Chapter Eleven

It made perfect sense that central London resident, Gregory Brent drove a brand-new Range Rover.

‘He used to have a Porsche which was much worse,' Joe told me as we pulled it out the driveway and onto the country lane that led from my parents' house. ‘Swapped to this last year, thank god. He wanted something with a bit more space.'

‘For his ego or his aftershave collection?' I asked, winding down the window.

‘Subtlety has never been my father's strong point,' he replied with a small smile.

‘And yet you decided to drag yourself all the way up here to spend a last-minute weekend away with him.' I tapped my nails against the cream leather interior. Soft as a baby's bum. ‘Such a good son.'

He turned the steering wheel and the car rolled smoothly onto the main road.

‘Between you and me, I might've had an ulterior motive.'

‘Such as?' I looked over at him, his profile strong against the colours outside the window, a blur of leafy trees and stone walls and endless golden fields of wheat.

He didn't reply, not right away, instead he stared straight ahead and put his foot down, the speed of the car pushing me back into my seat. Pinching my lips together, I kept my eyes forward and my mouth closed. I certainly wasn't going to be the one to speak next. If he had something he wanted to say, he could say it. I was perfectly happy to sit in silence and watch the world pass by, ramblers waiting to cross the road with their rucksacks and walking sticks, flocks of fluffy sheep, a cherry red stop sign, his lightly tanned forearm that drew a straight line from his muscular shoulder down to his wrist, his huge hand that palmed the gear stick and the fingers splayed across the leather-covered steering wheel, as his thumb rubbed rhythmically against the buttery fabric and—

‘So where are we going anyway?' I asked, clearing my throat and crossing my legs. ‘You said you'd volunteered us for a mission.'

He glanced over at me, wearing the look of a man who knew he'd just won a point.

‘Your mum needed someone to pick up her order from the butcher and I needed to get away from my dad.'

‘And I need to be here because?'

‘You're my glamorous assistant. You're going to help me carry two dozen pork sausages, a dozen beef burgers and a fuck load of chicken.'

‘A fuck load?' I repeated with concern. ‘Is that metric or imperial?'

‘It's exactly what your mum told me,' he said, still grinning. ‘She said something about better to have too much than not enough but unless they've invited Joey Chestnut, I'd say they've likely overdone it.'

‘Joey Chestnut?'

‘Competitive eater. Have you ever seen a hotdog-eating contest?'

‘Relieved to say I have not.'

‘Don't look it up. At least not until after the barbecue. It's intense, I was there when he broke the world record, seventy-six hotdogs and buns in ten minutes.'

‘I'm guessing this was when you lived in America?' I said, momentarily wondering if I'd missed my calling in life. My personal record was only four hotdogs and three buns after a particularly stressful IKEA visit but I was sure I could do better with the right training.

‘Land of the free, home of the brave,' he said with a nod.

Two cars ahead of us, a set of traffic lights turned red and we slowed to a stop. The car hummed, desperate for Joe to lift his foot up off the brake and I understood its yearning. I felt safer when the car was moving. Sitting here in a heavy silence, waiting, impatient, was too much. Unable to resist one moment longer, I looked at Joe. He was looking right back at me, those blue eyes holding me still in space and time. Why did the worst men have the most beautiful eyes? If there was any justice in the world he'd be made to trade with a nice accountant called Gareth, who always called when he said he would and took the bins out without asking. Joe didn't need another weapon in his arsenal. If he walked out into a sunlit meadow and sparkled from head to toe, I wouldn't even be surprised.

‘These must be some impressive sausages if they're sending us all the way out to the butcher,' I said when we arrived at our destination, opening my door and hopping out the car before Joe could turn off the engine. ‘My parents aren't exactly known for their discerning culinary tastes. Dad's favourite food is Butterscotch Angel Delight and my mum doesn't even bother to heat up the tin of rice pudding before she digs in.'

‘Pulling out the good stuff for guests maybe?' he suggested, quickly positioning himself to walk on the outside of me, closer to the busy road.

‘Two years ago, they had Stephen King come to visit and ordered him a Domino's.'

Joe whistled, long, loud and clear. ‘Then these must be some pretty impressive sausages.'

The butcher's shop was in Baslow, much further away than the supermarket or even the butcher in Harford, so I knew there had to be a reason Mum had insisted on buying her meat here. It was a traditional Peak District ‘ye olde shoppe' limestone affair with a huge glass window displaying its wares and a sign above the window that read ‘McIntyre's Meats'. Inside, I saw a solid brick wall of a man expertly handling a shiny silver cleaver.

‘I think I see why Mum likes this butcher more than the other,' I said, the puzzle pieces falling into place as I watched him effortlessly hack a rack of lamb in two.

‘She did say something about him having a lot of followers on Instagram,' Joe replied. ‘She didn't mention the fact he competed in the Mr Universe competition on his days off.'

The butcher raised his head, presumably alerted by the extra testosterone in the air, but if Joe was threatened by the appearance of another super-hot man, you couldn't tell. Probably too dangerous to show fear in his presence, especially when he was armed.

‘Sophie, before we go in to collect a fuck tonne of chicken, I want to clear the air.'

I tore my eyes away from the human beefcake and allowed them to rest on Joe. He stood right in front of me, both hands clasped around the back of his neck, chin jutting out slightly. Defensive with just a touch of irritation.

‘I know you don't want me here—'

‘Oh no, what gives you that idea?' I asked, setting foot on the stone step that led up to the butcher's front door, but before I could open it, he gripped my arm gently and pulled me back down to the street.

‘It's impossible for you to let me finish a single sentence, isn't it?' he said, his thumb and forefinger almost meeting in a perfect circle around my bicep. His hands were huge. ‘I was going to say, I know you don't want me here but I don't want to ruin the weekend.'

‘It's a bit late for that,' I replied. The warmth of his skin scorched through the thin sleeve of my T-shirt. ‘Honestly, Joe, I don't know why you're here unless it's to torture me. After everything you said to me yesterday, it doesn't make any sense.'

‘I was an idiot and I was drunk. I didn't mean any of it.' He threw up his hands with evident frustration. ‘I've already apologised, what more do you want from me?'

I didn't dare confess the answer to that question changed every other minute.

‘Then why say it in the first place?' I asked instead, wrapping my arms protectively around my body. ‘You absolutely meant all of it and that's fine, it doesn't matter, I don't care what you think about me.' Or my book, I added silently.

‘Well, I care what you think about me.'

He looked so genuine, so contrite, I almost believed him. And I wanted to, I really did. But where would that get me? Joe Walsh was a subplot, an annoyance sent to distract me from the main storyline. I still had a book to rewrite, a laptop to find, the imminent arrival of my ex-boyfriend to worry about and how many days did I have left to return my ASOS parcel before I was stuck with three pairs of jeans that didn't fit? The only thing I did know was I had no spare brain cells left over to waste on Joe Walsh.

He stood staring at me, waiting for a response. So I gave him one.

‘Would you mind going in to pick up the order?' I asked politely.

Inside the shop, the keen edge of the butcher's cleaver sparkled in the sun before he brought it down, slicing through bone like butter.

‘No problem,' Joe said. ‘Don't like being around raw meat?'

‘Don't trust myself around sharp knives,' I replied.

‘Then I'll be right back,' he said, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Once Joe was safely inside, I took out my phone and did something I never allowed myself to do in the cold, sober light of day. I looked at my ex-boyfriend's Instagram. Usually, I managed to keep my social media self-harm to sleepless nights and drunk Uber rides but this wasn't emotional masochism, this was self-preservation. I needed a reminder of how badly it hurt when another pretty literary user broke my heart.

Colin and I met at the Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie event during the Edinburgh Book Festival, both of us awkwardly avoiding the crowds, sitting in the safety of the back row. From the very first day, it was so easy. No drama, just comfortable fun. I was getting ready to start my first term at Abbey Hill school, he was applying for publishing jobs all over London and the two of us sat up late every night, talking about all the books we'd read and all the books we wanted to write. He dreamed of creating something profound and meaningful, I wanted to write a book that made people smile, and at the time, we agreed that both ambitions were equally valid. We were so in love, it only made sense for us to move in together right away to save money. Once my teaching career kicked in, my book went on the back burner, but Colin only worked three days a week as an agent's assistant which gave him plenty of time to hammer out his debut, a book based on one of my ideas that I didn't have time to dig into. He wasn't making a lot of money but that wasn't a problem because I was happy to pay the rent, at least until he landed a big book deal, then we agreed I could finish work and concentrate on my writing too.

When he got an agent, everything changed. Overnight, Colin wrapped himself up in a chrysalis of hype and, out of the cosy cocoon I thought I knew, crawled too-cool, CJ Simmons. CJ didn't want me to read his drafts, CJ had no use for my notes, and after he sold his book, CJ claimed his publicist wanted him to pretend he was single to keep the female readers interested, like he was some kind of literary Harry Styles. A year later, on the same day his book was published – an instant critical, if not commercial, success – he dumped me. After five years together, we'd allegedly outgrown each other. Better off as friends, he said.

Colin needed me until CJ didn't. It was that simple.

CJ's Instagram was all moody black and white images, everyday objects shot at weird angles and endless teasing about his next novel, although when it might actually come out remained a mystery, much like why I put up with him for so long. The man wore a leather thong around his neck with Chris Martin's plectrum hanging from it for god's sake. What was I thinking? No. I promised myself it would be nice guys only after CJ which was why I'd been single for two years. I would not fall for it again.

‘A little help?'

I looked up from my phone as Joe staggered down the single step to the street, straining under the weight of several trays of meat. I grabbed the top tray and my spaghetti arms quivered under the weight.

‘At least now we know the exact weight of a fuck load of chicken,' he joked but when he smiled at me, I saw CJ, even if I couldn't imagine Joe wearing a leather thong necklace, and I couldn't smile back.

‘We should get back,' I said, turning away from him and pouring every ounce of energy I'd ever had into my non-existent muscles. ‘It's too hot for these to be out the fridge for long.'

‘Fine.'

He strode out in front of me, not bothering to keep to my side this time which was, like he said, fine. It wasn't the traffic I needed protecting from.

We marched to the car in silence, Joe fumbling for his keys, holding them up but not pressing the button to open the boot. The man was a masochist.

‘Right, I've got something to say and this time you're going to let me say it,' he said as my sad little biceps and triceps screamed in protest. ‘You've decided you don't like me and I can't make you change your mind.'

‘Please can we do this when I've put the chicken down?' I asked, searching for a safe place to put the tray as my arms started to shake uncontrollably.

‘No, I want to say this while I've got your attention,' he insisted. ‘You might think I'm some super creep who stalked you up here—'

‘Because you are.'

‘—but I wasn't stalking you,' he went on, talking over me this time. ‘I came up because my dad invited me, I didn't have any other plans and, like an idiot, I thought it might be fun. And because I have something for you.'

He pressed the magic button on his key fob and the hatch opened impossibly slowly, almost as though it was in on the drama. The boot of the car was spotless and completely empty apart from one thing. A slightly grubby, well-used canvas tote bag.

Myslightly grubby, well-used canvas tote bag.

‘Oh my god!' I screamed, reaching forwards. The tray of chicken slipped from my grasp and dozens of drumsticks tumbled off into the road.

‘Fuck!' Joe exclaimed. ‘The chicken!'

‘Fuck the chicken!' I yelled with delight. ‘You found my bag!'

‘I didn't find it, you left it in the karaoke bar,' he said, sliding his trays of burgers and hotdogs into the boot as I grabbed my bag and clutched it tightly to my chest, chicken drumsticks be damned.

‘I was going to give it to you earlier but after that scene with your sister and the "fake" handbag, I got the feeling I should wait until we were alone.'

I nodded, only half listening as I pawed at the contents. It was all there, the laptop, the manuscript, the copy of Butterflies, and all the incriminating post with my name and address.

‘Your family don't know, do they?' Joe said.

‘Know what?' I asked in a painfully squeaky voice, the worst liar in the world.

‘That you're Este Cox.'

It was too strange to hear him say it, a statement and an accusation.

‘What are you talking about?' I half-laughed, shaking my head as I thumbed through the pages, certain words and phrases catching my eye against my will. Why did I have to write even more spice into the sequel? So help me god, if he'd read it … ‘Mal told you, I'm a big fan and, um, that's all.'

‘A big fan who writes a sequel to Butterflies for a laugh?' He cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. ‘It's all right, Sophie, I won't tell anyone. Firstly, I work for your publisher and secondly, I'm not as big an arsehole as you think.'

It wasn't as though I had much of a choice. He knew the bag was mine, he'd seen what was inside and as much as it pained me to admit it, he wasn't stupid.

‘No one knows except Mal and my brother,' I said, before chewing on my bottom lip. Then another thought occurred to me and I felt faint. ‘Please tell me you didn't tell your dad?'

Joe scoffed then smirked. ‘I've learned the hard way not to tell my dad anything if I can help it.'

Gripping my tote bag like it was the last life jacket on The Titanic, I looked at him with wet eyes, unexpectedly overwhelmed.

‘I know how stressed I'd be if I lost something like that,' he added. ‘I wanted to make sure you got it back safely.'

‘Thank you.' I was desperately trying not to cry. Trying and failing. ‘This is the most incredible thing, I really thought it was gone forever. I owe you one.'

Then Joe smiled. It was the same smile I'd seen the day before, the one that hesitated halfway, like it wanted to make sure he was truly happy before it committed, then lit up his face, my face and the whole world.

‘Happy to be of service,' he said. ‘But we've got a real problem now, haven't we?'

I squeezed my tote bag even tighter.

‘We have?'

‘Yes.' He squatted to pick up my empty butcher's tray and held it aloft. ‘Where are we going to find another fuck load of chicken at such short notice?'