Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

‘I'm going to give you two some space,' Noah said, getting to his feet.

‘You don't have to go,' Quinn said before he could stop himself.

The truth was, he didn't want Noah to leave. With their hot chocolates and the flickering candles, everything felt safe. Comfortable. The snow outside, the chill in the air – it all felt secondary with Noah nearby.

‘It's alright,' Noah said, heading away from the table. ‘I don't think I can hear this yet.'

‘Noah…' Hermione began.

‘Mum, it's fine,' Noah said. He placed a strong hand on Quinn's shoulder. ‘You speak to Quinn. I've got some writing to do, anyway.'

And with a pat of Quinn's shoulder, he was gone, leaving Quinn feeling lonely, but also curious.

Being with Hermione was like a fever dream. He watched her, aware that she was probably feeling his gaze, but he couldn't take his eyes off her. She possessed something, no doubt what the producers and the directors saw in her all those years ago. He compared her to the photos he had seen of her, and, of course, her appearances in films. She still looked the same, ever so slightly older, though of course many years had passed. Either she'd aged well or knew an excellent surgeon, and if it was a surgeon, he wanted the number.

She looked like Noah. The same strong nose, the same eye shape, the same shaded hair.

Noah's footsteps faded away. Not surprising, considering this house was however many square feet with twisting hallways and god knew how many rooms.

‘Why now?'

‘Oh, plenty of reasons,' Hermione said. ‘We'll get to that. I'm just ready for the world to know what happened all those years ago, amongst other things.'

‘Do you want me to record this?'

‘Do what you wish,' Hermione said. ‘I have to admit, when I saw your name come through, I was relieved.'

‘Relieved?'

Hermione stood up and headed to a nearby cabinet. She crouched down, reaching for something he couldn't see. Quinn watched, fascinated. As she turned around, she held a bouquet of red roses.

The red roses.

Quinn's gasp was louder than he thought possible. ‘Hermione. Dad. You?'

Hermione returned to her seat and handed Quinn the roses. The aroma greeted him, almost transporting him back to his father's grave. The sweet, earthy tone felt familiar, yet strange, in this setting. ‘I loved your father.'

Quinn didn't want to hear it. Couldn't hear it. He would forever regret signing up for this and finding out his dad had been having an affair with Hermione.

‘Not romantically,' Hermione said, as if she suspected where his thoughts were going.

‘But the roses. Your love?'

Hermione nodded. ‘Your father was the kindest man to me. When everyone else hated me, made fun of me, laughed about me, your dad didn't. Your dad always had time for me, Quinn. He would write to me. Come visit me. He'd recommend books. Talk to me like I was a normal person. One time, I asked him if he was playing a trick on me. He said he didn't care about any of that stuff, but if I ever wanted to talk to him, I could. And you know what? I did. I felt safe with your father.'

The times his mum thought Gerald had been having an affair. All the evenings he would come home late. Roses being delivered to the shop, then to the graveyard. The fleeing figure. All of it had been Hermione?

‘Why did you run from me?'

‘I thought you might be the press,' Hermione said. ‘I try to avoid people. I hate their stares. Hate what they're thinking about me. Like I say, your dad was my only friend here in Hay. He never judged me.'

Quinn leaned back in his chair, dumbfounded.

‘Wow, Hermione.'

‘Drink your hot chocolate.'

The drink helped him process everything he was thinking and the way Hermione's admission made him feel. She watched him the whole time as he thought of his father and the secret life he'd led with the Hollywood actress. As soon as Quinn got out of here, he would go straight to the graveyard and wait until the robin hopped on by and he would question everything. This time, he would make sure the robin responded.

‘If you're going to write for me, Quinn, then we can't dance around the subject.'

Quinn cleared his throat, feeling that familiar sting of embarrassment in his cheeks. ‘You're ready to talk about the sex tape.'

‘The sex tape,' Hermione said. ‘Yes, that, but more.'

‘More?'

‘People seem to only remember me as the actress who got filmed doing the deed,' Hermione said. ‘Well, is that so shameful? There are people out there who will want to know what I did after that. What happened when everyone dropped me. Yes, I want to get it all out. From beginning to end. To now.'

‘When do you want to start?'

Quinn sipped his hot chocolate, thinking maybe she would start in the New Year.

‘Now?'

‘Oh,' Quinn said. ‘Well, I can…'

‘Yes, you're busy, I suppose,' Hermione said. ‘But we have to get this written fast. If you don't have the time…'

‘No, no, I have the time.' He didn't, but he would not lose this writing opportunity. Besides, how could he when he'd found out that Hermione loved his father so much that she visited his grave almost every week? ‘But the shop. There's a lot of press attention at the minute. I'm going to fight until?—'

‘You won't lose it.'

‘It looks likely that I will.'

‘No, you won't.' Hermione got to her feet and walked to the end of the kitchen, where she took something out of a drawer. ‘I'll write you a cheque.'

‘Sorry?'

‘Think of it as an advance.'

‘Shouldn't the publisher pay you that? Then deal with me later?'

‘I don't have a publisher yet.'

‘You don't have … oh.'

He tried to hide his deflated look, but he knew he had failed. He hoped Hermione would at least have some contract, some definite lead that she would have this published. Otherwise, would he just be wasting time? After all, Hermione Sage wasn't a desirable name anymore, through no fault of her own. It would be a risk to write a story that people may not be interested in hearing.

‘That's okay. We'll get one. I'm sure of it. But let me pay you an advance. Something to get the developers off your back.'

‘Um… look, we can sort out payment at a later stage. I appreciate what you're offering, but they won't be paid off. He's my stepdad, and he's adamant that he will get the shop. He already owns the place.'

‘Then buy him out.'

Quinn forced a smile. ‘It's not that simple.'

Hermione returned to her seat, the cheque book in front of her. ‘I have money, you know.'

‘I know.'

‘And I can help.'

‘I'm here to write your story. I'm here to help you.'

‘Then let me help you.'

He reached out a hand, not sure why. It kept going. Oh, god, stop it. But he couldn't. His hand was getting closer to Hermione's, oh so close, and then he was holding her hand, like she was a dying patient in a hospital bed. Only this was Hermione Sage, Noah's mother, and he did not have her consent to be holding her hand.

‘I appreciate it. But I'm going to fight this.'

Hermione didn't break away. Instead, she placed a rather warm hand over his and gave it a little squeeze.

‘You know where I am if you need me to help.'

‘I do, and I appreciate that.'

‘I would come to the shop and speak out, you know, but…'

She gestured to the outdoors, and Quinn nodded. ‘The press?'

‘The press.' Hermione blinked. ‘And there are too many memories.'

The only press around Hay right now was for him, not for Hermione.

Huh. That was an odd thought.

He pushed it away, feeling like he was throwing shade at the woman that was going to trust him to write her whole life down in a book.

Not to mention she had a hot son.

A hot son who felt the same way as she did: that Hay held too many dire memories.

Focus, Quinn.

‘Are we going to talk about the press in the book?'

‘Nothing is out of bounds.' Hermione smiled. ‘So, you want a contract?'

‘If you don't mind.'

‘Yes, okay,' Hermione said. ‘I'll have my team send something over.'

‘You still have a team?'

Fuck.

If this annoyed Hermione, she didn't show it.

‘An agent, yes,' she said. ‘A lovely agent. Actually, she's my son's agent, too.'

‘He's a lovely boy,' Quinn said. Hermione's face was one of unhidden pride.

‘He's talked about you quite a lot.'

Quinn, still drinking his hot chocolate, almost dropped the mug. It hit the table harder than he intended, spilling chocolate goodness onto the surface. Hermione looked scared. The smallest drop seemed like the biggest mark in this cold, clean kitchen.

‘I'll clean it up!' he gasped, getting to his feet, and rushing to a kitchen roll dispenser on the nearby counter. Hoping to change the subject, Quinn spoke in a high-pitched voice, and then blushed again. ‘He's spoken about me?'

‘Yeah, a few times. It's lovely to have him here for a little while. I don't see him often. Lives the luxury life down in London. I'm always asking him to come stay with me, but he never seems bothered.'

Quinn tried to focus on that change of subject, but he could barely focus on cleaning the hot chocolate. Noah spoke about him? This was almost as shocking as finding out about his dad's relationship with Hermione.

‘Noah has been quite supportive of the shop,' Quinn said. ‘He's showing me support in his own way. Did you see his talk with the Hay newspaper? I think that helped get the rest of the press interested. That and blood— um, Blair Beckett.'

‘Oh, isn't he so handsome?'

‘Yes, he is.' Quinn definitely meant Blair. Not Noah.

Yes, Noah.

Noah, who now entered the room looking like he didn't know that Quinn was hyperventilating about him.

‘Everything alright?'

‘Oh, dandy.'

He'd never said that in his life.

‘What happened to needing to write?' Hermione asked her son.

‘Well, I remembered something. Don't you have your interview with the BBC today, Quinn?'

‘I do.'

‘Shouldn't we go?'

‘I … should.'

‘The BBC,' Hermione said. ‘Please don't tell them about me. About this. Not yet.'

‘No, of course not,' Quinn said, though he was sure they wouldn't ask. Or care.

‘We'll see you later, Mum,' Noah said, giving her a soft kiss on the top of her head.

As they left, Quinn wondered if it was appropriate to be jealous of Noah's mother.