Chapter Fourteen

When I got back home, Joe wasn't in the cottage, but that didn't mean it was empty.

‘What are you doing?' I demanded when I opened the door to find my sister pillaging my belongings, all the clothes I'd just put away strewn across the double bed, shoes on the floor, make-up dumped on the sofa, all of it open, unfastened or pawed through. ‘Didn't I tell you to stay out my stuff?'

‘I'm in here because I live here,' she replied, my favourite cream silk shirt thrown over her cocoa-coloured bike shorts and sports bra. ‘And I'm not going through your stuff, I'm looking for the dust bag for my Chanel. It was in your suitcase earlier.'

‘You mean the last time you were in my room when you shouldn't have been?'

I walked over to the bed, pulled out my suitcase and unzipped the front pocket to extract the little black and white bag. There wasn't an awful lot of point in holding onto it now.

‘Is there anything else I can get you while I'm here?' I offered. ‘My dress? Pair of shoes? Couple of kidneys?'

‘You can only donate one kidney or you'd die,' Charlotte said, disgusted with my stupidity in a way only an eighteen-year-old can be.

‘I still wouldn't put it past you,' I replied. ‘Now piss off so I can get ready for this barbecue, and please stop going through my things.'

‘Don't worry, there's nothing else worth having.' She blew a kiss as she flounced past me, waving the dust bag over her head like a victory flag, then shrugging off my shirt and letting it fall to the floor.

‘Don't worry about closing the door or anything,' I shouted as I surveyed her wreckage. The beautiful tiny cottage was a mess. How could one person cause so much carnage in such a short time? Charlotte was part-human and part-Tasmanian devil and, if I was being honest, I'd have taken a full-blooded Tasmanian devil over my sister in that moment.

‘What happened, have we been robbed?'

Joe stood in the open door, scanning the disaster area in front of him.

‘We've been Charlotte-d,' I replied, allowing my tote bag to slip off my shoulder onto the bed, the soft mattress accepting the weight with a sigh. ‘Don't worry, I don't think she touched your stuff.'

‘Looks like someone did.' He stooped to pick up my abandoned shirt, laying it over the back of the sofa as he eyed his weekend bag. ‘Oh right, that was you.'

‘I told you, I wasn't going through it,' I said, covering my red face with a pile of my clothes. ‘I was moving it.'

‘To save it from the mysterious leather-eating mice, I remember.'

The atmosphere between us was just as strained as it had been on the way to the butcher's and I was starting to think I preferred smarmy sleazebag Joe to stiff and snippy Joe. At least that version gave me something to work with, a chance to practise my banter. This one gave me nothing at all and I wasn't about to apologise when I hadn't done anything wrong. Well, apart from conk him in the face with my laptop and that wasn't on purpose.

Concentrating very hard on looking at anything other than me, Joe unclipped and unzipped his bag and pulled out a matching leather washbag. ‘If it's all right with you, I'd like to shower before the party kicks off. Unless you want to go first?'

‘You want a shower?' I replied. ‘In here?'

‘I was thinking I'd use the bathroom specifically but yes, I want to shower here at this cottage.'

Apparently his need was so great that he started stripping down right in front of me, his shirt already balled up in his hand as he unfastened the top button of his trousers. Joe had the kind of body that looked like he worked on sailing ships in days of yore and tossed around barrels full of ale as a workout. Strong arms ran up to meet broad shoulders and a barrel chest, and yes, there was hair on that chest and no, I didn't hate it. There were no carefully sculpted abs but his stomach was flat, with exactly the right amount of softness to let you know he wasn't afraid of carbs. Combined with his charm, charisma and stupidly handsome face, it was truly irresponsible of him to walk around like that. Only he wasn't trying to be charming right now, just irritating.

‘You've got to be kidding me,' I breathed before I could stop myself. ‘I mean, no, you're not using my bathroom. And put your bloody shirt back on.'

‘What do you want me to do?' he asked, shirt still decidedly off. ‘Hose myself down in the middle of the garden?'

There was another mental image I wouldn't be able to escape for the rest of eternity.

‘You're being ridiculous,' he said, dismissing my protestations and tucking the washbag under his arm. ‘You can't call the bathroom off limits when we're sharing the cottage. What happened to "you owe me"?'

‘What happened to me keeping my distance?' I asked. ‘That was your request, wasn't it?'

There was no air conditioning in the cottage but despite the humid day outside, the atmosphere was positively frosty. We glared at each other from opposite sides of the room, neither one about to back down.

‘Sorry, I assumed you'd be capable of basic human decency,' he said, blinking first, much to my delight. ‘I wasn't asking for your permission to use the shower, I was being polite and asking if you wanted to use it first. Why does everything have to be a fight with you? You're so fucking defensive.'

‘I wouldn't have to be defensive if you weren't so unpredictable,' I volleyed back.

‘I'm not unpredictable.' Joe frowned, looking surprised by the accusation.

‘Inconsistent then,' I amended, picking up a pair of leggings and attempting to fold them, black Lycra slapping me in the face and wrapping around my neck. Leggings were really hard to fold when you were annoyed. ‘You're inconsistent. And antagonistic. And flighty.'

‘Flighty?' he scoffed, popping the rest of the buttons on his fly to reveal a flash of the same kind of black boxers I'd seen in his bag. ‘All right, Nana. I'm going for a shower. Something I do every day. Consistently.'

When I heard the water start running, I was still standing by the wardrobe, wrapped up in my leggings-slash-scarf-slash-straitjacket, bristling with anger.

‘Forty-eight hours to go,' I muttered to myself as I yanked the leggings from around my neck. ‘Then you never have to see him again.'

‘I just think it must be such a shallow existence,' I said to Sanjit, gesticulating wildly with my second drink and eyeing Joe across the garden. He was laughing uproariously at something one of Mum's aqua aerobics friends said and pretending not to notice her subtly squeezing his bicep. ‘Look at him. All that flirting. It must be exhausting, he looks exhausted. Don't you think he looks exhausted?'

‘I don't know, he looks pretty good to me,' Sanjit replied. ‘Sophie, have you had anything to eat today?'

‘Percy Pigs and a biscuit.'

‘All the major food groups covered then,' William commented.

The barbecue was a small gathering, just like Mum said it would be, a couple of close friends who were staying the weekend and our unfortunate family, but the limited number of people only made Joe's massive presence stick out like a sore thumb. A great big massive unbearably attractive sore thumb.

‘That man is an Adonis,' my brother disagreed, all three of us openly staring now. ‘He hasn't missed leg day since birth, has he? Must've been doing squats in the womb.'

‘Yes, but it's not about looks,' I insisted, tapping one finger against my temple a little too hard, a little too fast. ‘He's fake. He tells everyone whatever he thinks they want to hear, whatever it takes for him to get what he wants out of them, and if that doesn't work he sulks like a baby.'

‘And what exactly is it he wants out of seventy-three-year-old Lesley over there?'

The two of them clinked their glasses together in a toast that I couldn't quite hear but from the laughter that followed was the funniest thing anyone had ever heard.

‘He wants to make me jealous,' I replied, throwing back a gulp of my drink. ‘He wants me to see him having an amazing time because he doesn't care what I think. Except he does, he totally cares.'

William flashed an ‘unlikely' look at his husband. ‘Nice to see a girl with confidence.'

‘Not because I'm so incredibly fit he can't help himself,' I replied, stumbling only very slightly over my words. ‘Men like him only want what they can't have. He knows he can't have me. It's all a game to him.'

That was the conclusion I'd come to while he took such a long shower there was no hot water left for me and I was sticking to it. Not that a cold shower was such a bad thing. I probably would've dialled the temperature down on myself anyway after he came strolling through the cottage, dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel.

‘He can have me if he wants,' Sanjit said. ‘No offence, William, but given half the chance I would climb that man like a tree.'

‘None taken,' my brother, his husband, replied. ‘I'd hold the ladder for you.'

But I was unmoved.

‘You both need your heads checked. Did I tell you Mal said he's a cad? And a bouncer. I mean, a bounder. He could be a bouncer though, couldn't he? He's big enough.'

‘Soph, seriously, how much have you had to drink?' William plucked the glass out of my hand and gave it a desultory sniff. ‘And what the fuck is in here in the first place?'

‘It's only my second,' I hiccupped defensively as he took a sip. ‘It's just Pimm's. With a dash of Malibu. And a shot of vodka. Pimm's is hardly even booze, is it? More like pop.'

‘This tastes like something I would've knocked back in the student union on a bet,' he replied, pulling a face before passing it to his husband. ‘You need something that isn't ninety-seven percent sugar.'

‘And something to drink that isn't ninety-seven percent proof,' Sanjit added, screwing up his face as he swallowed. ‘Are you sure this isn't paint stripper?'

‘It's one match away from being a Molotov cocktail. If we need something to get the bonfire going later, I'll know where to go,' William said, dumping it out onto the grass before the pair of them led me away, one on either side, like they were escorting me from a very shit club. ‘Now what are you having: chicken, hotdog or a burger? Don't get too close to the barbecue, you'll go up like a nuclear bomb.'

Behind the grill, I saw my dad, resplendent in a chef's hat and a black apron that said ‘Mario Puzo's The Grillfather', a bookish-barbecue pun I might've found funnier if I'd been allowed to finish my cocktail but it was still nice to see him looking so happy.

Or at least it was until I saw who was standing beside him.

CJ.

One look at him and I was stone-cold sober.

‘Shall we get this over with?' William asked. ‘Or do you need to pop inside first and find a suitable weapon?'

‘I don't need a weapon,' I replied as my ex grabbed the barbecue tongs and pretended to snap them at my mother's arse. ‘If I wanted to, I could dismantle that man in under thirty seconds, handsfree.'

Sanjit turned away, unable to watch. ‘It's still beyond me why you let him take all the credit for that book when we both know it was your idea in the first place.'

‘Because it's such a bag of pretentious shite, I don't want people to know I was on the same continent as CJ when it was being written?'

‘There is that,' he conceded.

For months, CJ's book, Deckled Edges, had haunted me. The matte black dust jacket followed me everywhere I went, bookshops, supermarkets, the staffroom at work. Someone I met on Hinge even brought it with him on what turned out to be a very short first date. Sadly, the obnoxious cover wasn't the worst of it. There was the dedication (to himself) then acknowledgements (noting all the support from my mum and my dad but never once mentioning me) and his insistence on constantly referring to himself as the ‘voice of the voiceless', a term I knew for a fact he'd stolen from the wrestling show he watched religiously every week, even though he would never admit it now. Not to mention the self-important, naval-gazing writing itself.

‘If I were you, I'd have shoved his MacBook so far up his arse he'd have to swallow his hands to type,' Sanjit said through gritted teeth. ‘Was he always such a little shithead?'

‘Not at the beginning,' I admitted as CJ rolled up his sleeve to show off a giant gold watch that would've even looked a bit tacky on Liberace. ‘He was sweet when we first met.'

‘Everyone's sweet when you first meet,' William commented.

I looked over to the crowd of women that had amassed around Joe and shook my head.

‘No. Not everyone.'

On the surface, the two men couldn't have been more different. There was CJ in his Zara dupe of a Hedi Slimane suit and please-take-me-seriously wire-frame glasses, then there was Joe, a solid chunk of man, dressed in perfectly fitting straight leg jeans and a white linen shirt, the cuffs loosely rolled up to the elbow to weaponise his dangerously erotic forearms. CJ was intense and engaging, Joe was easy charm personified. CJ was Tom Hiddleston, Joe was Chris Hemsworth, looks-wise, anyway, when it came to personality the comparison was an insult to both Loki and Thor. But for all their differences, underneath the surface, I knew they were the same. Two smug men who thought they knew better than silly little me.

‘Oh, fucking hell, he's waving,' William groaned as all three of us caught CJ's eye at the same time.

‘You're the one who said let's get it over with.' I reversed the grip on my brother's arm to stop him from bolting. ‘You can't make me go through this alone.'

Sanjit turned his bottle of beer upside down, allowing the last dregs to fall onto the lawn. ‘Oh no, what a shame, I must go and get another. Do give him my best.'

‘Get the divorce papers while you're at it,' William suggested when he tapped his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute and scuttled away. ‘Never marry a lawyer. That's the best romantic advice I could ever give you. They're always weaselling in or out of something.'

I looked up at him with one raised eyebrow.

‘You said the best romantic advice you could ever give me was to shag as many men as humanly possible because they're all so terrible, you might as well go with the one who knows how to bang?'

‘When did I share that nugget of wisdom?'

‘On my sixteenth birthday.'

‘I clearly left it too late because you didn't bloody listen, did you?'

Barging through the crowd and dragging me behind him, William slapped CJ on the back so hard, he spat out his sausage. ‘Colin, you hateful little wankshaft,' he boomed. ‘How the devil are you?'

It was one of my brother's greatest skills, delivering the most damning insults on earth with such a big, friendly smile, people never knew if he was joking or not.

‘Evening, William,' CJ said, clearing his throat. CJ knew. ‘Sophie.'

‘CJ,' I replied, staring straight through him.

‘How are you doing?'

‘Not too bad, you lanky streak of piss,' my brother replied, even though the question was directed at me. ‘How's the new book coming? Wasn't it scheduled for this summer?'

‘Originally.'

His green eyes found mine before I could look away. Five years together and now I couldn't for the life of me remember what I'd seen in him. ‘Hugh decided to move it. You can't rush these things, can you?'

‘Certainly not,' my dad chimed in, joining our group and throwing his arm around CJ's shoulders. ‘Art takes time, we all understand that here.'

‘We definitely do,' William replied ‘With a talent like CJ's, there's no way he could be a one book wonder. Unless, I don't know, you lost your inspiration? Your muse? The person who actually came up with all your good ideas?'

‘Can I get anyone a drink?' I asked, pasting on a meaningless smile as CJ opened his mouth to reply. ‘No? Great. If anyone needs me, I'll be anywhere else but here. William?'

The pair of us turned and walked briskly away, the soles of my sandals bouncing over the freshly mown grass, CJ still defending his creative block to my dad, rambling about the myopic lens of an alienated society, and I was extremely relieved not to be the one who had to listen to it any more.

‘Well done,' my brother said as we slowed our pace. ‘I can't even look at his rodent face without wanting to slap the taste out of his mouth.'

‘I had many more years of practice than you,' I reminded him. ‘Every time I feel the urge to bludgeon him to death with his Critics' Circle Debut Novel trophy, I remind myself how few copies of Deckled Edges sold, awards or no awards.'

He laughed and held up his hand for a high five which I gladly met. ‘Publishing loves books about publishing. We both know it's a piece of overwritten shit. Scathing satire addressing the perils of a young female editorial assistant in a London publishing house my arse.'

‘Might've been helpful if he'd ever been an editorial assistant, or a young female,' I suggested. ‘Or you know, even spoke to one.'

‘I saw it on a list of worst male-written female characters a few weeks ago but I didn't send it on. I know you'd rather be the bigger person.'

‘Oh, god, no. Send it to me, I can always use something calming to read before bed.'

‘If you'd only let me scream from the rooftops you're the bestselling author in the world,' he grumbled. ‘Go on, you know you want to. This would be the perfect place to do it.'

‘Only if your plan is to give Mum and Dad his and hers heart attacks for his birthday.' I inhaled deeply and blew out as much stress as I could. ‘You're right though, I can be the bigger person. At least until I get the chance to spit in CJ's drink or push him down some stairs.'

‘That's my sister.' Slowing almost to a stop, William looked around at the over-sixties crowd. ‘Where's Sarah tonight?' he asked. ‘I thought Nixon might've graced us with her presence.'

‘She'll be here tomorrow,' I replied, smiling at the thought. ‘She has the kids Friday, Dave has them Saturday.'

‘He couldn't take them tonight as well?'

‘Dave couldn't take his own temperature without step-by-step instructions from Sarah.'

‘Pretty but stupid,' William assessed, not incorrectly. ‘OK, this is my official, updated best romantic advice: find something nice to look at that's still mentally competent. I'm not saying everyone's husband needs to be able to explain how the Hadron Collider works but at least find a partner who knows Lord of the Rings is fiction and not something that happened a very long time ago.'

‘In his defence,' I started, wincing at the memory of my brother's first conversation with Sarah's ex-husband, William looking at me expectantly. ‘No, I haven't got anything, you're right.'

‘It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't been so determined to convince us he knew a Hobbit.' He glanced over at the grill where Sanjit stood empty plate in hand and a blank expression on his face. ‘If you're all right on your own for a minute, I should go stop Sanjit before he eats himself into gout. The man has no self-control when it comes to a barbecue.'

‘No worries,' I said even though there were in fact worries. Many, many worries. Outside my brother, my options for company at the barbeque were limited. Mum was locked in an animated discussion with her best friend, Jericka, another critic, a very intense woman who couldn't have a conversation with anyone about anything without bringing up Russian literature. Dad's pub friends only knew how to talk about politics, war novels and actual war, three things I had no interest in debating with a group of old men on a Friday night or ever. I'd sent William away, Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, CJ made me want to poke out my own eyes with a chicken kebab and I would happily chew off my left leg to avoid talking to Aunt Carole and Uncle Bryan, who were dressed for an arctic expedition despite the fact I was sweltering in jeans and a T-shirt, which left only one other person and I was, as had been requested, keeping my distance from him.

Artfully dodging all potential social interactions, I sloped off to the back bar, or to describe it more accurately, a pasting table under a tablecloth, and poured a full-to-the-brim glass of rosé. I didn't even want it but I needed a prop, something to do with my hands and, if necessary, throw at someone.

‘You always did like your pink wine.'

‘And you always liked bothering me when I wanted to be left alone,' I said with a sigh when CJ sidled up beside me at the bar, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. ‘So I see neither of us have changed.'

‘Oh, Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. You and your sense of humour.'

He laughed and brushed his dark blond hair back behind his ears, something I used to find boyish and endearing but with the way it was beginning to thin at the temples, I couldn't help but think he ought to leave as much of it forward as possible. ‘How have you been?'

‘Fine until I found out you were coming,' I replied sweetly.

‘Just because we're not together any more doesn't mean I'm not part of the family,' CJ said, flashing huge puppy dog eyes.

‘Colin, that's exactly what it means.' I took a long, unhappy chug of my wine. It would be a waste to throw it. ‘They're my family, not yours.'

He swirled the whisky in his glass, bringing it to his lips but barely taking a taste. I was probably the only person here who knew he'd much rather have what I was drinking. Colin loved rosé and hated whisky. CJ, it seemed, had learned to tolerate it.

‘Sophie, I want you to know, I do empathise,' he said, one hand in his pocket, shoulders drawn back straight. ‘It must be difficult for you, watching me live my dreams from afar while you're stuck in a dead-end teaching job, but you need to move on.'

I turned to stare at him.

‘What did you just say?'

‘It's time you got over me,' he said, pressing the whisky glass against his chest. ‘For your own sake.'

‘Colin, you're the one at my dad's party. Believe me, I'm over you. I'm Taylor Swift, Joe Alwyn, entire break-up album over you.'

He sniffed, tipped the whisky to his lips again and shrugged.

‘If you say so.'

‘I do say so!' I exclaimed, fighting every urge to dump my whole glass of wine over his head. ‘You're the moon and I'm the cow. This is me, jumping over you.'

‘Don't listen to those intrusive thoughts, you're not a cow. That's the internalised misogyny talking.' He leaned to one side and craned his neck to check out my rear view. ‘Might be worth going up a size though. Your jeans are a bit tight and not in a good way.'

‘So much for my promise to Sarah,' I muttered, looking for a hard surface to break my glass on. Throwing wine on him wouldn't be enough. The man had to die and it could not wait until tomorrow.

‘Oh, wow, aren't you JC Simons?'

‘It's CJ Simmons.' CJ pulled himself up to his full height to reply to the voice that had interrupted my violent fantasies. ‘And you are?'

‘Joe, Joe Walsh.'

Also known as the last person I would've asked to come to my rescue but as he'd correctly stated earlier beggars could not be choosers, and I was begging for someone to save me from a life sentence. Although I was fairly sure there wasn't a jury in the land that would put me away for relieving the planet of the curse of Colin. All I'd have to do was show them a photo of his black on black Tesla and I'd probably get some kind of medal instead.

‘Forgive me, I can't remember the title but didn't you write that book?' Joe clinked his beer bottle against CJ's whisky-filled tumbler, ignoring me completely. ‘The one about the editorial assistant who accidentally offed her boss and ended up taking over the company. What was it, Speckled Eggs?'

‘Deckled Edges,' CJ corrected, his left eye twitching. ‘Yes, that was me. Have you read it?'

‘Oh, fuck no,' Joe laughed. ‘I flicked through it in a charity shop but seriously, what a pretentious bag of wank. If you're short on copies, they've got a whole boxful at the Oxfam in Kentish Town. You look like the kind of person who gives out all your author copies. Whether people want them or not.'

The shoulders of CJ's jacket rose as his neck retracted into the crumpled white collar of his shirt, part hipster, part tortoise, all tit.

‘Not to be rude but, mate,' Joe carried on as CJ blinked at him from behind his non-prescription glasses. ‘Have you ever even had a conversation with a woman? Have you met one? Because that main character made your average manic pixie dream girl look like Margaret Thatcher.'

‘I think one review called her a vacant projection of the male gaze,' I interjected, tilting my head to the side as Joe snapped his fingers.

‘Nailed it. Of course, I'm sure that's exactly what JC was going for.'

‘I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?' CJ's hand was shaking so violently, whisky spilled over his fingers, staining the cuff of his stiff white shirt.

‘Joe Walsh,' replied my new favourite person. ‘Creative director at MullinsParker. I'm told I'll be working on your next book. If it ever turns up.'

‘I heard they're raising the retirement age to seventy-five so there's a chance,' I added. ‘A tiny little whisper of a chance.'

‘You two are hilarious. Do let me know when you've written your novels so I can offer you the same support,' CJ snapped. ‘Sorry, is that Salman over there? I must go and say goodbye before he leaves. Excuse me.'

‘Is it Salman?' Joe asked, turning to watch him sprint across the garden as quickly as his pointy ankle boots could carry him.

‘It's my dad's friend Gordon from the garden centre,' I said, grinning. ‘Easy mistake to make except for how he looks literally nothing like him.'

‘That book of his really was a piece of shit. How do you know him?'

I sipped my wine and shook my head.

‘We went out. For five years.'

Joe coughed, choking on a mouthful of beer, and banged his fist against his chest.

‘Understandable reaction,' I said, lifting my glass in acknowledgement. ‘But it was a long time ago.'

His eyebrows slowly crept back down his forehead but he couldn't seem to completely wipe the look of surprise from his face.

‘I can't lie, I wasn't expecting that,' he replied. ‘You don't seem the type to suffer fools gladly.'

I fixed him with a level stare and sipped my wine. ‘And now you know why.'

The round bulbs strung up and down the garden glowed softly against the dimming sky. We still had another hour or so of soft summer daylight but there was a whisper of evening in the air that smoothed away the harsh edges of the day and opened up all kinds of possibilities. Things you could say or do at night that couldn't be said or done in the day. Joe's hair was still damp from his shower, wavier than usual, and his white shirt set off his light tan. He had the kind of skin that turned golden from two minutes out in the sun and our countryside walk had given him a healthy, sexy glow. All it had gifted me were salmon pink cheeks and a Rudolph nose that had challenged my makeup skills to their very limit.

‘I haven't seen your dad all night,' I said, searching for someone who should've been easy to find.

‘Taken to his bed with an alleged migraine. Although last time I looked in on him, he was watching the cricket on his phone. He can only stomach not being centre of attention for so long.'

We stood by the bar, watching the gathering, not quite together but not quite apart. I was only being polite I told myself, I owed him for the CJ save. That was the only reason I hadn't walked away. It would've been rude.

‘Are you having fun?' I asked, again only out of politeness.

Joe bounced the mouth of his bottle against his lips and nodded.

‘I am. Your parents are very kind people. I've already been invited to join your mother's aquaerobics class, she and her friend Lesley were very insistent.'

‘They say it's good for the joints,' I replied, fighting a smile. ‘Low impact, excellent cardio.'

‘Bit too far for me to come up from London every Wednesday,' he said. ‘I'll have to find something else to keep my heart rate up. Any recommendations?'

‘Maybe you should get a Peloton, that would keep you off the streets,' I suggested when he smirked, reminding me exactly why I was avoiding him in the first place. ‘Anyway, I'd better get back to keeping my distance.'

‘Please don't go.' He reached out to grasp my wrist, lowering his voice to a soft rumble that curled around my ears like a caress. ‘There's a vague possibility I wasn't thinking straight when I said that.'

‘Too much ice cream?' I suggested with an anxious laugh. ‘I did tell you salted caramel and strawberry did not belong together.'

He tightened his grip gently but firmly around my wrist.

‘It's not the ice cream,' he said. ‘The thing is, I can't get a handle on you and that makes me feel … I don't know. Nervous.'

Now it was my turn to look surprised.

‘I make you feel nervous?'

‘You make me feel a lot of things.' He leaned in towards me, his eyes glassy and dark. ‘Maybe we should go back to the cottage and discuss them further?'

‘That would not be a very good idea,' I said, stuttering out the words as my body attempted to cut my brain off from my mouth. My thoughts and feelings were no longer in sync. Joe rubbed his thumb against the thin skin inside my wrist, and he smiled as goosebumps prickled into life along my arm.

‘It would be an exceptional idea,' he promised. ‘I've got some very pressing questions about the scene in your book where Jenna and Eric get trapped on the roof of the hotel that really can't wait. Pressing professional questions.'

A civil war was being waged throughout my body. Everything between my knees and my neck wanted to go but my feet remained firmly connected to my brain and my brain said no. At least it did until he pushed my hair away from my face, his lips making contact with my ear, and my whole body shivered.

‘Fuck all the games. I want you, Sophie,' he whispered. ‘Now.'

That was it, the moment I lost the fight. All my control, my better judgement, everything I'd spent the entire day reminding myself, went out the window. He wanted me, I wanted him and nothing else mattered. The man was quicksand and I was already up to my neck.

‘Let's go back.' Joe pulled on my arm, drawing me away from the party, away from the lights. ‘No one's going to miss us and I can be quiet if you can.'

Stumbling along, I followed him, everything that wasn't Joe blurring out of focus. I fumbled in my pocket for the keys, his body pressed against my back, when the cottage door opened from the inside.

It was Charlotte.

And in her hand, she clutched a stack of paper.

‘You!' she boomed as she waved it at me.

I dropped Joe's hand like it was on fire and took several steps away from him, walking directly into a rosebush.

‘What about me?' I asked, fighting my way out of the all-consuming Joe Walsh haze.

‘You know full well what I'm talking about!'

Everyone turned to see why Charlotte was yelling right as I realised exactly what was in her hand. Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

‘Why was the manuscript for the next Este Cox book on your bed?' she demanded, the crumpled pages in her hand covered in recognisable scribbles and scrawl.

‘It wasn't on my bed,' I replied, one foot in the flowerbed, one foot out. ‘It was in a bag, beside the bed.'

‘It was on your bed,' Joe corrected very quietly. ‘I might have taken it out the bag when you were in the shower and forgot to put it back.'

Mum crossed the garden at lightning speed, wearing her ‘not in front of company' frown as I attempted to end his life with a glare. ‘Sophie, Lottie, what's going on?'

‘I have no idea,' I said, eyeing the stack of A4 in Charlotte's hands and still waiting for my brain to come back online but it was taking far too long to reboot.

‘There's only one explanation I can think of,' my sister challenged, ignoring our mother and stepping forward to flap the manuscript at me, cooling my red face with an accusatory breeze. ‘Are you going to make me say it?'

It was right there, the truth, on the very tip of my tongue. But I couldn't speak the words, I wasn't ready.

‘Lottie, please don't,' I pleaded softly as Bryan, Carole, CJ and all the rest started to drift down towards us. ‘You've got the wrong end of the stick.'

‘Both ends of a stick are the same, Sophie,' she snipped back. ‘It's a stick.'

‘What Sophie means is, it's not her manuscript.'

Joe took a defensive step in front of me, blocking out my irate sister. He glanced over his shoulder to give me a meaningful look but I had no idea what the meaning might be.

‘Then why was it in the cottage?' Charlotte asked, switching her suspicious stare from me to Joe.

‘Because it's mine,' he declared. ‘I'm Este Cox.'