Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Last night was a dream. It must have been. A teenage dream, a fantasy, but one hundred per cent a dream.

Except as Quinn arrived at his bookshop, carrying today's paper, realising that he had in fact not cleaned away their glasses and the champagne bottle like he thought, memories of his night with Noah came flooding back to him.

Oh, how wonderful it had been. Noah's blond hair, his cheeky smile, his personality. Spending one-on-one time with an author he admired was surreal, which accounted for how much he drank and how heavy his head felt today.

Quinn stared at the empty champagne bottle and the two glasses, seeing the faint imprint of Noah's lips on the rim.

Quinn felt like that time he got high: light-headed and paranoid as hell.

What words did he utter?

Did he say anything bad?

Did he tell Noah he liked his eyes?

That he liked his books?

That he would have liked to have been one of the characters in his romance novels that got screwed by the lead?

No. No, he couldn't have.

Then he saw the broken children's chair and laughed.

Quinn cleared away the mess from the night before, trying to reassure himself that everything was okay. Wandering into the aisles of books, all arranged alphabetically by the author's last name, he came to the shelf of Noah Sage books. Looking at the titles, with a few copies of each, he traced his finger over the spines, like he could almost touch the man himself.

He read many genres of books. He grew up reading everything from Dahl to Dickens. He knew his books, and of course, his dad told him about titles. Quinn had hosted many author signings and met many famous authors, but Noah was different.

One, they were the same age.

Two, Quinn loved a soppy romance.

And three, Quinn fancied the fuck out of him.

He recalled the first time he'd seen Noah Sage – it was kind of like he was a stalker, only not crazy.

Well…

No, not crazy.

He had been reading a trade magazine, looking at upcoming authors, trying to find out the buzz, and it had featured Noah for his debut. A romcom, Britain's next Jackie Collins, only less fabulous. They praised him for realism within the genre of romance, able to tell gritty stories while keeping his characters fresh, exciting, and likeable.

Then the film rights sold.

Noah Sage hit the mainstream.

Quinn felt proud, especially because he was from this town. Quinn always wondered how he never met Sage. He soon discovered Noah went to a school over the border in England, and had left Hay at sixteen. Quinn had kept himself to himself, avoiding any male because of his feelings, and disappearing between the pages of books. In some ways, Noah did the same.

Certainly, last night's admission of hating Hay had been interesting. Who could hate Hay? The people were friendly, the shops divine, and it was literally the town of books a.k.a. heaven on earth. No, Noah was wrong. Maybe he hated another town that rhymed with Hay-on-Wye. Though, of course, Quinn knew that wasn't the case. Noah's dislike for the place was clear in the way he spoke about it. The way he cleared his throat and hunched his shoulders.

But Quinn felt drawn to Noah, from every titbit in an interview to the always updating Wikipedia page.

Wow. Am I a stalker? Quinn wondered.

He stepped away from Noah's titles, as if being too close would get him a restraining order, and headed back to the front of the shop.

It was the last weekend of the winter festival. He knew there were illustrious names up there, and normally he would immerse himself in the crowds and listen to the words of the authors, wishing he could be one as well. Only his life had taken him down a different path, and that was okay. He didn't resent that. A life in London beckoned. Courtesy of a friend, a job still awaited him should he ever change his mind, but he wouldn't change his mind. He couldn't.

Flipping the closed sign to open, Quinn unlocked the door, and then drank a copious amount of water, willing away last night's hangover and the faint taste of champagne.

He took pride in the shop. He adjusted the titles, reorganised shelves, and said hello to those that walked in through the door – each time glancing up at the castle as if it might come charging at him and take this all away from him.

As he scanned books into the system, getting them ready to hit the shelves, he thought of what he could do to save the place. The fundraiser wasn't working out. He needed a bigger profile, or at least someone to come along and change everything for the better. Maybe he'd stand on the street and tell every passer-by that Hay's only gay bookshop was about to close its doors. And what did they think about that?

But then what if they thought it was a good thing? What if they didn't see a problem with the castle taking back a building that historically had been its own?

Well, history changed. This wasn't the castle's anymore. Besides, he suspected Harold's motives. No doubt this building would bring in some serious money if it were to sell. All conjecture, of course. Maybe Saint Harold wanted it for a ticket office. Although, didn't it make sense to house that in the castle reception? Who was going to come here first and then go to the castle opposite?

Maybe Quinn could take the castle. Yes, that would be plausible. He could gather an army of drag queens and queers and he could take back ownership of both his shop and Hay's landmark castle.

Army.

Now, that was an idea…

The snow stopped, if only for a moment, and cheery voices went by outside.

‘Enjoying the festival?' Quinn asked two twenty-somethings as they approached the till.

‘Love it,' one girl said. ‘We come every year. Summer and winter.'

She held the hand of the girl next to her, and Quinn smiled.

‘That's fantastic.'

‘We always come here,' the other girl said. ‘Whenever we can. Sometimes we order online. I was a little worried the snow would stop us, but we don't live too far away.'

‘Ah, I might have seen your names then.'

‘More than likely,' the first girl said. ‘Past couple of times, though, we've been served by a guy who always tries to sell us books on allyship.'

‘Daniel Craig.'

The girls both mirrored the same humoured expression, and Quinn giggled.

‘Yep. Bond,' Quinn said. ‘He's straight.' The girls gasped, and Quinn laughed. ‘But, of course, an ally.'

‘That explains the pushing of those books, then.'

‘These straight people – always shoving it down our throats.'

They shared a laugh, and Quinn handed them their bag of books. At that moment, Daniel headed through the door, saying something to a delivery driver outside. He held two boxes and letters and looked over them at Quinn.

‘More stock?' Quinn asked, as the two twenty-year-olds disappeared into the winter street.

‘Seems like it.'

Daniel dropped them on the table, and Quinn organised it.

‘Say, Quinn, how did you realise you were gay?'

The question hit him out of the blue. Quinn thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I guess I kind of already knew. People around me would talk about members of the opposite sex and I wasn't all that interested.'

‘Hmm. I see,' Daniel said before disappearing into the back of the shop to put away his coat and bag.

As Quinn leafed through the letters, his breath held, he was relieved that he hadn't received anymore eviction notices. He supposed final meant final. Thinking about the girls, he wondered if he should have let them know about his predicament.

He took his time reading the newspaper with a fresh mug of coffee on his oak table and incense burning in all corners of the shop, an aroma of cedar and sandalwood filling the air. A part of him worried Harold may walk by, see him like this, and use it as evidence that the shop needed to go. Yet, in all honesty, days like these were rare for him.

He turned the page, pushing away thoughts of Harold, when he saw a photograph of Hermione Sage, Noah's mother.

actress looking for GHOSTWRITER the headline read.

Quinn leaned forwards in his wingback armchair, the springs squeaking, and read:

Disgraced actress Hermione Sage has announced her autobiography via her website, only it's yet to be written. Taking to her personal website, the actress has asked for a ghostwriter to write her life story, documenting her rise to fame and her life after the cameras stopped rolling.

Sage, 70, has starred in many Christmas films with the Romance channel, as well as a string of Hollywood movies, but her career ended after a sex tape involving her and a married man was leaked. Sage has since disappeared from the public eye.

It's not yet clear if Sage will refer to the sex tape, something she has never talked about in public.

Ghostwriters are being asked to apply via a Google doc link created by Sage.

Quinn went to his computer, found Hermione's website, and clicked on it. It took an age to load, almost like it hadn't updated since dial-up internet. He spotted her latest blog post entry asking for writers to pitch a sample of their work.

Hay-On-Wye was a small place, and gossip spread with speed. Especially when it involved Hermione Sage. Hermione had been a local, and when she starred in a Romance movie, she jetted off to the States, where a new life awaited her. The locals of Hay were thrilled, but rumours had already spread about affairs and strained family relationships. Then, of course, the tape leaked, and Hermione's career crumbled overnight. The studios didn't want to work with her anymore, and that was that.

Quinn had seen her since then, but only once. She had walked through town, everyone going quiet and staring at her as she went by. He knew she lived across the border, just a few minutes away from Hay, in a small village known as Cusop, a sleepy town in the shadow of Cusop Hill that belonged in a cosy murder mystery novel.

Now, the generations that didn't know Hermione as an actress referred to her as ‘the witch of Cusop Dingle', whilst the adults either called her the recluse or the spinster of Cusop Dingle. Hermione became a joke, and it forced her to stay indoors.

As Quinn grew up, many spooky stories spread about Hermione and the house in the small village. Rumour was that she now lived on ‘millionaire row' in the home once owned by Richard Booth, the King of Hay, prompting some to refer to her as ‘the queen that never was'.

At the time, Quinn hadn't realised that Hermione was, of course, a victim. The man who leaked the tape went on with his life, never being referred to, and in fact, writing a book about his ‘sordid affair' with the actress. Hermione had been the butt of many a joke, with her films pulled from air, and was never offered more work.

Quinn sometimes drove through the village of Cusop Dingle, and his mind would always drift to Hermione, wondering if she was being looked after, wondering what she thought about the whole situation.

He wondered if she had a publisher.

Before he knew what he was doing, he clicked on the link Hermione shared and read the submission guidelines.

She wanted three chapters.

She wanted the writer to explain why they wanted to write her story.

And she wanted to know she could trust the writer to support her.

Quinn stared at the submission, lost in thought.

There was no way he could write it.

Could he?