Chapter Two

‘So this is where you're hiding.'

Without asking permission from one of the waiters, Joe Walsh dragged a chair away from another table and pulled it up to ours, seat facing outwards. He straddled it confidently, arms crossed and resting on the high back like the cool substitute teacher in a bad nineties movie about a tough inner-city high school. He had the costume down, tie already loosened, shirt rumpled and unbuttoned at the throat, and on anyone else his brown corduroys would have screamed ‘double geography' but the way they strained against his thick thighs suggested he spent less time studying boulders and more time casually picking them up and throwing them around.

‘What are you doing here?' Mal asked sharply.

My head flicked back towards my godfather. I couldn't think of another time I'd known him to be so agitated, not even when he babysat my little sister and she filled his shoes with used cat litter because he refused to sit through Twilight for a third time in seven hours.

‘Best chicken dhansak in London,' Joe replied, his unabashed eyes still on me. I glared back but he didn't look away, unbothered by our silent exchange.

‘We missed you at cover art,' he said to Mal, picking up a teaspoon and helping himself to my kulfi. He closed his eyes and moaned in soft ecstasy, pulling the spoon slowly out from between his full lips. ‘Clearly you were busy.'

‘Joe Walsh, this is my goddaughter, Sophie Taylor,' Mal said by way of explanation. ‘Sophie, this is someone I work with who wishes he could join us for a cup of tea but sadly can't because he's far too busy.'

Joe laughed, a deep, mellifluous sound that went straight to the ovaries.

‘Good news. I can absolutely join you for a cup of tea. The department heads meeting was cancelled because, according to your assistant, you're out all afternoon on a very important secret meeting with a very important secret author. Should we be ordering champagne?'

‘I don't drink in the daytime,' I lied before Mal could spontaneously combust. ‘So no thanks.'

Joe shrugged and reached across the table and nudged Mal's napkin aside, revealing the special edition copy of Butterflies. Slowly, intentionally, he turned it over in his hands like a detective with a smoking gun and my stomach dropped all the way through the soles of my comfortable shoes.

‘Big fan of Este Cox, are you?' he asked.

‘No,' I said.

‘Yes,' said Mal.

Both at the exact same time.

One corner of Joe's mouth flickered upwards.

‘I'm not a big fan, I'm a huge fan,' I corrected, hitting my godfather with the world's finest side eye. ‘Malcolm mentioned there was a special edition coming out and I begged him for a copy.'

‘Huh.' Joe flicked through the pages with a look of easy disdain. ‘Three hundred pages of wish fulfilment fantasy for women who need to get out the house more often. Or stay in more often, if you catch my drift.'

It wasn't a difficult drift to get a hold of.

Mal said nothing, I said nothing. Instead I clenched my jaw tightly and felt my teeth grinding against each other.

‘Two fresh mint teas?'

The toxic silence around the table was broken by our waiter.

‘Mint tea sounds good, I'll have one too,' Joe said as the waiter put down our cups, eyeballing the awkward situation he'd walked in on.

‘No problem, you can have both of ours.' Mal rose to his feet, pulled out his wallet and pressed his credit card into the waiter's empty hands. ‘I've got to be getting back to the office, busy afternoon.'

‘Except the department heads meeting is cancelled,' Joe said.

‘I've got a call scheduled with an author.'

‘Your assistant said your diary was empty.'

‘Pamela is a PA, not a mind reader.'

I watched the action volley back and forth between them as though I was watching a particularly heated game of tennis and not two grown men bickering until the waiter returned holding a card machine, waiting for a break in the posturing to present it to Mal.

‘If I could get your PIN, sir.'

There had never been a more apologetic man than that waiter.

‘So, Sophie Taylor.' Joe said my name slowly, trying it on for size to see if it fit. ‘You're Malcolm's goddaughter, are you?'

‘That's right,' I replied, sucking in my cheeks and tamping down the desire to kick him in the shins.

‘And this is a nice, friendly catch-up lunch?'

Tightening my jaw, I did my very best not even to glance at my book as he dropped it heavily onto the table.

‘What else would it be?'

‘Can't imagine,' he answered with mock confusion. ‘Just seems a bit odd that Malcolm would be paying for lunch with his goddaughter with his company credit card, that's all.'

Me, Mal and the waiter froze as the little white receipt reeled silently out of the card machine.

‘This really is delicious,' Joe said as he dipped back into the kulfi. ‘What is it, pistachio?'

The waiter nodded.

‘Yes, sir. We make it ourselves, my grandmother's recipe.'

‘Incredible. Malcolm, you really should try it before you rush off to your busy afternoon.'

‘Thanks but I'll pass,' Mal replied, shoving his credit card and the receipt back in his wallet with no small degree of irritation. ‘Sophie, shall I call you a car to the station?'

I waved off his kind offer as I stood and slung my tote bag over my shoulder, shooting daggers at his co-worker. ‘Don't worry about it. My train isn't until six, I've got ages.'

‘Plenty of time to sit down and eat dessert with me then,' Joe piped up.

There are roughly one million things a person can do in London on an average Thursday afternoon. Even when I factored in my little wheelie suitcase, heavy tote bag and the sultry late August heat there were still endless ways for me to entertain myself until it was time to catch the train. Museums, cinemas, art galleries, an infinite number of coffee shops where I could hole up with my latest draft and try to work out what was missing from my book. I could go to the zoo. I could take an open-top bus ride around the city. London was mine for the taking.

But when Joe Walsh stood up, pulled out my chair and patted the seat, something inside me clicked. Not in a good way, like a puzzle piece slotting into place. More like someone taking the safety catch off a gun.

‘You know how the trains are,' Mal said, speaking far more loudly than necessary. ‘Maybe you ought to get to St Pancras nice and early.'

‘St Pancras?' Joe echoed. ‘I live right by there. Don't worry yourself, I'll make sure she gets to the station in plenty of time.'

‘I'm a big girl, no one needs to get me to the station,' I said when Mal opened his mouth to argue. ‘Thank you for lunch, Malcolm. I'm going to stay and finish my tea.'

It was very obvious he wasn't happy but he could read my expression just as well as I could read his. I wasn't going anywhere. As far as I was concerned, the only thing more irritating than the kind of man who went out of his way to get a rise out of you, was letting said man know he'd got under your skin. Joe Walsh clearly thought he was the cleverest person at the table.

Joe Walsh was about to find out otherwise.

Mal fought his way into his suit jacket, aggressively tightening his tie as Joe hopped back into his empty seat. ‘Text me when you get home,' he instructed gruffly. ‘And don't forget what we agreed about the other thing.'

‘Other thing?' Joe leaned forward with his chin in his hands. ‘That sounds interesting.'

‘It is,' I replied, meeting his intrigue with steely resolve. ‘But it's also nothing to do with you so maybe you should mind your own business.'

‘Oh, Christ.' Mal sighed, shaking his head as he gave my shoulder a warning squeeze. ‘I'll see you at the weekend. Behave yourself.'

‘I always do?!' I replied, genuinely offended by the implication.

‘Bye, Malcolm! See you Monday!' Joe called cheerily as Mal stalked off towards the door, still chuntering under his breath.

When the door was closed and we'd both watched Mal storm away down the street, Joe looked at me and smiled. In no rush at all, I reached for my cup of still-steaming tea and stirred, searching for the chink in his arsehole armour.

‘Why Monday?' I asked as he claimed Mal's tea as his own. ‘Don't you work on Fridays?'

‘Most Fridays I do,' he answered. ‘I'm off tomorrow.'

‘Doing anything fun?'

‘Could be.' He picked up his cup and blew. ‘But it's nothing to do with you so maybe you should mind your own business.'

So it was going to be like that, was it? Let the games begin.

‘Mal says you're the creative director,' I replied politely. With a man like Joe, you couldn't play your cards too early otherwise they flounced off in a huff and where was the fun in that? ‘That sounds so interesting. What does it entail exactly?'

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed his tea before responding. ‘Anything and everything. I don't edit but I'm involved in every other aspect of a book's publishing journey. This one, for example.' He picked up the copy of Butterflies again, the book practically purring when he brushed the pad of his thumb against every single soft page. ‘Malcolm brought it in, Sera on his team did the edit, but after that, it's all me.'

I nodded slowly with a thoughtful expression, taking my time as I considered his statement.

‘So you're a cover designer with a fancy title?'

Joe flinched. My first blow had clocked him right in the ego.

‘There's a lot more to it than that,' he replied, his tone pricklier than before. ‘It's the cover, the typeface, the paper stock, special finishes, the marketing, the social media – anything and everything that has to do with the brand comes through me. I am the person who communicates the book's message.'

‘Funny,' I said. ‘I'd have thought the author communicated the book's message.'

‘Funny,' he replied. ‘I'd have thought you would know the author doesn't want anything to do with the publishing process. What with you being such a big fan.'

One point to Walsh.

‘The author writes the book,' Joe said while I focused every atom of my being on not giving the game away by blushing. I would not give him the satisfaction. ‘But a hundred thousand words floating around the world on their own aren't going to get read. You need the right cover, the right marketing, the right brand strategy. That's where I come in. My job is to explain what the book is about, who it's for and why they should buy it.'

‘When you put it like that, it's almost as though you don't need the words at all,' I replied, snatching my book from his hand, automatically scanning the back cover copy even though I must have read it at least a thousand times before.

Jenna Johnson has only one goal for the summer; to get as far away from London and her ex as possible. A trip to Texas with her best friend sounds like just what she needs, a whole month of fun, sun and American accents, but when her friend drops out at the last minute, Jenna finds herself all alone in Austin … until she meets stoic cowboy, Eric Hall, another lonely heart looking for distraction. Irresistibly drawn to each other, the two make a pact – spend the month together without falling in love, something Jenna's ex claims she's incapable of. When their powerful physical connection unexpectedly turns into something more, Jenna begins to wonder – was her ex right about her icy heart or is she finally feeling butterflies?

‘The words might make it harder to sell something like that,' Joe said with a chuckle. ‘As I said, wish fulfilment for sexually frustrated women. It's like shooting fish in a barrel.'

‘If that's true, there must be an awful lot of sexually frustrated women out there,' I replied, my fingers curling protectively around the spine as he held up his hands in mock surrender.

‘Don't blame me. I can't be everywhere at once, I am only one man.'

‘And very possibly the actual worst one,' I retorted. He was enjoying this far too much. ‘So what if that's part of it? How come when a woman writes about sexual frustration she's the butt of a joke, but when a man writes about his sexual frustration, he gets an Oscar?'

‘Look, I didn't like The Joker either,' he replied, unexpectedly defensive. ‘All I'm saying is, this kind of book, as popular as it may be, it's not that complex, is it? Not exactly Dickens. More like dick-ins, if you know what I mean.'

‘Oh, I think I do.' I stood so abruptly my chair toppled to the floor behind me. Enough was enough. ‘Now I think about it, St Pancras is pretty far from Brick Lane,' I said. ‘I'd hate to miss my train.'

‘The one that leaves in four hours?'

‘That's the one,' I confirmed. ‘I'd love to say it's been a pleasure but it really hasn't.'

‘OK, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' Joe spoke quickly but got to his feet slowly, confidently, like he knew I would wait. He wasn't about to be rushed, not even in his apology. ‘I went too far. I didn't mean to offend you, it was a joke, I was teasing. There's nothing wrong with a book about a woman who needs a shag.'

‘Could you have tried any harder to miss the point?' I asked, so frustrated. ‘That's not what the book is about at all.'

‘That's what chapter five is about,' he replied. ‘And chapter eight and chapter ten and chapter thirteen and—'

‘It's fine, clearly you don't understand it,' I told him before he could list every sex scene in my book. ‘Not that I'm surprised, it wasn't written for you. The sex is what happens in the book, not what it's about.'

‘You really are a passionate fan,' he said, refocusing on me. ‘Remind me, what is it that you do?'

‘I'm a teacher,' I mumbled. ‘I read a lot.'

‘English teacher?'

‘Primary school.'

‘Really?' He looked surprised, responding with one raised eyebrow. ‘Single?'

My spine stiffened. ‘What does that have to do with anything?'

Joe Walsh brushed one hand through his hair, dipped his chin and trained his ocean blue eyes on mine.

‘Everything.'

There was no doubt in my mind that move would work on ninety-nine out of one hundred women but it wasn't going to work on me. All he was doing was proving my point.

‘What I'm trying to say is, you don't understand the message of the book,' I shot back. ‘It's not about a woman who just needs a good seeing-to. It's about all the frustrations women have to put up with every day, all the things we're expected to get on and do without complaint to make everyone else's lives easier, all while our needs go unfulfilled which, yes, very often includes our sexual needs. We've been trained to be grateful for what we're given rather than ask for what we want, not only in bed – but maybe you're right. If there were a few more men who tried a bit harder, perhaps there would be a few less books like this.'

When I slapped my hand on the table to punctuate my sentence, I was out of breath, my chest heaving, and two red spots had appeared in Joe's cheeks. We both stared at the powder-puff pink book in the middle of the table, the recessed lights in the restaurant ceiling making the silver foil title shimmer.

Butterflies.

‘Excuse me.'

A panic-stricken waiter stood before us, two full-to-the-brim liqueur glasses in his hands.

‘These are from the manager,' he said as he placed one in front of me and one in front of Joe, never spilling a drop. ‘It's an Irish cream liqueur.'

‘Thanks,' Joe replied with a flash of his winning smile. ‘You can give me both, she doesn't drink in the day.'

Without a word, I swiped both glasses, downing one and then the other.

‘I'll have another,' I said, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth as Joe watched on in silent shock. ‘And so will he.'