Chapter Twenty-Six
A couple of hours later, we leave Little Crumpet Manor before anyone else wakes up. The drive back to London is silent and I reckon I know the main reasons why:
My failure to win Henry back means River might be trapped here for ever and he’s trying not show his terror at the thought.
Less than four hours ago, River and I had what I suspect was – even with all of his experience – one of the filthiest kisses either of us has ever had.
River appears to be regretting the kiss, based on the fact that he has barely made eye contact with me since he said, ‘The water I will enjoy,’ before disappearing into the bathroom.
To my surprise I’m still not experiencing the burning jealousy I expected to be feeling after seeing Henry kiss Marisol.
Which is weird because seeing the two of them all over each other made me feel sick and angry and definitely territorial.
But curiously the burning jealousy is yet to make an appearance.
And somewhere beneath those horrid emotions, like a weed reaching through the cracks in the pavement towards the sunlight, there’s a tiny bit of excitement in there.
Which makes zero sense. There is absolutely nothing to be excited about right now.
Everything is objectively terrible. A whole fucking mess, with extra added tension between River and me because – for the first time in my life – I couldn’t keep my horn under control. I am clearly losing my mind.
While River and I drive in taut silence, the towering trees and verdant hills give way to a quiet A-road, eventually leading to a bustling central London.
I bet everyone in Crumpet is still sleeping, yet here in the city the world is already wide awake, shop shutters clattering open, delivery vans beeping their annoyance at the tiny spaces they have to navigate, crimson buses stuffed with tourists on the hunt for the perfect London photo spot.
Home.
Just like at the hotel, River insists on carrying all the luggage up to the flat, but I swipe the smaller suitcase from him and lug it up myself.
As soon as we reach the top of the stairs, Mrs Casablanca’s door flies open. Squish speeds out and scales River’s leg, whining desperately like River is an injured soldier returning from war at last.
Mrs Casablancas gasps. ‘Gertie is here!’ she calls over her shoulder. Then she presses a hand to her chest and looks heavenward. ‘Gertie is alive! She is safe and well!’ She clasps her hands together. ‘Thank you, baby Jesus. Thank you.’
‘What? Of course I’m alive!’
‘Once again, what is he?’ River asks, peering down at Squish with distrust. ‘Where I come from dogs do not look this way.’
‘He’s a Chug!’ Mrs Casablancas explains brightly. ‘A chihuahua crossed with a pug. Aww. I think he’s missed you. Squish, hush! Look, you’re going to have to pick him up if you want him to pipe down.’
‘Why would you be worrying if I was alive?’ I ask Mrs Casablancas as River picks up the tiny round chubber, holding him awkwardly in his arms. Immediately Squish stops whining, just pants happily and gazes adoringly up at River.
And then, to my absolute befuddlement, from behind Mrs Casablancas, up pops Bridget.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I gawk. ‘My book agent, Bridget,’ I explain to River, who seems to be locked into some sort of stare-off with Squish.
Bridget, her usually sharp red bob decidedly mussed up, holds up her phone to my face, showing me the last message she received from me.
Bridget, I’m afraid
Oh.
‘We thought you’d been kidnapped!’ Mrs Casablancas says, her cheeks wobbling with the drama of it.
Bridget nods. ‘Mrs Casablancas here said there had been a big manly man with you a few days ago and, of course, Henry is not what anyone would describe as a big manly man. Then she told me she thought the new man’s name was Lake. Lake! Well, that sounded very suspicious to me.’
Mrs Casablancas looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘It’s not Lake, is it? Something to do with water, though, yes?’
I glance at River to see if he will introduce himself, but he appears to be happily distracted as Squish tries hard to lick his eye. Wait … is River giggling?
‘When we realised you still weren’t at home, we checked your social media for clues,’ Bridget explains, stressily running a hand through her hair and revealing the reason why it looks so much crazier than usual.
‘Nothing of note,’ Mrs Casablancas sniffs. ‘You haven’t posted anything in weeks. It was a social media drought.’
‘Yeah, we should talk about that too actually,’ Bridget muses. ‘If you refuse to do in-person events the least you can do is keep your core fanbase engaged online.’
‘Agreed.’ Mrs Casablancas nods.
I goggle at the pair of them. Are they friends now?
‘I was going to call the police but then Mrs Casablancas was looking in your fridge for nibbles and noticed this invitation.’
Mrs Casablancas pulls the birthday party invite from her bra even though she is wearing a pink dress with perfectly serviceable pockets.
‘We were just about to set off for Little Crumpet, but here you are, thank God.’
‘Jeez. Look, I’m totally fine. I was halfway through texting you when my phone fell in the jacuzzi and it’s still drying out.’
‘In rice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘But I’m fine. I’m sorry for worrying you. Are you both okay?’
Bridget nods quickly, attempting to recover some semblance of professionalism despite the evidence. ‘Yes, all good. But an update on the manuscript would be fab now that your safety has been established.’
‘Are you going to come in?’ Mrs Casablancas says archly. ‘Only we cannot be standing in the hallway all day. This is not an episode of the popular NBC sitcom Friends.’
‘Friends?’ River screws up his face. ‘Never heard of it. Can’t be that popular.’
Is he joking? Not his best one, I have to say.
Mrs Casablancas bustles us all into her flat.
River looks around in amazement at the colourful maximalist décor – every spare inch of space covered with creations and paintings and objets d’art.
As Mrs Casablancas heads over to the bright yellow open-plan kitchen and fills up the kettle, Bridget gives me a little kiss on the cheek, a display of affection that is most unlike her.
‘I’m glad you’re alive,’ she says, and I idly wonder if that’s because she genuinely cares for me or because her least favourite thing to have to deal with is a client missing a delivery deadline.
When we’re all settled into her soft overstuffed floral sofas, Mrs Casablancas carries a pot of tea over to the coffee table, pouring us each a cup.
‘None for me, thank you,’ River says, trying to put Squish down onto the carpet but not having much luck since Squish is now refusing to be anywhere other than in his arms.
‘No sugar, thanks,’ Bridget instructs.
Once she’s served the tea, Mrs Casablancas stands over River and inspects his Stetson.
She lifts her glasses from where they dangle on a silver chain around her neck, slides them on and examines it right up close.
‘This is exquisitely made,’ she says knowledgeably.
‘The stitching is quite something. It is giving Made by Cinderella’s Mice.
Though look here.’ She fingers the brim.
‘There’s a tear. Shall I mend it for you? I am an excellent seamstress.’
River’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Really? That would be great, thank you!’ He pulls off the hat and hands it over to Mrs Casablancas, who turns it around in her hands.
‘I’d been meaning to get it repaired with my jeans,’ River adds.
‘You have jeans to be repaired too?’
River nods. ‘A whole bunch. Life of a cowboy, you know. They get pretty worn.’
‘Bring them to me later on,’ Mrs Casablancas instructs as she plops down into her pink velvet armchair. ‘I will give you a good deal.’
‘You’re actually a cowboy?’ Bridget asks, taking a delicate sip of her tea, her shoulders sinking a little in response to its soothing properties. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
River, still half-distracted by Squish, leans across the coffee table, holding out his hand. ‘River Oakley, ma’am,’ he says as Squish starts to scramble onto his shoulder. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Bridget doesn’t take his hand, just stares at him for a second, her eyes widening as what he just said dawns on her. I tut at River in annoyance, wishing that after the debacle with Henry at the quiz we’d just given him a fake name. And now the same thing has happened again.
‘River?’ She laughs a little. ‘Oakley? You just said your name is …’
And then her face drops as she takes in the Stetson Mrs Casablancas is holding. Then she leans closer to River, gasping as she studies his face.
‘Eyes the exact colour of winter pine trees cast in the shadow of a storm cloud,’ she murmurs, mimicking the book’s description of River. And then she glances at his belt buckle: the engraving of a moon wrapped in a lasso. Then at the scar on his cheek.
‘Oh no,’ she says eventually, pressing a hand to her forehead, eyes closing apprehensively. ‘Oh God. Not again.’