Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

‘Noah, where are we going?'

Quinn's feet, chilled even through two pairs of socks and a thermal skin-tight suit, trudged through the deep snow. The roads were empty, but lethal with ice, and Noah discarded his car to the side of the road and insisted on walking a country lane that looked like it hadn't seen life walk through it since the 1800s. The dead branches were taut and overgrown even in the middle of winter, their skeletons twisted at odd angles, as if they were full of pain and broken.

‘It's not too far now. Do you need a hand?'

All he wanted was for Noah to hold him, to guide him through this snow, but he had pride. Plus, he was certain if he slipped, he would bring Noah crashing to the ground with him. Quinn looked through the dead trees, glimpsing a house covered in snow. A puff of smoke rose from the brick-breasted chimney, the shade of grey blending with the sky that threatened more heavy snowfall. He could make that, couldn't he?

The chill on Quinn's face pinched him, and he tugged his coat and scarf closer, wishing for the warmth in Noah's car. Or maybe the warmth of Noah himself. As his foot was hit with a fresh dosing of undisturbed snow, he groaned.

‘Come on, hippie boy,' Noah said, flashing his sexy smile. He tugged at Quinn's coat, adjusting it as if it would make him warmer. ‘It's just a bit of snow.'

‘I could fall and break my neck.'

‘At least that would solve the bookshop problem.'

‘Noah!'

‘Joke. I'm joking,' Noah said, nudging Quinn on the shoulder. ‘I don't want you to die.'

Quinn glanced at the house. It didn't take much to deduce the route they were on.

‘Why are we going there now?'

The house, imposing, regal, and set within acres of land, was the house Quinn knew to be Hermione Sage's home. Once belonging to Richard Booth, it was now the home of the faded movie star, and the setting of many ridiculous stories about ‘Hermione the hermit'.

‘Because she's asked you to write her book.'

‘But she said to arrange a meeting. We can't just show up.'

‘We're not showing up,' Noah said. ‘I live here.'

Fair point.

‘Come on, if you're that cold, let me warm you up.'

‘How do you expect to do that?'

‘Body heat,' Noah said with a shrug.

Body heat? Noah's body heat.

He could stand here in the cold and trudge through it and pretend that Noah's offer wasn't inviting, or he could leap at the opportunity to be close to Noah again. Body heat. That's all it was. Survival.

Quinn chose the latter. ‘Fine.'

Noah wrapped an arm around him like he was a friend, a brother, and Quinn slipped his arm around Noah's waist with some uncertainty.

‘You'll have to hold me closer if you don't want to break your neck,' Noah said, an eyebrow raised.

Quinn said nothing, but did as he was told, feeling Noah's toned back underneath him. The warmth was enough to convince him that this was a good idea, and he prayed that he wouldn't slip and take them both out. The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for injuring Noah Sage.

They continued to walk, Quinn no longer angry with the weather, but warm and curious. He couldn't believe he was about to come face to face with Hermione. The once Hollywood legend.

And then the scandal.

A scandal that was not a scandal, but just human need.

A source of gossip.

That was the image of Hermione that Quinn was more accustomed to: a faded Oscar statue. That golden glint, tarnished, chipped away at, and left to rot, not cared for and irrelevant. The press loved to speculate on where she was, forever reminding the public of her ‘disgrace' and her ‘scandal'. If only they knew that a woman who'd been the victim of misogynistic press now lived in the English countryside atop a hill that had Quinn panting harder than the last time he'd been with a man.

Noah hadn't even broken a sweat and didn't sound out of breath. He held Quinn like he was a delicate vase that needed protecting.

They stopped at iron-black gates with green ivy growing over the bars, twisting like a beanstalk that could one day take them up to the snowy clouds.

‘We made it,' Noah said, and he gave Quinn a little squeeze.

‘Thank you.'

Noah grinned, letting Quinn go. He feigned falling, and they laughed.

‘Ready?'

‘Ready,' Quinn said, before taking a deep breath.

Noah pressed the buzzer, looking into the camera. Quinn crossed his arms, observing the deserted landscape.

‘You don't just walk in?'

‘This is Mum we're talking about,' Noah said, and when Quinn looked confused, he sighed. ‘You'll see.'

Quinn turned his attention back to the door.

‘Hello?' Her voice was quiet, almost tired.

‘It's me.'

‘Come, quickly. Don't let them in.'

Noah exchanged a glance with Quinn that said not to ask, and the gate doors opened, which was a miracle considering the drive was covered in untouched snow. A Rolls Royce sat on the driveway, dwarfed by the mansion of the house that was from the Tudor period. Quinn thought it was a black car, but it was hard to be certain with the snow that lay on top of it.

They climbed two small stairs to get to the front door where Noah rang the bell and they waited.

And they waited.

And they waited some more.

Then the door creaked open half an inch, and one blue eye peered at them.

‘Are they with you?'

‘No,' Noah said.

The door opened, but there was no one there. Quinn thought a ghost answered until he saw who was behind it.

Hermione Sage was mesmerising. She blinked bright blue eyes through thick eyelashes, like they were a fan used to cool down a Greek god. Her blonde hair bobbed, curly and natural, and reminded Quinn of Marilyn Monroe. She wore a floral shawl with patterns of yellow daffodils and pink lilies stretching down to a hemmed line. It was a transparent mesh, revealing casual white shirt and cotton trousers.

‘They're always out there, never giving me any privacy.'

He was struck by the hallway. Well, a foyer. He felt incredibly poor. The tiled floor had marble arches holding up a wide balcony that led to the west and east. Two spiral staircases led up to the next floor, which was dressed in a pristine red carpet. Paintings hung on the wall that looked like they'd come straight from the collection of Hans Holbein, and an antique cabinet near a closed door was full of books.

Hermione saw Quinn staring and crossed her arms.

‘Who is this?'

Quinn felt somewhat affronted.

‘Mum, this is Quinn. The man you emailed,' Noah said. ‘He owns…'

‘Kings & Queens,' Hermione said, a smile revealing straight white Hollywood-dazzling teeth. ‘I like that shop. Oh, Quinn, I only sent that email this morning.'

‘Noah was with me,' Quinn said, then panicked. She might want to know why her son was in his apartment. Perhaps she would speculate on their relationship, and then Quinn would have to admit that there was nothing to it, no matter how much he wanted there to be, because look at him.

Hermione looked Quinn up and down. He faltered under her gaze.

‘I love your shop.'

‘Have you ever been?' He felt bold asking.

‘I've tried,' Hermione said, ‘but the press.'

She said it as if it explained everything, as if that was final, but Quinn wasn't sure what she meant.

‘The press is always outside,' Hermione said, twitching a curtain at the side of the door and peering through the window. They looked original to the house, which was Grade II listed. ‘They always want the best shot. Not on my watch. I get seen when they need to see me. I'm fed up with the constant hassle.'

Quinn looked at Noah, trying to gauge his reaction. The landscape they'd trudged through had been deserted. It was them and only them in the lane, and Cusop Dingle hadn't seen excitement in years.

Noah's lips pursed. He stared at Hermione's back, refusing to meet Quinn's own quizzical look.

‘They want an exclusive. Always want to know what I'm doing.' She bit her nails, the shawl falling away from her shoulders. ‘They'll know when I'm ready to let them know. Noah, I thought you were in your room.'

‘We popped out,' Noah said.

We?

‘I see. Shall we get a cup of tea in the kitchen?'

‘Yes, we would love that.'

Hermione led the way, and Noah linked his arm with Quinn. ‘My sir.'

‘Thank you.'

Noah escorted him to the kitchen. As Quinn felt Noah's arm under his, he tried to steady his racing thoughts. He'd offered his hand as a joke, like he was a butler in a stately home. But being this close to him, touching him, was a whole other experience.

‘The press?' he whispered.

Noah cleared his throat, as if this was enough of an answer.

The kitchen was a stainless-steel cold place with wooden floors and a wooden dining table. It was large, but dark, because Hermione drew the blinds over the sliding doors and the kitchen window. Candles flickering in holders on the steel counter were the only light in the room. It was the only cosy feeling in such a clinical space.

‘A clean kitchen is a cheery kitchen,' Hermione said, spraying disinfectant on the immaculate counter. She wiped it with what looked like a brand-new cloth and then wiped the kettle before turning it on. ‘I get one of the townspeople to clean here.'

‘Oh, Ivy?'

‘You know her?'

‘Who doesn't know Ivy?' Quinn laughed.

‘I don't,' Noah said. ‘Not personally, at least.'

‘Shame. You're missing out on a lot from her,' Hermione said.

‘Why are the blinds closed?' Quinn asked.

‘Photographers.' Hermione took mugs out of a cabinet. She paused. ‘Want a hot chocolate instead?'

‘Oh, yes, please!'

‘I have marshmallows too.' Hermione showed a door at the back of the room. She looked at Quinn. ‘Mind fetching them?'

‘Of course.' He curtseyed and then looked at the mother and son.

Noah burst out in laughter. ‘What the hell was that?'

‘I…'

A curtsey?

‘I met the Queen once.' Hermione had a wry smile on her face. ‘Curtsied on a broken leg. I think even then I did it more gracefully than whatever that was.'

She didn't say it unkindly. They shared the joke, and Quinn, cheeks burning, headed to the pantry.

He gasped when he saw inside. It reminded him of Sleeping with the Enemy . Or Khloe Kardashian's organised pantry. Same thing. Every tin stacked upon the other labels facing out. There were glass jars hosting stacked biscuits, assorted in colour coordination. Not one thing was out of place, and as Quinn stepped into the pantry, he noticed that not even a light coating of dust clung to the steel shelves.

Shivering, feeling like he was being watched, he almost forgot what he went in for. Looking past the biscuits, he saw bags of marshmallows in front of one another as if they were straight from the supermarket shelf. He took a bag, the one behind it flopping over, and felt the need to adjust it to keep it perfectly positioned.

This pantry was tidier than his shop!

He closed the pantry door in time to see Hermione carrying a tray with three mugs of steaming hot chocolate to the kitchen table. He followed her, noticing how the wooden floor was spotless, and he wondered why she employed Ivy to clean this house.

The hot chocolate made his stomach rumble. The sweet aroma and the floating pink and white marshmallows were the perfect sickly treat he needed. He shivered from the cold, his feet still damp, and berated having to walk back to Noah's discarded car. If Noah would even take him back to the town.

‘Kings & Queens , what a shop.' Hermione stirred her marshmallows into the dark liquid. ‘I always thought Hay needed some diversity. When I heard you were opening, well, I was so pleased. I knew your dad, you know.'

Quinn knew. His dad had always been proud to talk about his memories with Hermione Sage, the famous movie star.

‘It was sad when he…' Quinn prayed she wouldn't say it. ‘Well, you know. How's your mum?'

‘Moving on,' Quinn said. ‘But always grieving.'

‘Yes, yes.' Hermione sipped her drink. Quinn watched her, drawn in by her. ‘My husband was a wonderful man. When I lost him, I felt like the world fell apart. But women don't need a man to feel valued. I was at the top of my game and my career went from strength to strength.'

‘You still are top of the game,' Quinn said. ‘Everyone loves you.'

It was the first time Quinn had seen Hermione look vulnerable. ‘I don't think that's true. The press won't leave me alone because all they want to do is remind everyone about how much of a slut I am.'

Quinn avoided both of their eyes, but the room was silent, and he knew Noah was avoiding eye contact, too. Was this difficult for him? To hear his mother recall something so traumatic in her life? The elephant in the room paraded around them with tassels and trumpets, impossible to ignore. Quinn bit his tongue, waiting for the elephant to finish the show and move on.

‘We can talk about it, you know,' Hermione said. ‘I want to talk about it.'

‘You do?'

‘Nobody has ever wanted to hear my side of the story. I have bottled it up inside me for years.'

‘That's why you want someone to write the book?'

Hermione placed her mug on the wooden table. It made a dull thud, echoing in the steel room. ‘Why don't you write it for me?'

Quinn almost choked on the warm drink. Noah raised an eyebrow, his smile spreading.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Your father said you always wanted to be a writer,' Hermione said. ‘I've been waiting to tell my story for years, but I've not trusted anyone to do so. But you – I can tell you're a safe soul. I want to tell my story, and I want you to write it.'