by Emma Jackson
‘No.’ He snorted. ‘Like…like the first time you tell someone you’re in love with them. Once you realise, you need to release it or you’re going to explode.’
‘I think I’d prefer the heart attack,’ I responded dryly. ‘Look, I’m honoured that you want my opinion on the ring, but we both know relationships aren’t my area of expertise, are they?’
‘They could be if you wanted them to be.’
If only it were that easy.
‘Matrimony isn’t for everyone,’ I said absently as I noticed a book on the opposite side of the table with an image of rolling hills and the author’s name picked out in bold font. As bold as the author herself: it was one of Noelle’s. I found my hand reaching for it, slowly, as though she might leap out from beneath the table and cry out ‘Gotcha’. When I had it firmly in my grasp, I tested the weight of it. How odd to hold a downloaded version of her crazy brain in the palm of my hand. I wondered if it ever occurred to the other people browsing in the shop that the author of this book was a royal pain in the arse.
‘If you say so,’ Nick said. ‘Look, call me when you find him.’
I blinked at the abrupt return to the previous topic of conversation. ‘Okay.’
‘No. I mean it, Stephen. I want to know how you are. It’s okay if it’s messing with your head. Let me be there for you, the way you would have been there for me after Mum, if I’d let you.’
I released a slow breath through my nose. I didn’t want to push him away when he was being so honest with me. I knew what it cost him to talk about that, so I nodded and said the only thing I could, which was the truth. ‘I just want it over with, Nick. I want to deal with it and put it behind me.’ Put my biological father behind me.
And then I could get back to my uncomplicated life.
‘And – just to make sure I’ve understood correctly—’ Kaylee said softly as she watched me slide the poster onto the Xerox machine at the public library, ‘this is all to help that cute British guy who you don’t like, and who doesn’t like you?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ I agreed. ‘But only because it’s going to help me too.’
My index finger danced over the numbers on the screen as I debated whether fifty or one hundred was the best number of copies to make. Little Italy wasn’t a big neighbourhood, but if we got a tip-off for another area, then a few extras would be useful. I compromised and decided on seventy-five, hitting ‘copy’.
Sun was streaming in the window behind Kaylee, lighting the edges of her black hair auburn, a halo of dust motes floating above her. Knowing she spent most mornings here doing the research for her historical novel, as soon as I’d finished perfecting the poster on my laptop using one of those clever ageing apps, I headed down here and surprised her with her favourite butterscotch Frappuccino as a thank you for the Friday-night bar-counselling session, while I got my copies done. Now she was playing with the paper straw in the top, ice rattling in the bottom, and looking at me with concern.
‘Are you sure? I know I said to give yourself some space to think but I didn’t really mean…’ she waved her hand in a circle towards the machine, which was whirring and spitting out warm A4 sheets of paper ‘…this.’
‘Trust me, Kay, this is going to work. I can feel it.’
‘Yes, but have you done any actual work?’
‘A bit,’ I hedged, thinking of the Post-it Notes on my wall – they totally counted. ‘And I’m going straight back home to get down to it after I’ve done this. I swear.’
‘You’re not going to stick these up around town?’
‘No. I have two delivery boys for that who’ll be turning up any minute now.’ I took the pile of paper off the tray and carried it over to the table where Kaylee was set up.
‘The twins?’ She smirked, dropping into her chair. I nodded, counting out a couple dozen for my bag, then splitting the stack and turning one pile sideways on top of the other, ready to pass to my brothers. ‘How d’you rope them into that? Are you paying them?’
‘Oh hell no. When we went out for tacos the other night, they had too many beers and spilled a lot of college stories they don’t want Mom and Dad to know about. Those boys will never learn that even though I’m smaller I have eight years more experience of holding my liquor.’
‘You’re such a mean big sister.’
‘Kaylee, if you had four brothers you would do wicked, wicked things to maintain your sanity and status within the pack too, I’m telling you.’
I left her in the library to research the intricacies of British politics for her historical novel and met my brothers outside. Despite the extortion, they were both in good moods, with college finals over and less than two weeks left before the summer break started at the end of June. I still warned them they better not dump the flyers and when they gave me their word they wouldn’t, I promised I’d keep their sordid secrets and bring my special white chocolate and honeycomb cookies when I saw them at Daisy’s softball jamboree at the weekend.
Then I went home, just like I’d told Kaylee I would, with every intention of getting down to some work on my novel.
I opened my front door and it was like wading through soup to get to my air-conditioning unit and try to get it working. I swore the make-up was melting off my face. By the time I’d given up and was pushing open my window instead, trying to get some of the stuffy air out, my cell phone rang.
‘Oh my God, Noelle, talk to me,’ my eldest sister Lucy said as soon as I answered. ‘About anything that isn’t babies or diapers or sleep deprivation.’
‘Lucy, are you okay?’ I waved to Mr Biggins and flicked my blind down. It really would have been nice to be able to keep it open and get some more air in the place, without having him there, watching.
‘Yeah. Brigid’s gone down for a nap and I have about forty-five minutes to be a person and not a mom.’
‘Moms are people.’
‘Worn-out people. And this is not what I asked you to do. Have you no mercy little sister?’
‘Okay, okay. What d’you want to talk about? What have you been watching on Netflix?’
‘You can do better than that, Noelle. Tell me, what’ve you being doing in your young, free and single life, on this glorious summer’s day?’
‘I’ve been to the library.’
‘Okay. Well. That’s pretty dull.’
‘You asked… At the weekend I began a mission to try and track down a long-lost family friend.’
‘Who? One of ours?’
I laughed at the thought we could ever lose a family friend. They were around at my mom and dad’s house every weekend and all the major birthdays and national holidays in between. I explained to her what had been happening.
‘I see. So, who exactly is this guy you’re helping out?’ Her voice turned sly.
‘I met him in the UK last Christmas. He’s Beth’s boyfriend’s brother.’
‘Oh right. Is he handsome?’
‘Without a doubt. Think Christian Grey but taller.’ Having so many siblings I’d always found the best way to deal with any of their attempts to tease me was to take away their ammunition. Emotionally, it was hard to always follow through with this tactic, and it was in those instances I resorted to blackmail and threats.
‘Is he also into kinky stuff?’
I went into my bedroom to grab my fan and set it up on my desk. ‘A) I would not know because I have not engaged in any sexual activity with him – nor am I going to – and B) you understand that looking like Christian Grey – a fictional character – does not mean that he is remotely like him personality wise?’
‘You’re such a spoilsport sometimes. If he’s so handsome and not a weirdo-stalker type, why aren’t you interested in doing the horizontal tango with him?’
‘I’m too busy – I’ve got my book to edit,’ I said, which was half the truth and half a lie. ‘And handsome men are completely overrated. They think the world owes them admiration and coddling or something. I’m tired of going
into things thinking I’m just going to have some fun, then they want more but don’t want to give me more. It’s so…it’s such a waste of energy.’ I jammed the plug from my fan into the socket in the wall and switched it on, but I was too overheated to feel anything from its meagre breeze.
‘It’s not always like that. Quinn’s not like that.’
‘No. You and Quinn fit. It’s getting a man who fits me that’s the issue. I’m beginning to think I am a square peg trying to squeeze into a round hole. Maybe I’ll be better off staying single.’ I said it lightly, like I was joking. Not like I was genuinely considering celibacy. There was nothing wrong with consciously choosing to stay single though. Think of the freedom. Think of the extra space in the bed.
‘We’ll see, but since you aren’t busy dating right now…I was wondering if you’d be able to babysit for us one evening soon? So we could get out. Not for long, neither of us can stay awake past ten anyway.’ She snorted.
I went over to my fridge and opened it to stare at the contents, letting the cool air wash over me.
‘I don’t know. My deadline is looming.’
‘Yet you have time for detective missions?’ Her tone grew sharp, but she took a breath like she knew she was being harsh. ‘Sorry. You could write while she sleeps?’ she added hopefully.
‘I can’t concentrate as well if I’m listening out the whole time. Look, I’m not saying no. Just not right now maybe. And don’t make me feel bad for helping Stephen; the guy lost his mother less than a year ago. He’s trying to fulfil the wishes in her will. That’s a worthy cause, wouldn’t you say?’
‘It is.’ She sighed again. ‘And I can ask Mom to babysit I suppose. I just feel bad. It’s like she’s only just got out of having a little one to look after – for the last twenty years. I can really appreciate why she’s so knackered.’
I could too, and just the thought that Lucy might turn to Mom instead had me feeling guilty. I didn’t think Lucy was being manipulative – it wasn’t really her way. She was just desperate. ‘Look. I’ll see what I can manage.’ I grabbed a cartoon of smoothie out the fridge. ‘I’m coming over the weekend after next for the barbecue. We can arrange it then, yeah?’
‘Thank you. I love you!’
‘Yeah, yeah. I love you too. You totally broke your own rule for this conversation by the way.’
‘I know. It’s pathetic – oh, and there’s the baby.’ There was a thin wail in the background. ‘Guess I won’t be getting forty-five minutes of adult time. I’ll see you at the barbecue okay?’
I said goodbye, then went to check out the Post-it wall of increasing anxiety while I chugged mango smoothie straight from the carton. I wouldn’t be able to do that if I was cohabiting either.
Seriously, how had I managed to let her cajole me into babysitting?
Partly because she was right. I was procrastinating with detective work. I could at least procrastinate in a way that helped her out I supposed. But if I did it once, and she thought I was capable of working while doing it, I’d have no excuse not to keep being her babysitter. Why couldn’t anyone understand that I had to concentrate to write? Not just sit down with a coffee and a laptop for a few hours. There was actual thinking involved.
That was the problem I’d had with the two men I’d actually had more serious relationships with over the last few years. As soon as we lived together, they thought my working at home meant I was at their disposal to keep the flat sparkling clean, pick up their dry-cleaning and deal with every other household job basically. Like writing didn’t actually take any real amount of concentration or time. Ugh.
I pulled out the chair from my desk and continued staring at the pink and blue sticky notes, until my eyes crossed. Whenever my mind cleared, the only image that crept into my head was that of Stephen’s eyes, dark as the coffee he’d brought me. The thrill as they coasted over me from head to toe.
I shook my head and grabbed a blank character worksheet from the folder I’d found. First, I would write one about Trevor Moorcroft; pool all the information I had so far, and then I’d do another one about James, to refamiliarise myself with the womanising snake from my last book, who Kaylee thought I should reintroduce. This would serve two purposes: it would count as work towards my book and also, it would remind me that any fantasies I might have about handsome, smooth-talking men were best channelled into my fiction, where they couldn’t hurt anyone. Least of all me.
Chapter Six
‘He looks like a cross between Clint Eastwood and a serial killer,’ Stephen commented dryly when we met up at a bar halfway between Little Italy and Gramercy Park. I’d just showed him the poster and he’d stared at it for a full minute, face giving nothing away apart from a subtle downturn at the corner of his pretty lips. ‘Small wonder half the calls I’ve received have been from people concerned as to whether he’s on a register of some kind.’
‘Oh come on, he doesn’t look that bad and it’s totally obvious that’s not the reason we’re looking for him. Why don’t people read things anymore?’ I rolled my eyes and dragged the poster back across the sticky bar.
It was Friday night and I was painfully aware that a full week had passed since I’d last been in a bar with him and since I’d received my edit letter. I was one week down on my deadline and even though I had felt it for the first time the other day – the wispy strand of a solution to my plot problems, floating around like a hair caught on my eyelashes – I still wasn’t in the right place to catch at it. If I didn’t get work underway, I was definitely going to need an extension on my deadline. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t mind asking for that, but after my first draft being such a flop and the fact that I wasn’t signed up for another contract, I was worried it would be another black mark in the column against re-signing me.
I’d spent some time looking up small towns in the Midwest since I’d had the idea to change the mystery to something in Charmaine’s past and therefore would need to send her back to her hometown. Settings are very important in cosy crime; they create constrictions and therefore conflict.
Despite doing this very important work, it was frustrating how many times I could accidentally open Twitter or TikTok and fall down a wormhole of nonsense on social media, pinging silly dance routines back and forth with Daisy and listening to songs that Beth was sharing with me on Spotify to help me build an inspirational playlist for the book I should be writing.
Stephen scoffed. ‘They’ve had no issues reading the number on the poster. I’m considering getting another phone so I can switch it to voicemail; it’s not terribly convenient trying to field these calls while I’m working. I’m not certain why we needed to have my number on it at all.’
‘Are you suggesting it should be my number on there?’ I asked coolly, because he probably thought I had nothing better to do during the day than act like his secretary.
‘Absolutely not. I’d remove every poster if you did that.’ He shrugged out of his jacket. ‘You can’t have strangers getting hold of your personal number.’
I tilted my head as I looked at him. I was definitely just trying to figure his personality out and not at all watching the way his broad shoulders moved underneath his crisp light pink shirt. ‘I can’t work out if you’re being passive-aggressively sarcastic to make a point or you’re being genuine,’ I admitted.
‘I’m not being sarcastic.’ He shook his head, looking around for somewhere to rest his suit jacket. It was a struggle; everywhere looked sticky or grimy. This bar was a far cry from the one on Fifth Avenue. ‘What I meant was, why do we have to have a number on it at all? An email address would be preferable. Or, better yet, not bother with the poster.’
‘I used a cell number because a lot of older people prefer to talk to someone. And if you think putting an email on the poster instead would save us from weirdos you’ve clearly never heard of the phenomena that is dick pics.’ I gave a little shudder. ‘And why do you want to quit with the poster already? It’s got us this lead hasn’t it?’
‘Hmm.’ He settled for draping the jacket over his thigh. ‘If you can call this a lead. Surely if he had any useful information he was inclined to share, he’d have told me over the phone?’
‘Depends. If he knows Trevor, maybe he’s checking us out for him. I mean, if I found out someone was looking for me, I’d want to know who they were before I got in contact with them.’
‘I suppose.’ Stephen raised his hand to catch the attention of the burly barman, who loomed over us. ‘Could I get a bourbon, neat, please and…?’ He looked to me again.
‘Half a Guinness, thanks.’
We were grunted at and I look a deep breath and another glance around. As Peter Parker might have said, my spidey-sense was tingling. It was dark inside the bar; despite the fact it was only six o’clock in the evening and the sun was still shining brightly outside. Other than us, there were two groups of men. One bunch sitting in the corner of the bar, receiving table service, clearly regulars, and the others younger – around college age – playing pool on the opposite side. They were being very loud, laughing and jeering at each other over the clack of the balls, which told me they were either drunk or nervous themselves at being in this claustrophobic dive bar, or both. I was the only woman and I was glad I’d dressed down.
‘In fact…’ I folded my arms on the edge of the bar, ignoring the way my skin stuck to whatever lingered on its surface, and leaned closer to Stephen, dropping my voice. ‘My gut feeling is, he’s already here, watching us. He might not tell us he’s here at all.’
‘Oh joy. This sounds like a fantastic use of time then.’ Stephen shook his head and handed the bartender some money to cover our drinks. ‘That was sarcasm in case you were wondering.’
‘Are you always this grumpy after work or is this a special mood for my benefit?’
He gave me a look from the corner of his eye and took a drink from his glass. I guess that answered that. I pulled a clip out of my bag so I could put my hair up and stop watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in the strong column of his throat as he swallowed. I was uncomfortably aware of the way he was able to sit on the bar stool and still have his feet touch the floor, in comparison to how I was perched up high, balancing on it like a toddler.
