Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

A fresh bouquet of roses lay on Gerald's grave, the previous flowers gone. Quinn, confused, took out his phone and called his mother.

‘Quinn?'

The way she talked to him almost broke him. It was like it confused her to hear from him. God, why was he being so rude to her? He needed her now more than ever, yet he'd been cutting her off. Harold. His dad. Pitiful excuses for being a sorry excuse for a son.

‘Hey, Mum,' Quinn said, forcing himself to sound friendly. He heard his mum make a small exhale on the other end of the line, as if she was relieved this wouldn't be a hard conversation. ‘I'm at Dad's grave. Um… Have you been here?'

‘I've been meaning to,' Claire said. Her wary tone told him she feared a rebuttal. ‘I just haven't?—'

‘It's fine, Mum,' Quinn said. ‘I appreciate it's hard for you.'

Claire sighed. ‘Yes. Thank you.'

Quinn gripped his phone tighter, looking at Gerald's carved name. ‘Um, it's just that red roses keep appearing on the grave. I thought it might be you.'

‘Oh,' Claire said. ‘No, not me. Although…'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, he was popular, wasn't he? He used to get red roses delivered to his shop. For ages, I thought he was having an affair, but he said they would just show up. Like a secret admirer.'

Quinn shook his head. His dad had a secret admirer? Was it possible he'd been having an affair? Could someone in Hay be grieving for his father, like Quinn was, but in secret?

‘Red roses?'

‘Yep. He always denied an affair, but they came almost every week. I thought they'd stopped after… Well, clearly, they haven't.'

Quinn swallowed. ‘When was the last time you came here?'

‘Wow. It must have been…' Claire paused. Quinn closed his eyes. ‘Too long.'

‘I understand.'

He said goodbye to his mum and instead crouched down to the grave. ‘Well, Dad. Where do I begin? Harold's evicting me. Things are changing too fast. That guy I embarrassed myself in front of? Well, he got stuck in the town and now he's … well, we've hung out. Nothing romantic, of course. No, that doesn't happen to boys like me. And, get this, he hates Hay. How can anyone hate Hay?'

He waited, as if his dad would answer. If that ever did happen, Quinn thought he might be frightened, rather than elated.

The ground was covered in snow, but this time, he was wearing suitable clothing. He stayed crouched, though, because sitting on the ground wasn't an option.

‘Then there's his mum,' Quinn said, looking out at the other graves. ‘You remember her, don't you? Hermione Sage. Apparently, her sister's buried at the entrance. Yeah, about that. I saw Noah, her son, the other day at her grave.'

Quinn imagined the ghost of his father nodding along, as if this thrilled him. It was all he had to hold on to.

‘Well, she's put a call on her website about someone writing her autobiography. You always said I'd be a writer someday, Dad. Hold on, though, because I haven't signed a deal yet. Right now, she doesn't know I exist. But I'm thinking about it. Submitting, that is. I don't know if it's the right thing to do, but…'

At that moment, a red robin landed a few feet away. Quinn laughed, and the robin tilted its head.

‘That your sign, Dad?'

The robin hopped above Gerald's carved name.

‘I'll think about it.'

As Quinn got to his feet, he saw a figure retreating in the distance. The way they walked, with a hurried pace, made him pause. There weren't many other graves underneath the yew tree. Which suggested to Quinn that the person had been coming in this direction and hadn't seen him crouched down.

The red roses. What if…?

Quinn tore away from his father, the robin, and towards the scurrying figure. Were those roses in their hand?

‘Excuse me?' Quinn called.

The figure picked up the pace, fleeing the graveyard. Winded with a stitch, Quinn bent over. ‘Wow, I'm unfit.'

The robin fluttered by, tweeting as it did so.

‘Alright, Dad, you don't have to make fun of me.'

* * *

Quinn stared at the three chapters in front of him from a manuscript long since abandoned.

They had been edited many times, and each time, Quinn spotted something else wrong with it, which is why it could never be published. He couldn't remember now why he hadn't kept writing alongside his job. Maybe a part of him had lost hope. But now, the cursor blinking at the end paragraph of chapter three, Quinn felt silly. He was proud of what he'd written, if he could say so himself. There was no reason this book couldn't be on the shelves.

Except there was a reason: he didn't believe in himself.

He sighed, taking a swig of wine from the glass he had poured. Outside, rain replaced the snow, prompting a lack of hope for a white Christmas. His lights dimmed, the Christmas tree twinkling in the corner of his apartment. Despite the atmosphere outside being more suited to Halloween, Quinn felt cosy and warm, refusing to let his Christmas spirit disappear.

Christmas miracles.

That's what he needed.

This could be his miracle.

He saved the chapters, went back to Hermione Sage's submission page, where he had already filled out all his details, and then attached his three chapters. He stared at the submission page, almost deciding to exit out of it and laugh about his delusion later, but before he knew it, he hit submit.

The page disappeared, replaced with another page reading ‘Thank you for your submission.'

Quinn leaned back in his chair.

He'd done it.

He took his wineglass, lifting it to the air and the empty room. ‘Cheers.'

A knock at the door. Quinn almost spilt his wine down his chin.

Who would that be? And how did they get up the stairs? Unless he'd left the downstairs door unlocked? Meaning there was a stranger in his building. What if it was the retreating figure? Surely, they knew he'd seen them. They ran from him, after all.

Quinn headed to the door, but not before arming himself with the first thing he could find: an apple from the fruit bowl. Well, if someone attacked, he could pelt them in the head with something quite solid.

Quinn reached for the handle, and with a deep breath, opened the door.

‘Oh.'

It wasn't the retreating figure.

Unless Noah Sage was the man leaving red roses on his father's grave.

‘Sorry. The downstairs door was open, and I wanted to check you were okay.'

‘You … me?' What was this, a matchmaking moment? ‘You wanted to check on me?'

‘That's right,' Noah said. ‘Not often you see a downstairs door open. Worried maybe someone had broken in.'

‘No, just my absent mind,' Quinn said. ‘Um… Do you want to come in?'

Noah held up his hands, looking panicked. ‘I wasn't hinting or anything. No, I wanted to check everything was okay.'

‘I believe you. Oh, you think I'm inviting you in to like murder you or something?'

Noah choked. ‘Not at all.'

‘Right.'

‘But now…?'

‘Oh, just come in.' Quinn stepped aside, and as Noah walked in carrying his wonderful scent with him, he thought of what he'd just done.

Would Noah be angry at him for submitting chapters to Hermione? Oh god, had he done something awful?

‘It's evening,' Quinn said as he shut the door.

‘What's that got to do with anything?' Noah said, taking in the apartment. His eyes rested on the half-drunk wine bottle.

Quinn stepped in front of it, hoping that Noah wouldn't judge him for drinking wine alone in the evening. Normal when others did it, but not him. ‘You're adding to the vampire mystery, you know?'

Noah rolled his eyes. ‘Please, if I was a vampire, I'd be sucking your blood right now.'

Sucking his blood? Oh god. No, he would not think of Noah sucking any part of him.

Well. Unless…

No.

‘You could fight it,' Quinn said. ‘Like Edward Cullen. Wine?'

‘Oh, sure.' Noah nodded. ‘Edward Cullen? Twilight fan?'

‘Team Edward.'

‘Team Jacob.'

How absurd to be standing in his apartment with Noah, pouring him a glass of rich-tasting wine like this was normal. He handed him the glass to and watched him drink, mesmerised by his neck and his Adam's apple.

Noah gave an awkward smile, standing in the middle of the room.

‘Sit,' Quinn said, as if he were a dog.

They sat apart on the sofa, Quinn trailing his foot along the carpet. What to say to a romantic novelist? What if he noticed his own books on his shelves?

‘You know, you're never meant to invite a vampire in.'

Quinn panicked. Like maybe he'd made a huge mistake and sealed his fate.

But then he remembered vampires didn't exist, and he relaxed.

‘Well, you're here now.' Quinn held out his glass. ‘Cheers.'

They clinked glasses, and Noah's eyes turned to the laptop.

‘Writing?'

‘Oh, that, um, yeah, sure.'

Noah cocked an eyebrow. ‘Hiding something from me?'

He couldn't tell him. What if he got angry? He couldn't handle an angry vampire in his apartment. That was the last thing he needed.

‘Just thinking about some stuff,' Quinn said. ‘Anyway, how come you're out at night again? It must be freezing out there.'

‘I can't stay at Mum's for too long,' Noah said. ‘Sometimes I need a break from her.'

Quinn must have looked shocked because Noah seemed to sense he'd said something wrong.

‘Sorry, that sounds harsh. Mum is hard to live with.' Noah glugged down more of his wine, as if it might stop him saying anything more. But Quinn's stare must have prompted him to speak. ‘Mum fears the world. She has been ever since… Well, ever since her career ended. It makes living with her quite difficult because she keeps talking about the press.'

‘The press?'

‘She thinks the press are out there to get her.' Noah rolled his eyes. ‘The press. People who dislike her. She almost expects villagers to walk up the driveway with pitchforks.'

‘People won't do that,' Quinn said. ‘Have you seen how long it takes to walk from here to Cusop Dingle?'

‘Like, five minutes?'

‘Yeah. We can't be arsed,' Quinn said. ‘Besides, my pitchfork has got rust on it.'

Noah snorted, covering his mouth. Quinn swore it was the cutest thing he ever saw.

‘Right now, she's fixated on her autobiography.' Noah said this with such distaste that Quinn almost forgot about his submission. ‘She gets these ideas and runs with them, but they never happen.'

Quinn tried not to look disappointed, which was hard not to do when he thought of how much time he'd wasted going over those three chapters for no payoff. If Noah was telling the truth, did that mean Hermione wouldn't even get in touch with him?

Well, regardless of what happened, he'd tried. That was all that mattered right now.

‘Is your mum okay?' He almost didn't want to ask, but he felt like he had to.

‘What have you heard about her?'

‘Not much,' Quinn said, but his lie was feeble.

‘A lot then.' Noah swilled the wine in his glass. ‘Whatever you've heard, I bet you it's not true. But it makes Mum seem ten times worse.'

‘But she must be thrilled to see you when you come here.'

‘She's part of the reason I avoid this place.'

‘Oh?'

Quinn thought of his own mother, how he'd been avoiding her. That was something he didn't want to have in common with the guy before him.

‘Mum can be heavy.' Noah sighed. ‘She went through a lot, and I know she's struggling to process everything that happened to her. It sounds awful, but she put a lot of that on me, and I'm not equipped to deal with that.'

Noah finished his wine and nodded at the bottle. ‘May I?'

‘Please.'

Noah refilled his glass, leaning back in the chair. Quinn tried to relax, too, while putting aside thoughts that Noah looked like he was comfortable here, like he planned to stay.

‘She refuses to speak to people. Professionals. Refuses to even combat her issues and the problems in her life. Expects me to come along and hold her hand and clean it all up for her.' Noah glanced at Quinn. ‘I'm sorry. It sounds awful. Unless you've lived with someone like her, then you wouldn't understand.'

‘I'm not judging,' Quinn said, telling the truth. He thought of his shop, the space he created. In some ways, this felt like an extension of that. ‘I listen to people. I'll always listen.'

Noah looked Quinn up and down, and honestly, Quinn thought he might faint.

‘I know it's not her fault,' Noah clarified. ‘It's my own stupid issues and my ill-ease with anything that makes me feel uncomfortable. I've tried, Quinn. Many times, I've tried to help her out. To link her with help. But she refuses. Thinks the world is out to get her. It exhausts me.'

‘Is that why you were so keen on leaving?'

‘In some ways,' Noah said. ‘But also because Hay holds too many memories for me. Ghosts everywhere. I didn't like who I was when I lived here, so I hate coming back.'

Quinn finished his own wine, but didn't feel the need to refill it. He wanted a clear head for tonight, for what was in front of him.

‘What ghosts?'

‘Everyone feels entitled to me,' Noah said. ‘Because they don't see Mum, they think they can tell me how unfortunate she is, and then share their opinions on her life choices and how she deserved her downfall.'

‘People do that?'

‘They do. Especially those who knew of her before it all happened. Mum's a legend around these parts, and not in a good way. It makes me feel embarrassed.'

‘I'm sorry, Noah.'

Noah finished his own wine, placing the glass on the table. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘They cross every single boundary. And you know what the weird thing is about it all? I'm not ashamed of her and I want to defend her. I feel like telling these people to sort themselves out. But I can't do that because then they'll turn me into a bad guy and I'll look like the dick. So, I try to avoid this town as much as I can.'

Quinn looked out at the night. ‘But don't you hate that? You grew up here. Don't you miss seeing the place? Walking around the shops? Don't you feel inspired here? Don't you miss the people who have been here longer than us? The people who know us both for who we are.'

‘But that's it, Quinn,' Noah said. ‘We've lived different lives. People know you and like you because they've seen you grow. People think they know me, but they don't. They know an old version of me, and a version of me that doesn't exist. The author me. They think that because I'm some Z-list celebrity, they can say whatever they want because I don't feel things the way they feel things. Imagine people coming up to you and telling you your dad is a whore. How would that feel?'

The word made Quinn cringe. But it flared something else within him: anger. How dare people refer to Hermione in such crude, cruel ways? No one would dare refer to his father as anything along those lines. So why was it acceptable to do so for Hermione?

Before he had the chance to tell Noah that he would help Hermione, Noah's phone rang.

Noah stared at the screen, and his expression turned to thunder. ‘I should go.'

It was almost like he came out of a trance and realised where he was. He stood up, heading towards the door. ‘I'm glad you're okay,' Noah said, reaching for the handle.

‘Noah.' Quinn half stood, unsure what to do.

Noah hovered at the door.

‘I mean it,' Quinn said. ‘You can talk to me whenever.'

Noah's phone rang again. He nodded, tense, and left the apartment.

* * *

‘Have you heard the latest on Hermione Sage?'

‘Does she think anyone would want to read that book?'

‘Must be desperate.'

‘That ship sailed a long time ago.'

‘I don't know, Deb. I'm quite interested in reading her story.'

‘Don't be silly, June. She wants to steal some limelight from her son.'

Quinn and Ivy stood in the town centre, the castle illuminated above them, their attention on a stage set up despite the snow. The Christmas light switch on was a yearly activity, and this year Miriam Margolyes would hit the switch, so excitement spread through the town like Christmas spirit.

Only the talk this Christmas was all about Hermione.

Quinn and Ivy found themselves huddled with some locals of the town, and somehow Deb and June were with them, because of course Quinn couldn't escape the pair.

‘Hermione Sage isn't an author,' Deb hissed. ‘Her son is the author. She is a … a … well, I don't wish to say it.'

‘Say it, Deb.'

‘No, I shan't.'

‘Okay, don't.'

‘She is a harlot!'

June gasped.

‘Yes, you made me say that.'

‘She is not,' June whispered, looking around at the surrounding people. Up on stage, a group of dancers were high kicking to a rendition of ‘Rocking Around the Christmas Tree'. ‘I still watch her movies.'

‘They're classics.' The local butcher chimed in, surprising Quinn.

‘They're predictable,' Ivy said.

‘How are they predictable?' June asked.

‘Woman meets man. Man and woman don't get along. Woman and man fall in love. The end.'

‘And what is predictable about that?'

‘It's the same story in every one of her films,' Ivy said.

‘So what?'

‘Exactly,' Ivy said. ‘I love them too.'

June seemed confused, but looked back at Deb, as if Ivy's words were final.

Deb shook her head. ‘A woman allowing herself to be filmed… '

‘We don't know the situation,' Ivy said. ‘For all we know, they could have filmed her without her consent. And if she agreed to the film, what's so wrong about that? We should instead question why we, as a society, let her lose all her work because of one decision relating to sex. To me, that says a lot more about us than it does about Hermione Sage.'

Deb looked like someone had slapped her.

‘Careful,' Quinn whispered. ‘You don't want to be making enemies.'

Ivy ignored him, instead addressing the group. ‘I would like to hear Hermione's story. I hope she finds a ghostwriter and gets a publishing deal.'

‘Do you think people even like her anymore?' Deb questioned.

‘Are you kidding?' Ivy asked. ‘We're obsessed with her here.'

‘I wouldn't say obsessed…'

‘Wouldn't you?' Ivy asked. ‘Hermione hasn't had proper fame in years, yet we still talk about her. Some people will tell you they don't like her. Others will talk about her with fascination. We all feel for her, and care about her, whether we care to admit it or not.'

‘I certainly do not care about her.' Deb looked affronted, but June looked pleased.

‘You do, Deb.' She turned to Ivy. ‘I've caught her a few times watching Hermione's movies.'

‘Only because you left it on.'

‘Not true.'

Quinn thought Ivy might be on to something. The talk of Hermione may have been damaging, but intrigue, fascination and even a desire for her to do well, to return to some form of glory, fuelled it. For Quinn, after last night's talk with Noah, he wanted her to find justice.

‘No one will publish her,' a man from the nearby fish and chip shop said. ‘She's left it too long. No one cares about her anymore. I bet if you ask anyone here, they couldn't tell you why she was famous.'

‘Well, not here, John. Everyone knows about her here,' Deb said. ‘But go out of Hay and her name would be as irrelevant as, say…'

‘Same Difference,' Ivy said.

Everyone stared at her with blank expressions.

‘Who are Same Difference?'

‘Hello everyone, we are Same Difference!' A shout from the stage came, and they turned to see a man and a woman standing on the stage, beaming smiles on their faces. Behind them, X Factor branding told the audience why they should remember this duo before they launched into a rendition of a pop song.

‘Good one,' Deb said.

‘I quite like Same Difference,' June said, and she turned back to the stage and waved with excitement.

Deb rolled her eyes but turned her back on Quinn and Ivy.

The others in the group disappeared into the crowd, leaving Quinn and Ivy standing together alone, watching the rendition of the X Factor contestants on the stage.

‘I submitted some chapters to Hermione,' Quinn said.

‘You did?' Ivy gasped.

‘I did.'

‘Oh, but that's wonderful! You have the connections, too.'

‘I don't know about that…'

‘The job offer? The friend in London?' Ivy said. ‘Come on, she has to go with you.'

‘Depends on if she likes my chapters.'

‘She will. I'm sure of it.'

‘How are you sure?'

Ivy winked. ‘I know all.'

Same Difference finished their performance, but not before telling the crowd they had a new album coming out, and then they went off the stage to cheers. Quinn groaned when they were replaced by…

‘Bloody Blair Beckett.'

‘Be nice.'

‘He can't hear me.'

‘Hello Hay!' Blair boomed over the microphone. Deb and June jumped in front of them. Quinn looked around for any stray champagne. ‘Well, it's almost time to turn on the lights, and get this town feeling even more Christmassy than it already is. Even in the snow, you've all turned out to see this, and we could not be more thrilled!'

‘Why is he even still here?' Quinn asked Ivy.

‘I'm still here because I just love Hay, and I've decided I'm going to stay for Christmas,' Blair said to the crowd, and Ivy's eyes widened.

‘You didn't tell me you had the gift.'

‘The gift?'

‘Psychic!'

‘Ivy, please.'

‘Now, please join me in welcoming to the stage Miriam Margolyes!'

The cheers were deafening, and the wonderful Miriam appeared, waving, smiling, making the audience laugh. After classic one liners and a lovely story of her time in Hay, Miriam hit the button and Hay brightened up with the decorations that adorned lampposts, as well as the castle and its grounds. Hay was decorated for Christmas, but this added to the magic.