Chapter Four

The train from London to Chesterfield was not good. Not that there were any good train journeys any more, only OK ones and godawful ones, but this had to be one of the worst.

Every carriage was packed with human soup since the two trains scheduled before mine had been cancelled and I made it through the turnstiles with one minute to spare. As we pulled out of St Pancras, I shuffled down the overcrowded carriage, banging my shins on stuck-out suitcases, only to find three different people fighting over my seat and one already sitting in it since the conductor thought it would be fun to void all reservations. Too exhausted to join the fray, I carried on to the end of the carriage and crammed myself in with two muddy mountain bikes and a towering stack of overflow luggage.

The train was hot, the train was slow, I was fighting a fast-moving hangover, my phone battery was at twelve percent. I didn't have any snacks, let alone an MS cocktail in a can, and to top it all off, the toilets weren't working. It was the worst train journey anyone had ever endured but there was something that bothered me even more than the horribly embarrassed man in a very nice suit who kept apologising as he peed into an empty Lucozade bottle three feet away from me.

I couldn't stop thinking about Joe Walsh.

The scent of his spicy aftershave still lingered on my dress from where he'd hoisted me into the air during our Dirty Dancing duet and I could still feel the firm grip of his hands around my waist, hear the raspy laugh that accompanied his singing. It was a long time since I'd spent that much intimate time with a good-looking man in a sweaty darkened room. A man who looked like he could crush walnuts with his thighs and tear phone books in two with his bare hands. Did they still make phone books? The one that lived on the little table in my parents' hallway could well be an antique. Maybe he could have a go on the ten-thousand-word instruction manual that came with my air fryer instead.

Not that it was my fault, this was his plan all along. I considered myself a fairly intelligent, reasonably savvy woman and I'd still been easy prey. If I had to choose who would win a fight between Joe Walsh and a bear, I would back Joe Walsh. Not because he could reasonably defeat a bear in a show of strength but because he'd find a way to flatter it into submission then deliver a knockout blow when it wasn't paying attention. The thought of him and his smug face working anywhere near my books made me so angry, I almost wanted to ask the man in the suit if I could keep the Lucozade bottle and courier it to Joe as a lovely way to start his weekend. Thankfully, as long as Este Cox stayed anonymous, I would never have to go into the MullinsParker office which meant, thankfully, I would never have to see him again.

But that didn't change the fact that every single time I closed my eyes, I heard him say my name and saw his mouth inching closer to mine. And every single time, my whole body burned.

When we finally rolled into Chesterfield station, I stumbled off the train, gasping for air like I'd escaped Shawshank prison.

‘No offence, Soph, but you look like warmed-up dogshit.'

Blinking into the low evening sun, I looked around to see who had so damningly and accurately described me.

‘And she's lost the power of speech. That should make the drive easier.'

‘William!'

Never in my life had I been so happy to take my brother's abuse. I flung myself at him, suitcase slow-motion toppling off the pavement and into the road, earning us both a disgruntled honk from a man in a Mazda.

‘Wanker,' William said with a smile, shaking his hand in the matching gesture once the car was safely down the road. He stooped to retrieve my fallen suitcase with me still clinging to his lanky frame like a baby koala.

‘How did you know I was here?' I asked, giving him the biggest, strongest hug I could given the fact my arms were about as strong as used toilet paper.

‘I'm psychic?' He patted me on the back to signal the acceptable amount of sibling PDA time had passed. ‘Also your arrival time, along with your departure time, arrival station, departure station, phone number, email, Instagram, Facebook and TikTok handles were all on the official Hugh Taylor Big Birthday Weekend Bash shared spreadsheet.'

‘Dad's on TikTok?' I said with a shudder. It was a terrifying thought.

‘Dad's big on TikTok,' he said with a grim nod. ‘He mostly sticks to CleaningTok but he's sent me more than one Catluminati video. He stays away from BookTok, obviously. Right now he's mostly into capybaras.'

‘Who isn't?' I replied. ‘Makes sense that he steers clear of BookTok …'

‘Imagine what would happen if someone said a word against Faulkner,' William chuckled. ‘He'd hunt them down and beat them to death with his first edition of The Sound and the Fury.'

‘Wait a minute, what spreadsheet?' I said, rewinding his sentence.

‘The spreadsheet detailing every second of every minute of every hour from the day the party was announced until the final second when the last guest fucks off back home. You didn't get it?'

‘I did not get it,' I confirmed, what little air left in my lungs seeping out until I was fully deflated. ‘Dad didn't include me on the party spreadsheet.'

‘So weird,' he said, scratching his beardy chin. ‘I assumed you were ignoring it because—'

He stopped himself altogether too suddenly but I caught the shifty look on his face before he could wipe it clean.

‘Because what?'

‘Doesn't matter, don't worry about it, let's get in the car.'

‘William.'

My voice carried the unmistakable threat of getting kicked in the balls by your little sister in a town centre car park. It wasn't an empty threat either, I'd done it before and I'd do it again.

‘OK, I'll tell you but don't shoot the messenger or knee him in the nut sack or whatever else you're thinking about,' he said, reading my mind. ‘The reason you're not on it is probably because CJ is.'

‘And why would my ex-boyfriend be on my dad's official Big Birthday Weekend Bash shared spreadsheet?' I enquired.

‘Would you like me to lie to you?'

‘Yes, please,' I replied, the last shot of Baileys bubbling in my stomach and threatening a dramatic comeback.

‘Because Dad definitely hasn't invited him and he definitely isn't coming.'

Perfect. This was just perfect. I'd spent the whole afternoon drinking with one publishing wanker I never wanted to see again and now I had to spend the entire weekend with another.

‘How mad would you be if I threw up right now?' I asked, rubbing my stomach unhelpfully.

William pointed at a black car in the corner. ‘Soph, it's after eight in Chessie train station. As long as you puke on that Tesla, it's fine by me. But,' he paused for added emphasis, ‘allow me to share a theory as to why you shouldn't be stressed about it in the least.'

‘Go on?'

My stomach gurgled and I took one side step towards the Tesla.

‘You broke up what, two years ago?'

‘Yes.'

‘And CJ is so insecure, he's still clinging to his ex-girlfriend's dad to protect him from the big bad publishing bullies? That's just sad.'

‘Say more things like that,' I suggested.

‘He's obviously still single.'

‘So am I.'

‘Yes but CJ is utterly insufferable and, yes, he might have written one poncey, literary flash-in-the-pan book but he definitely doesn't have the bestselling debut novel of the year that's already been sold in twenty-nine languages.'

‘Thirty-two,' I said quietly and he swiped a palm down his face.

‘Really? I should know that, shouldn't I?'

‘Might be helpful,' I agreed. ‘Since you're supposed to be my agent.'

William pressed the key fob in his hand, the taillights of his vintage BMW flashing obediently.

‘Este Cox's agent,' he corrected with a toss of his shiny chestnut hair, the exact same colour as mine. ‘If I'm correct in assuming you're still not ready to tell Mum and Dad.'

I shook my head as my stomach settled itself. ‘This is hardly the right weekend, is it?'

‘What are you saving it for? Christmas? Wedding anniversary? Deathbed confessional?'

‘Mine or theirs?' I said as he led me towards the car with one arm wrapped around my shoulders as though I were a frail old lady incapable of making it there herself. ‘I swear I'll tell them. Just not this weekend.'

There was a reason my big brother was the only person besides Mal I'd trusted with my secret and it wasn't only because he was one of the best literary agents in the business. William was honest, loyal and kind. He never sugar-coated anything and he had an uncanny knack of always putting everything into perspective. Also, I was the only one who knew it was him who'd got drunk and smashed the conservatory window by driving through it on a dirt bike when Mum and Dad were on holiday twenty years ago, and not Richard Filby from Year Thirteen who conveniently moved away right before they got back. Yes, two decades had passed. No, I was not about to give up that kind of leverage.

‘Seriously, Soph, are you ill? You do look awful.' He pulled his arm away and shoved me halfway across the car park. ‘You're not contagious, are you?'

‘No, you arse,' I replied, bouncing off the boot of a Fiat 500. ‘I'm fine. I had a couple of drinks at lunch, that's all.'

‘Of what, cyanide?'

‘If I had to choose between cyanide or CJ, I'm not entirely sure I know which one I'd go for,' I admitted. ‘Is it too late for me to go home?'

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘Get your shit together. This weekend is going to be a circus.'

He opened the back passenger side door to put my suitcase in the backseat of his precious car as I let myself into the passenger seat. Once upon a time it belonged to our dad and it still smelled like the school run and summer holiday drives to the seaside.

‘If I'm being completely honest, I have felt better,' I said as I closed my eyes and relaxed into the nostalgia. ‘So if you felt compelled to stop at the drive-through McDonald's, I wouldn't be mad about it.'

‘I've never knowingly turned down a Big Mac when someone else is buying.'

‘Did I say I was buying?'

He flashed me a vicious look as he closed the door on my suitcase.

‘Why, thank you, William, for getting off your arse and driving all the way to Chesterfield to pick me up even though you could've been doing literally anything else with your evening like sitting in front of the TV with your hands down your pants, watching twenty-year-old episodes of Frasier.'

‘You know, you aren't always the best advertisement for marriage,' I replied, earning myself another filthy look. ‘All right, I'm buying. But you're not having a milkshake.'

‘At this time of night?' He gasped as he dropped into the driver's seat. ‘That much sugar and dairy before bed is asking for trouble and yes, before you say it, I know, I've changed. So has my metabolism. It's called getting older.'

‘Didn't say a word.' Fastening my seatbelt with a decisive clunk-click, I sighed happily and visions of nuggies danced in my head. ‘No one would believe you're a day over forty.'

‘I'm thirty-eight, you cow.'

I bit my lip to hide my smile. There really was nothing like riling up your big brother to put a happy cap on a shitty day.

William looked over his shoulder into the backseat, my handbag nestled in my lap, my head resting against the seatbelt.

‘You're travelling light for a change,' he said, gently coaxing the car into life. ‘Only one suitcase? Must be a new record.'

And that was the exact moment when my heart stopped.

I twisted in my seat so quickly, every muscle in my body pulled in protest. There it was, my little wheelie suitcase, happily relaxing against the beige leather seats. My handbag was still in my lap and the footwell was completely clear of everything except for my feet.

My tote bag was nowhere to be seen.

The tote bag that contained the special edition copy of Butterflies, a printed-out copy of the unfinished sequel complete with scribbled edits all over it, my laptop, and just for good measure, a handful of post I'd picked up as I ran out that morning. Post with my real name and address all over it in big bold letters.

As William turned the vintage engine over, I watched the train I'd arrived on chug slowly out of the station, taking with it what felt like my last shred of composure, and, for want of any other kind of response, I burst into tears.