality.
And now, as River uses his finger to run lazy circles over the back of my neck I realise we absolutely should have, because being the recipient of River’s pure sexual presence – however much he’s faking it – is something I know I’m not equipped to handle with any degree of elegance.
Christ. I firmly tell myself to move away from River’s touch but am thwarted by just how much my stupid body wants to lean in to it.
Henry’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as he watches us.
Marisol peers between me and River, face screwed up in confusion.
‘Oh!’ she says eventually, pointing at me and then at River. ‘You two are …?’ She trails off. I try not to be offended by her disbelief that someone like River would ever be involved with someone like me. I fail.
‘Oh, we are.’ River grins slowly, eyes glinting with pure sex. ‘Very much so. All the time.’
I notice that Henry’s jaw tightens. ‘So not just a friend,’ he mutters.
Marisol grimaces. This is highly, highly awkward.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you yesterday,’ I blurt.
‘I didn’t want you to …’ I trail off, not quite sure how to finish the sentence.
How do sentences even work any more? With Henry’s betrayed expression boring into me and River’s fingers of sex dancing below my ear it’s impossible to think straight.
I am crumbling. I am completely crumbling.
I glance up at the approaching waitress. ‘I will need and have a half a cider, please and yes that is what I will have for me. Thank you much kindly.’
‘Half a cider for the owl,’ River says to the waitress. ‘And whatever everyone else is having, on me.’
‘Good chap,’ Jim approves, raising his almost empty glass of red in River’s direction.
‘You were saying how you two met?’ Henry prompts, once everyone’s drinks have been ordered. He crosses one leg over the other and looks directly at River. ‘Please. Enlighten us! We’d love to know.’
‘Henry,’ Marisol says gently. ‘Let’s not put them on the spot. Perhaps—’