Chapter Twenty-One

‘And how was it?' Sarah asked, eyes wild with vicarious excitement. ‘The actual kiss?'

I glanced across the party to where Joe was standing in front of the big top-styled marquee that had gone up while Joe and I were at the fete. He was chatting with my mum and a couple I didn't recognise, smiling, nodding, occasionally throwing in a casual laugh. His hair was as carelessly perfect as ever, sleeves pushed up and his trademark white shirt tucked into a pair of soft grey trousers. All his clothes looked like they had been made just for him, tailored to show off his assets, another set of unnecessary weapons in his arsenal, as if the raw materials weren't dangerous enough.

‘Oh, you know,' I said. ‘Fine.'

But the punch she landed on my upper arm confirmed she knew me better than that.

‘That's a lie. You're lying. I want a millisecond-by-millisecond rundown. Where were his hands, where were your hands? Were there tongues, eyes open or closed, did he or did he not get a hard on during? Fine won't do, Taylor, I demand the same level of detail you would've given me when we were fifteen.'

‘Firstly, ow.' I rubbed my arm, she was stronger than she knew. ‘When we were fifteen, there were no details to share, only me in my room writing Vampire Diaries fanfic. I think you're mixing the two of us up.'

‘Then pretend you're me at fifteen.' She took a deep drink of the organic prosecco Mum swore they always drank in Umbria, even though she bought it in bulk from Aldi, draining half the glass in one gulp, then set her shoulders, readying herself for battle. ‘Hit me with the specifics, I'm ready.'

I hitched up a strap of my dress, fighting off a hot flush when Joe's gaze crossed mine and that crooked smile appeared on his face. The evening was so humid, I could taste the air, but nothing made me sweat like the thought of his lips on mine. ‘We were outside, in public, in the middle of the day. How salacious do you think it could be?'

‘I don't know but your skin is glowing, your eyes are sparkling and he hasn't taken his eyes off you since I got here, so either you sneaked in a full spa treatment since I saw you this morning or that kiss was more than "fine". You're the romance writer, use your words.'

The only problem was, the words didn't exist. Joe and I had shared the single greatest kiss ever experienced, the kind of kiss that put all others to shame. His hands were in my hair, cradling my face, anchoring us together when the storm rushed in. I fell apart on contact, his mouth, soft and warm and yielding until everything intensified beyond my control and I came apart. The pressure built until a gasp escaped my lips, mine or his, I wasn't sure. It didn't matter. Pinned between the hot hard car and Joe's solid body, I had all but melted away, surrendering everything to the kiss. Who needed to stand? Who needed to breathe? All I could do was loop my arms around his neck and cling on for dear life as his tongue grazed mine for the first time. He tasted of freshly picked strawberries and damson jam …

‘It was just a kiss,' I said, dabbing at my suddenly damp forehead and exorcising the memory from my mind. ‘No big deal.'

‘You're still lying but what happened after?'

I sipped my drink and flipped my freshly washed hair over my shoulder.

‘We came home, Joe helped my dad with setting up the party and I … worked.'

It was more or less the truth. When we finally broke apart, both of us shaking and panting, Joe pulled away without a word, walked around the car and got inside, until I found the strength to open the passenger side door. It took a minute. Neither of us said a word on the drive home and I couldn't remember what was playing on the stereo, a nineties station maybe? I could barely remember my own name. The Range Rover screeched into my parents' driveway, kicking gravel up the side of the garage, and before we'd even come to a complete stop, I let myself out and sprinted to the cottage, locked myself in the bathroom and spent the best part of an hour getting to know the new showerhead intimately. Which was sort of work, and I was certainly exhausted by the end of it.

‘And that's that,' Sarah said, openly staring at Joe. ‘You snogged once and now you're done.'

‘Precisely,' I agreed. ‘Scientific experiment complete. He is completely out of my system.'

It was such a useless lie. Before the kiss, Joe was under my skin, now he was in my bones. He ran through my veins, sweet and sharp at the same time, the kind of desire I'd only ever written about and never experienced myself. A dangerous downhill slide there was no coming back from. Joe didn't do relationships and I didn't do one night stands, so where did that leave me? Aside from locked in the bathroom for an hour with the showerhead, I wasn't sure.

‘Is it weird that I couldn't find much about him online?' Sarah asked. ‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?'

‘Why were you looking for him online?' I replied.

‘I wanted to check out the thighs so I wouldn't be overcome with lust when I saw them in real life,' she quipped. ‘I'm serious, there's barely any personal information out there otherwise I'd have come armed with a full report.'

She was, as ever, a very good friend.

‘Look, I know how much you love living in denial so I won't push,' she offered graciously. ‘Happy to pretend nothing is going on until it all explodes in your face the way these things always do. Fun party, eh?'

‘Nothing is going to explode in anyone's face,' I said, the fleeting memory passing through my mind of something pressed against my hip that definitely felt as though it was about to explode. ‘And yes, it's a lovely party. Against all the odds. Can't believe no one's had a go on the bouncy castle yet though.'

She turned to look at the giant red inflatable pushed up against the hedge and raised her glass. ‘The night is still young and I am still sober. Give me time.'

Along with the bouncy castle, Dad had hired a big-top-esque striped marquee, supposedly in case of rain that wasn't forecast but seemed to threaten in the dense, close heat. He'd also added some other circus-style flourishes to the back garden just to get the theme across. A giant stuffed lion that sat in an even bigger cage, a flying trapeze-style swing hanging from the oak tree in the middle of the garden and, to round things off, he'd rented an old fashioned test of strength, complete with wooden mallet and a bell that was yet to be rung. A few of his circuit-training friends tried it when they came in but almost all the men were steering clear. A quarter of the way into the twenty-first century and they were still too scared to have a go at a carnival game in case it made them look like a wuss.

The belle of the birthday ball was having the time of his life. After Mum had vetoed his clown outfit, Dad was now cruising around the party in a hastily put together ringmaster ensemble made up of black trousers, a white shirt, Mum's pink linen blazer speedily dyed cherry red, and a top hat William had hanging around the house for reasons best known to himself and his consenting husband.

‘I'll say one thing about your dad,' Sarah said as he cracked a length of rope wrapped in black electrical tape masquerading as a whip at the head of international sales. ‘He certainly commits to a theme.'

‘Never knowingly failed to take things too far,' I replied, feeling oddly proud. ‘I do wonder how he'll cope if he ever retires. He's never been very good at sitting still.'

‘The bouncy castle kind of gives that away. Are you hungry?' She licked her lips as the scent of food floated across the lawn. The catering was the only thing that wasn't on theme, instead we had all Dad's favourite things, mini fish and chips and tiny toad in the hole from the local pub, prawn toasts and spare ribs by the Chinese takeaway down the street and enough sweets to give you diabetes just by looking at them. I shook my head, too on edge to think about eating. Things really were bad if I was off my food.

‘I'm all right for now but please go and get something,' I told her. ‘I'd rather not end the night holding your hair back over the toilet if it's all the same.'

‘That's why I braided it,' she replied as she trotted off towards the big top. ‘Meet you by the bouncy castle in ten!'

The warm afternoon had turned into a sweltering evening, the kind of English summer night when the air was so heavy you could feel it pressing down on you. A bead of sweat rolled down my spine underneath my beautiful black dress, finally making its debut. It had taken me a good half an hour to convince myself to wear it, trying the thing on and taking it off again three different times, getting as far as the front door in jeans and a T-shirt before finally forcing myself to put it back on, fasten the zip and walk out the cottage with my head held, well, not exactly high but I was doing OK.

‘There she is, just the bestselling author we were looking for.'

At least until I turned to see my agent and my godfather-turned-publisher stalking towards me.

‘William,' I said, offering my cheek to my brother and then my godfather. ‘Mal, you look very dapper.'

He removed his bowler hat and attempted to fan himself but it was no use, there was no air to move. ‘I'm sweating my tits off. If only I could go back in time and kill the bastard who decided men should wear suits, I'd be a much happier man.'

‘Yes, that's definitely the first person we should take out when we come across that kind of technology,' I agreed. ‘A nineteenth-century tailor.'

Neither of them so much as cracked a smile.

‘Going to go out on a limb and say you didn't pop over for a lovely chat,' I guessed before tipping my champagne flute to my lips.

‘Do you want to explain why Gregory Brent is telling everyone who will listen that his son is Este Cox?' Mal asked, straining to keep his voice quiet. Quiet was not his natural state.

‘Not really,' I replied, looking past him. ‘Where are your very patient wife and demonically possessed son?'

‘Xavier is pitching a fit in the car because your little sister won't let him bring his iPad in with him, Rosa is trying to talk him down, and don't change the subject and I'd like an answer.'

Across the garden, Gregory was merrily holding court in another unmistakably ringmaster-inspired outfit. Not nearly as charming as my dad's but also not bleeding red dye onto the back of his neck.

‘He shouldn't be saying anything to anyone,' I said, my mouth twisting into a frown. ‘Charlotte will absolutely end him if she hears about this.'

‘Silver linings,' William said brightly. ‘It's not only Xavier who's off screentime, she took all our phones, put them in little sandwich bags and hid them somewhere. That girl isn't taking any chances.'

‘Then that makes one bright spark out of the three of you,' Mal said as I searched the crowd for our baby sister. I'd seen her earlier, flitting around in a gauzy transparent maxi dress with a silver bikini underneath, my Chanel bag slung across her body. Her hair was a dreamy lavender colour and full of glitter that trailed behind her like fairy dust. If only she wasn't going around the party demanding the guests turn out their pockets to make sure they hadn't snuck in any recording devices. Zadie Smith hadn't looked amused in the slightest and Kate Atkinson almost chopped her hands off. ‘What were the two of you thinking mixing Joe Walsh up in all this?'

‘It's not as though we planned it,' I replied, William shifting his weight and allegiance towards me when he realised he was also on the receiving end of this bollocking. ‘Charlotte found the manuscript—'

‘Which you should've given to me on Thursday.'

‘And I didn't know what to do—'

‘Besides tell the truth.'

‘And Joe jumped in before I could say anything.'

‘And I wasn't there,' William added quickly. ‘I was having a slash, missed the whole thing, not responsible.'

‘You're responsible for letting her go on with this pretence as long as she has.' Mal nabbed my drink from my hand and took a chug. ‘Enough's enough. It's time to come forward, Soph.'

Charlotte came into view again, standing beside our mother and lecturing the crowd of assembled authors on some topic or another. The whole group looked impressed but no one more so than our mother.

‘Not yet,' I said. ‘There's no need to panic, Joe isn't going to tell anyone.'

‘But Charlotte is,' William pointed out, getting a sharp elbow in the ribs for his trouble as Mal finished off my drink.

‘That's right, your brother tells me the young entrepreneur of the year is planning a TikTok reveal for us?' He glowered at me as though he hadn't thought things could get worse. ‘Very thoughtful of her. The marketing team usually spends a fortune getting these things done.'

William reached into his pocket for his phone before remembering he had already been relieved of it, his hand coming up empty. ‘True enough, she's got great numbers. It doesn't really matter where we announce, it's going to get picked up everywhere. Might be nice to keep it in the family.'

‘I don't care if we do the reveal on social media or she goes door-to-bloody-door up and down the country, I want it done and I want us looped in so we don't look like idiots who aren't in control of our PR, and I want Joe Walsh out of the equation asap,' Mal barked. ‘I don't like him anywhere near this. I knew I should've made you leave that bloody curry house.'

‘Make me leave?' I choked out a gasp. ‘I'm not a child, Mal, and seriously, what is your problem with Joe?'

He wound his neck in, leaving him with a not particularly flattering double chin. ‘Aside from his father?'

‘Aside from his father,' I confirmed.

‘Well …' He waved a hand around as though he might pluck a better reason out of thin air. ‘All right, it's mostly Gregory.'

‘I've heard he's a bit of a slag if that helps?' William offered.

‘Not really.' I gave Aunt Carole my best impression of a smile as she walked by dressed as an old fashioned fortune teller – or herself, I couldn't be sure. ‘Do either of you know for certain that he's done anything unfair to anyone, I'm talking names, numbers, dates? Or is this standard office gossip?'

The pair of them pouted like toddlers caught with their hands in the biscuit tin. Whoever pushed the lie that women were the worst gossips had clearly never worked in the publishing industry. Or any other office. Or actually met a man.

‘I know he went out for a drink with Zara from production and she texted him when she got home and he replied with a thumbs up,' Mal said. ‘Then she suggested they go and see a film they'd talked about and he said no.'

‘That's it?' I replied gobsmacked. ‘That's all you've got?'

‘Most of the stories I've heard were about New York,' William admitted, scratching his ear as he spoke. ‘But my friend Saul is friends with an editor at MullinsParker in London and he knows Joe's deputy creative director and he says he's very cagey about his personal life.'

‘Wouldn't you keep your personal life to yourself if your dad was Gregory Brent and five minutes after you moved to a new city, everyone you worked with had written you off as a wanker?' I asked, appalled with the pair of them. ‘You're worse than kids. You don't know any more about him than I do so will you please both trust me to sort this out myself?'

‘I'll trust you when I've got the sequel in my hands and a photo of your face on the dust jacket,' Mal said, the look on his face mirroring the storm clouds amassing above. ‘Sort it out tonight.'

‘Or?' I challenged.

‘Or I'll sort it out for you tomorrow,' he said. ‘Now pretend we were talking about something else because that imbecile Anthony Khan is on his way over and he might be the only person in this entire industry I like less than Gregory Brent.'

‘I'll remind you that imbecile Anthony Khan is my co-worker, thank you very much,' William said through gritted teeth. ‘And since he represents some very big authors I'd appreciate it if you could pretend to be nice to him the same way the rest of us have to.'

‘This fucking business,' Mal grunted into his empty glass. ‘I need another drink.'

‘William, there you are, I've been looking for you all night,' Anthony cried, hurling himself, chest first, at my brother as Mal slipped away. ‘Hi, great to meet you, Anthony Khan. And you are?'

‘Leaving,' I replied, moaning with exasperation when William caught my elbow in his hand. ‘I mean, nice to meet you. I'm Sophie, William's sister.'

‘Ahh, the lesser spotted Taylor sibling.' He spoke in a grating transatlantic accent that made me want to plug up my ears with a pair of the cocktail sausages that were piled up in one of Mum's giant John Lewis dishes. ‘Great to finally meet you. I've heard all about you from William and CJ.'

‘You're friends with CJ.' I wrinkled my nose and nodded. ‘That makes sense.'

‘Anthony was in the New York office for a few months,' William said while his fellow agent openly ogled my chest. ‘Actually, didn't you pal around with Joe Walsh while you were over there?'

‘Joseph? I certainly did,' he replied through a yawn he didn't bother to cover. Maybe the dress wasn't as revealing as I'd thought. ‘We ran with the same ex-pat publishing crew. OK guy. Although I was relieved when he left for London, gave the rest of us a chance to have a go at the top tier totty. Haven't seen him in a while, is the old pussyhound here?'

Well, that wasn't a very endearing nickname.

‘Nice to meet you, Anthony' I said with the fakest fake smile I had ever faked. ‘William. You'll have to excuse me.'

Before I could go anywhere, I felt a hand on the back of my waist, and my shoulders snapped back straight as our group was joined by the old pussyhound himself.

‘Anthony,' Joe said, an equally broad and equally fake smile spoiling his handsome face. ‘How are you? I heard you'd moved back.'

‘Good, busy, you know me, always making moves.' He gave a humiliating shimmy that I think we all regretted. ‘I'm doing my civic duty by warning this young lady about you.'

‘Yes,' I replied pleasantly. ‘Anthony was just telling me how you're a total pussyhound who hogged all the top tier totty in New York.'

The four of us stood in an uncomfortable square, no one sure what to say next.

‘I know!'

Anthony broke the impasse with a look of delight on his face. ‘What happened to that editor girl you were so pally with over at Knoll? I haven't seen her in a dog's age. Was she American? Australian, maybe.'

‘Canadian. She's fine.'

I'd only known Joe for a little more than forty-eight hours but I knew when someone was looking shifty. Perhaps I shouldn't have been quite so quick to leap to his defence with Mal and William.

‘Heard all sorts about that one,' Anthony said, making a show of speaking out the corner of his mouth even though we could all hear him far too clearly. ‘You did the right thing cutting your losses.'

‘Anyway, what about those spare ribs?' William, always able to read a room, clapped his hands then rubbed his stomach. ‘I'm ravenous, who wants to hit the buffet?'

‘Bloody talented though,' Anthony went on, either ignoring or simply not caring about mine or Joe's discomfort. ‘And I know you can't say it these days but, fit as.'

‘But here you are, saying it anyway.' Joe turned his attention to me, lips pursed, jaw rigid. ‘Sophie, do you have a minute?'

‘Watch out, Willy,' Anthony gasped. ‘He's cracking on to your sister, right in front of you. Before I even had a chance as well.'

‘For fuck's sake, Anthony, give it a break,' William snapped. ‘We both know you've only ever slept with one woman.'

‘I told you that in confidence!' I heard him yell as Joe pulled me away, dodging one of Mum's newspaper colleagues dressed as the bearded lady.

‘Khan is the worst,' Joe fumed as he strode away. ‘No talent, no creativity, no business skills, the only reason he has a job is because his dad owns the agency.'

‘Publishing nepo babies strike again.' I looked around at Dad's guests noting more than a few multi-generational groups. ‘We're the worst.'

‘We're nothing like him,' Joe countered.

‘I know I'm not,' I replied. ‘For starters no one has ever accused me of being a pussyhound.'

‘You should try it some time, you might like it,' he tried to laugh but the joke fell flat and instead he rubbed the back of his ear with an anxious finger.

‘Didn't you want something?' I asked, searching the crowd for a glimpse of Sarah. How long could it take to house a cone of mini fish and chips?

Digging one hand deep into the pocket of his charcoal grey trousers, Joe poked the toe of his shoe into the grass. ‘Soph, I'm not going to pretend I haven't done my fair share of dating. More than my fair share probably, but I don't see why I should have to justify what happened in my past.'

‘You shouldn't,' I agreed. ‘You don't do relationships, you've been very clear about it. No one is judging you.'

‘Are you sure about that?'

‘I couldn't care less.' The words definitely came out more loudly than I would've liked. ‘You can do whatever or whoever you want to. It's got nothing to do with me.'

Even though it was very difficult to turn on your heel and flounce away in a pair of slides, I did my best. The party was in full swing, dozens of guests were packed in the huge garden, laughing and talking under the string lights, Pimm's and champagne flowing freely. Mum was surrounded by a group of young writers as always, all of them trying to locate her good side and get on it, Dad was bouncing through the crowd, coiled whip on his hip, seamlessly introducing his pub friends to his publishing pals, William was still trapped in conversation with Anthony Khan, and Charlotte was still frisking latecomers like a very angry airport worker. Everyone, except for William, seemed to be having the time of their lives.

I took off down the garden and leaned against the back of the oak tree to watch the sun start its descent over the fields. The sky was beyond beautiful, shafts of light slicing through the gathering clouds, so clearly defined I felt I could almost reach out and touch them. The wheatfield that stretched out past the back of the cottage and out into the distance was brilliant in the fading sun, glowing and gold, uncut sheaths shimmering. Once, before Charlotte was born, while we were visiting, my grandfather took me and William out to pick the wheat and when I closed my eyes I could feel their feathery leaves and spiky heads against my palm, soft and sharp at the same time. When we got home, he showed us how to grind the seeds between two stones to make flour.

It was miraculous, the fact you could take one thing and turn it into something else entirely. It was the same with words. It never ceased to amaze me how many different books could be written by so many different people, all using the same words. And those words were available to anyone, everyone, all the time. One minute you could be writing an email or a text and the next, you're banging out a novel. Not to say writing a novel was easy but it was possible, there was nothing stopping anyone from giving it a shot as long as they had something to write on, an imagination and the time to do it. And from what I heard, time was usually the trickiest part. I was lucky, it was a gift CJ didn't even know he'd given me, unlike the edible underwear he left on my pillow on our last Valentine's Day together that went straight in the bin.

I felt something on my shoulder and saw a ladybird alighted there, settling for a moment before I lightly blew her on her way and she flew off towards the rosebushes. Joe was wrong. I wasn't judging him. I didn't care about his past, not really. What I cared about was his future. I wanted him so badly, my body ached with it. I pressed my bare shoulders against the rough bark of the tree and told myself it was his hands. I let my own fingertips drift across my collarbone, wishing he was there in front of me, and tipped my head back for a kiss that wasn't coming. If this was my book, Eric would've appeared before a despondent Jenna, scooped her up off the ground and carried her away to relieve her frustration and smother her doubts with the undeniable force of his love. But it wasn't my book, it was my life. And like he'd already told me, Joe was not Eric.

And I couldn't write his story for him.