Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

How did this happen? Quinn watched Noah sitting at the altar of the church, the camera guy snapping photos of him as he held his book. Noah fixing a forced smile on his face. The black-coat reporter, Emma, a beautiful girl that was riding on the wave of luck she surfed in on, poised and ready to interview him.

Something inside Quinn sank as he saw his opportunity overshadowed by the author, who was born and bred in Hay.

‘So, Noah Sage, back in Hay. How does it feel to be back home?'

‘I got stuck here,' Noah said, his eyes darting around the shop, trying to find Quinn. ‘The snow cut me off. I couldn't get back to London. It just won't stop, will it? The snow, I mean.'

‘Some might call that fate. Do you believe in fate?'

‘Sure. Maybe. I don't know.'

‘I think the roads are clear now,' Emma said.

‘Yeah, but they're pretty treacherous for a four-hour journey back to London.'

‘But you're home now. You came for the festival. How did that go?'

‘I always love coming to the festival.' The words sounded rehearsed to Quinn. ‘It's great to know that the festival continues to have fans that flock from around the world. And it's always great to get to know others.'

‘And good to come home?'

‘Not really.'

Emma looked baffled. ‘Not really?'

‘This isn't home.'

Quinn averted his eyes, biting his lip. It hurt to hear Noah talk about his distaste at being back here in Hay, like it was some sordid place that nobody should ever go to.

‘I think the readers of Hay Herald would disagree.'

‘Let them.'

Quinn tried to pretend he wasn't listening, but he wanted to turn and lock eyes with Noah, to see his expression. His words sounded angry, tense, like he resented coming back to this town.

Emma cleared her throat. Quinn knew this wouldn't make the article. It would put Hay in a poor light. Imagine churning out a bestselling novelist only to find that he didn't enjoy being back in the town he came from.

‘Your new romance novel is blazing through the charts. Any more in the works?'

‘I always have a lot of ideas, and I'm halfway through the next instalment. The reaction to this book has been so special.' Quinn rolled his eyes, realising how easily Noah became interview ready. ‘I would have never imagined this book doing better than the others, as it was a little harder to write.'

‘Why?'

A pause. ‘Heartbreak.'

Quinn, his arm raised to put away a book, froze.

‘I see,' Emma said. ‘Would you like to tell us about that?'

‘Heartbreak can inspire a lot of things. A lot of the art you see comes from intense feelings of dread, grief, anger, hatred, hurt. I think that's what fuelled me to write this book. It feels rawer than the others, I guess, and I guess people relate to that because of what happens in the world.'

‘Right. There is a lot to be sad about.'

Quinn glanced behind him. He could see the top of Noah's head through the display. He stepped back into the shadows, cursing the creak of a floorboard.

‘There are. Like this place. We might lose this bookshop, Hay's only queer space. Why would anyone want to lose that?'

Quinn gasped and covered his mouth.

‘What does this bookshop mean to you?'

Quinn stepped forwards, and this time he saw Noah looking at him.

‘This bookshop means everything to me.' Noah broke the gaze first. ‘When I was a kid, growing up here on the border of England, I felt so lost. The world seemed so much bigger than this corner of Wales, with its bookshops and its history. It felt old to me. It felt rigid. And inside me was this feeling that I was trapped as someone else. That I needed to escape, not only the confines of this small town, but escape me. I had never heard the word gay. When I did, it hit me. I was gay. Could I have been gay in Hay? Of course I could. Did I want to be? No. I wanted to see the world.'

Their eyes met again. He smiled, and Noah smiled back.

‘So, I ran from Hay. I left it behind. I didn't know if I would ever come back. All I knew was that I needed to escape me, escape Hay, and escape … some other things.'

Quinn wondered if Noah's words alluded to his mother.

‘But would I have done that if this shop had been here? Would I have wanted to escape so much if someone had been here to listen to my demons, to talk to me? Would I have stayed in Hay if I had instead escaped to the multiple pages of gay literature, of real-life queer stories and experiences? Of queer history? My story may have been a lot different, and this interview may never have happened.'

There was a thud, and they turned to look at Quinn, standing like a rabbit paralyzed in headlights. He had dropped a stack of books.

The photographer excused himself and went to help Quinn, leaving Emma and Noah at the altar. Quinn thanked the photographer, but tried his best to listen to the interview a few feet away.

‘There are people like me in Hay. People who may be afraid to come out. Who may be afraid to be themselves. Then there are people close to Hay who call this their only safe place. There are those who want to be educated, and those who want to get lost in a queer romance story. And I think that is beautiful.' Noah nodded at Quinn, who held all the books he'd dropped. ‘The story isn't me being back in Hay, Emma. No one cares about that. The story is about this bookshop, and how if nothing is done, we will lose it. You should talk to Quinn.'

Emma turned to Quinn, standing there with his eyes wide, his mouth ajar, his hands propped on the books he'd dropped. The photographer raised his camera and took a photo of Quinn, a flash blinding him.

‘Delete that right now.'

Noah crossed his arms, smiling at Emma as she got to her feet, her trainers echoing on the church floor. Quinn allowed her to guide him through the shelves towards the front of the shop. Noah sat alone in the middle of the church, lost in his own thoughts.

‘Well, that is quite something,' Emma said to Quinn.

‘I don't think I've been this flustered since a woman had her baby in here.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘She came in and she gave birth right there.' Quinn pointed to the glass cabinet against the wall. ‘Said she wanted to use my phone to call the ambulance and then refused to leave because she was in so much pain. She named her child Charles, like Dickens.'

‘Wow.'

‘This place has so much history. Apparently, it was the site of a murder when the castle was functioning,' Quinn said. ‘Oh, and Richard Booth used it. Rumour also has it that this place was a boudoir.'

Emma probed Quinn on his own thoughts about the closure. Quinn recited as much as he could, feeling like his words weren't communicating its importance enough. Which then made him talk too much. But Noah's words came back to him about needing to fight. This was the way Quinn could fight. With words, with stories, with examples of how special this place was.

‘Well, thank you, Quinn, for your time. It's appreciated.'

‘I appreciate you,' Quinn said, somewhat breathless. ‘When will this go out?'

‘End of the week,' Emma said. ‘Let's say Friday.'

‘Great!'

Noah joined them at the front of the shop, moving much too close to Quinn. He froze. Only recently, he'd been touching him, hugging him. Now he was back like he'd never left.

Emma turned to Noah. ‘Thank you for your time.'

‘Happy to.'

‘One last photo?' Emma asked.

‘Sure.' Quinn held his hand out to Noah. He'd be lying if he wasn't using it as an excuse to feel Noah again. ‘Where do you want him?'

‘Oh, the both of you, please,' Emma said.

Noah patted Quinn on the back.

‘An author and his biggest fan,' Quinn said.

Noah laughed, and Quinn laughed too. The camera flashed, catching them mid-laugh. Emma smiled.

‘We'll catch you soon.'