Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Knock. Knock. Knock.

‘Whawathaa?'

Knock. Knock. Knock.

What time was it? 3am?

Quinn, in bed, looked at his phone, the light from his screen blinding him. It was close to 7am, the dark of winter still lingering outside.

Quinn groaned.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

‘Who is it?'

‘The ghost of Christmas past!' Noah's voice.

Noah again? Had he left the door unlocked downstairs once more?

Hold on a second. Noah?

Quinn shot to his feet and almost toppled over. Noah couldn't be here. There was no way this was happening.

Crashing across his bedroom and into his open plan apartment, he almost expected to see smashed glass, mess everywhere, and hooded burglars.

‘Quinn?'

The apartment was untouched, clean, cosy. He had left the Christmas tree lights on the night before, and they faded in and out, slow, lazy, like they were willing him to curl back up and hibernate.

He opened the door and observed Noah in all his morning glory.

No, Quinn. Do not think of morning glory right now.

Quinn looked Noah up and down, his eyes travelling over him, taking every part of him in. The duster jacket, the scarf around his neck, the bulge of his Adam's apple. On his chin, blond hair gathered to create the start of a morning's shadow. It was rugged, tantalising, the hint of what could be a gorgeously crafted mane of beard. He'd shaved it since they'd been together in the bookshop, but it seemed like a constant battle on Noah's part, judging by the way it grew back so quickly.

‘Did I leave my door open again?'

‘I'm thinking you want me to come in.'

How could he say that was what he wanted and Noah was welcome here any time? Instead, he gripped the door like he might faint.

Noah headed to the kitchen and sat on the barstool at his kitchen counter. It was almost as if he expected breakfast from him. He headed to the kitchen and refilled the kettle, trying not to think about a domestic life with Noah where they did this every morning after waking up in each other's arms.

‘Coffee?'

‘Chai tea?'

‘N–no.'

‘Coffee is fine,' Noah said. ‘Uh … listen. Have you heard?'

‘Heard what?'

‘Harold was on BBC breakfast.'

Quinn gasped. ‘He was what?'

‘He's been on the radio saying that you agreed to close the shop.'

Quinn flipped the kettle on, listening to it crackle to life. His mouth still hung open, like he was Edvard Munch's Scream, only less artistic.

‘But I didn't.'

‘That's the truth?'

‘Yes, that's the truth. I don't lie, Noah.'

‘Hey, don't shoot the messenger,' Noah said. ‘But if Harold is saying that, what do you think everyone else is going to think? Sounds like he's taking control of the narrative a bit. Classic damage control.'

‘What were you doing awake at 5am?'

‘Can't sleep.' Noah shrugged. ‘That doesn't matter right now. What matters is you exposing Harold for what he is.'

‘I have an interview coming up with Bloody Blair Beckett.'

Noah stifled a small laugh. ‘ Bloody Blair Beckett?'

Quinn covered his mouth. ‘Oh, god, did I say that out loud?'

‘Hey, it's fine. Although I'm not sure what he did to deserve that name.'

‘No, me neither, he's lovely.'

Noah nodded his affirmation. ‘The one good thing was Harold was on BBC Wales radio at 5am. Maybe fewer listeners because of people sleeping? We have some time.'

Quinn picked up his phone. ‘An Instagram post.'

‘Yes! Let me take a photo of you!'

Quinn held up a hand, realising how bad he looked. Oh god. Noah was seeing the morning him. The side of him he hid from people who looked like Noah. Drool still sticking to his face and his hair at all these angles? No, no. ‘I'll post an older photo of the shop with a statement.'

‘Yes. You're a PR pro.'

The kettle boiled, and Quinn poured coffee while his other hand typed out a statement on Instagram. Noah watched him, and he tried not to feel the intense stare coming from him. He hoped his shaking hand didn't betray him. Hoped that he looked casual as he tried to focus on the words he wrote. He wondered how damaging Harold's comments were. He supposed having Harold adding to the story would mean his shop could stay in the headlines a little longer. If not the BBC, then he knew the other outlets would pick up on the story. Family dynamics always made the headlines. Hey, maybe he could get a spread in Take A Break magazine.

He hit the post button and locked his phone, wondering if his update would make any difference.

‘It will be okay,' Noah said. ‘What's on your mind?'

Quinn held his coffee, the warmth tingling in his hands. His eyes focussed on the red, green, and white lights, his focus sliding until the colours blurred. ‘Harold has to do what he has to do. I guess he thought I was going to damage him and his business, but that wasn't my intention at all.'

‘What was your intention?'

Quinn leaned forward, wiping his mouth in case he really did still have drool stuck to his chin. Thankfully, he didn't. Smooth. ‘I've been thinking a lot about how I ended up in this mess. I let it happen and I can only blame myself. Since Dad died, I've ignored things. I guess you could say I always had this fear of taking responsibility for anything, but also when I took responsibility, I had Dad there to ask advice. Mum, too. But when Dad died, things changed. I felt alone. Truly alone. Ever since, I've let myself get lost in the emotions of things. Get overwhelmed easily. I hid all these letters and avoided Harold because I thought I could ignore it and it would all go away. I guess Harold didn't feel so bad taking this away from me because I hadn't really formed a good bond with him.'

Noah moved closer, and Quinn's breath hitched in his chest. ‘Don't blame yourself.'

‘Oh, but I have to.'

‘Why?'

‘Because it's my fault. I've been so pathetic and let things happen to me for too long. Forgetting I could make a change. Forgetting that if I didn't like something, I could speak up and change things. I've sat on the fence for too long.'

Noah's hand reached for Quinn, then he paused, seeming to think better of it. He let out a small, wistful sigh, giving Quinn a pitying look. ‘It's family, too, isn't it? That can't be easy.'

‘I always worry about what others think and never think about myself.' Quinn glanced at Noah's hand, wishing it went all the way.

‘Time to be a little selfish, I think.'

‘It didn't have to be this way,' Quinn said as Noah sipped his coffee. The large pink mug he held suited him. ‘I told him so many times how my shop wasn't in the way. Told him not to get rid of me. Let him know I needed this. He ignored it. There was every intention of keeping him and his business out of this. He's panicked because an article put two and two together, and now he feels like he has to say something?'

‘I know, it's crazy.'

‘What did he say?'

‘He said you had agreed to go, that you had a job offer in London and you were planning to move. That the shop could have moved into the castle, but you refused.'

‘Yeah, forgetting to mention the size of the so-called shop.'

Noah met Quinn's eyes. ‘Are you considering London?'

Quinn shook his head. ‘Not at all.'

‘Shame.'

Quinn tried not to over think what he meant by that. Why was it a shame that he wasn't considering London?

‘It wouldn't suit me,' Quinn said. ‘Besides, that job offer is one of those things where people say they'll be waiting, but I bet if I went back to her now, she wouldn't give me a job.'

‘Did they fill the position?'

‘I guess so.'

Quinn checked his own phone. Another missed call from his mum, and a text explaining that Harold was just ‘clearing his name'.

‘Any reaction yet to your statement?'

Quinn scrolled through the comments, stunned that so many people seemed to be willing to help. ‘I met an influencer the other day. She's shared it and has clarified that Harold lied. Bloody hell, more followers, too. People don't want this shop to go.'

‘Because it's a special shop,' Noah said.

‘You think so?'

‘Quinn, Hay needs a gay bookshop,' Noah said.

Quinn diverted his attention back to his phone, to hide his own elation at Noah's enthusiasm for his pride and joy.

A journalist from another newspaper messaged him, asking if he would be free for an interview. Quinn replied he might not be, but he sent the vital information to her: that he had a final notice, that he was losing his shop before Christmas, and there was no other option but to close the business if he got evicted. He thought about asking Ivy about a press pack similar to the ones sent to him by publishers for their authors and their latest releases. Maybe he could have it distributed to any journalist that got in touch, so that he wasn't going back and forth with interviews like a desperate celebrity.

His phone buzzed again, and he expected to see another comment, but instead he saw an email from Hermione Sage.

Quinn did yet another impression of The Scream, only this time one of his hands came to his face. The other also would have done so if he wasn't holding his phone.

Why was she emailing now when her son was across the table from him? Noah hadn't seemed to notice that anything was different, so Quinn turned his back on him again and opened Hermione's email with shaking hands.

He scanned the email, expecting to see ‘unfortunately' and ‘you were very close', but he didn't see that. Instead, he saw a very direct, almost personal response.

Quinn,

Thank you so much for your submission to write my autobiography. I appreciate it. I knew your dad, you know. He was a wonderful man. I was sad to hear of his passing.

I have read your chapters, and I am in love with the world you have created. It is fiction, I know, but I can see your passion and your talent come through. I need someone to listen to me, to take down my words, and tell my story. I would love it if we could meet.

Doing a quick search of your name last night, I saw that your shop is under threat. Please tell me this isn't so. I don't venture into town much anymore, but I have been an avid follower of your shop since I heard it opened. I would like to discuss the options you have when I see you.

Quinn, please confirm if you are still interested in writing my story, and if you will meet up with me soon. We can meet at my home. I am sure you know where my home is.

P.S. Please take a copy of this email and then delete. I cannot afford for the press to hack my emails and leak that you are my ghostwriter.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Hermione Sage wanted to meet with him? He re-read the email once, twice, three more times. Was she confirming she'd hired him? Was this an interview? Was she more interested in finding out about his shop? Did she like his writing?

‘Quinn. Everything alright?'

He must have tensed his shoulders. Maybe he made a sound. Noah might have a sixth sense, and if he did, he would need to introduce him to Ivy so that she could understand him better than he ever could.

‘Um. I don't know how to say this…'

Noah stayed silent. Instead, he fixed him with a look that made Quinn feel like he needed to confess his entire life story, including all his sins. Not that he had many.

‘Remember your mum's autobiography?'

‘How could I forget?'

‘Well…'

Quinn handed over his phone, showing Noah the email.

He held his breath as Noah clasped the phone, his phone, and seemed to take the whole morning to read the brief email.

‘Oh, wow, Quinn. You applied?'

‘I did.'

‘To write Mum's autobiography?'

‘That's right.'

Noah handed the phone back to Quinn. He stood, walking around the table until he was in front of Quinn. Placing two hands on Quinn's shoulders, he grinned.

‘Come on.'