by Liz Eeles
‘One glass? Our bestselling author might have a way with words, but when it comes to alcohol, he’s a bit of a lightweight.’
‘He had one glass of Burgundy – plus another two bottles,’ I tell Daniel, with a sigh.
‘Ah, that’ll do it every time.’
‘Two bottles of which I had no knowledge,’ insists Malcolm. ‘I was busy in—’
‘Yes, you’ve already said,’ I snap. ‘Forget how it happened. The important thing is what happens now? I’ve got a shop full of people downstairs including a host of book lovers and the entire committee of Honeyford Heritage Society who are expecting to spend an interesting hour with an author they’ve heard of.’
I walk to the bed and give the author’s leg a none too gentle nudge with mine. ‘Shush, will you? Heaven knows what people will think we’re doing up here.’
He stops singing and closes his eyes.
‘Maybe we could fill him up with strong coffee,’ I suggest. ‘Or douse him in cold water to sober up. Becca’s place is nearby and she’s got a shower. I bet she wouldn’t mind.’
‘There’s no way I’m stripping S.R. Kinsley naked and getting him into a shower,’ huffs Malcolm. ‘He’s too far gone, anyway. There’s nothing for it, Flora. You’ll just have to cancel the event.’
‘This event has been billed as the highlight of Charter Day. There must be something we can do.’
But when my VIP guest emits a loud, grunting snore and his head lolls back against the pillow, I realise it’s all over. I sink onto the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands.
‘I’m trying to be a part of this community. If I call things off at this stage, I’ll look like an idiot who can’t organise a simple event, let alone successfully run a local café and bookshop. The locals will organise a petition to get Ruben back.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ says Malcolm. He perches on the bed next to me, his arm snakes around my shoulder and I feel so miserable I let him pull me against his chest. ‘Running a business is really hard and I’m proud of you for having a good stab at it,’ he says, into my hair. ‘But your place is with me. We can carry on running the restaurant together.’
‘Good grief, it was you,’ says Daniel, suddenly. He hits his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Of course it was you. Of all the dirty, low-down tricks—’
‘What are you talking about?’ I mumble into Malcolm’s chest.
‘Your husband got this bloke drunk on purpose so you’d have to cancel the event and you’d lose confidence in your ability to run the shop and be more likely to go running back to him. To go back to your safe, sensible life where he can control you.’
‘How dare you!’ cries Malcolm, jumping to his feet. ‘As if I’d do such a thing. I was trying to help Flora by feeding Kinsley – it’s not my fault that he turns out to be an idiot when it comes to drink. And that wine he polished off – without me knowing – wasn’t cheap, you know. I’m severely out of pocket.’
‘Oh boo hoo! Flora’s got a real problem here but you’re still thinking only of yourself.’
‘Boo hoo, indeed. We’re not all working in boring finance and getting a set monthly wage.’
Hell’s teeth. Just when I think things can’t get any worse, an argument kicks off between my husband and my… my whatever Daniel is. They’re both behaving like children. I drag myself wearily to my feet. ‘Please stop arguing. Malcolm can be unkind, deceptive and a pain at times—’
‘Um, I can hear you,’ grumps Malcolm, his face like thunder.
I silence him with a wave of my hand. ‘But I’m sure he wouldn’t set out to sabotage my event.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t, and it’s slanderous to say so.’ He stands square in front of Daniel and juts out his jaw. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about Flora’s situation.’
Daniel bristles. ‘I simply take an interest in her and her business.’
‘What sort of interest? Exactly how well do you know my wife?’
‘We live together,’ says Daniel.
Which really doesn’t help. Our rubbish guest carries on snoring loudly behind us as Malcolm starts quivering all over. Luna would tell me that negative energy is coming off him in waves. I can feel it, like a damp, suffocating blanket wrapping tightly around me.
But Daniel just stands there, seemingly unconcerned that my husband might be about to land a punch. Probably because he’s almost a head taller and far more wiry. I don’t fancy Malcolm’s chances, to be honest.
Before I can step in, there’s a shout up the stairs from Millicent. ‘Can you lot hurry up? It’s getting ugly down here. Alan has started regaling us with tales of his acting prowess and everyone’s heard them many times before.’
‘I’ll be down in just a sec,’ I shout, before turning back to Malcolm and Daniel. ‘Look, I need to go down and announce the winner of the Best Loved Book survey and tell the crowd that the author event is off. Let’s be realistic. There’s nothing else I can do. Can you go down and keep things calm, Malcolm? I’ll be right behind you.’
Malcolm moves towards the stairs but stops with his hand on the bannister.
‘I’m not leaving you and lover boy alone up here.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Daniel points at the bed, which is being rattled by seismic snores. ‘That’s hardly mood music, is it?’
‘Both of you, just go downstairs. Please. I want to make sure Mr Kinsley’s all right and then I’ll be right behind you.’
Malcolm starts trooping down the stairs, but I grab Daniel by the arm before he can follow him. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I whisper. ‘You don’t really think that Malcolm planned this, do you?’
He shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘I know you don’t like him much but I can’t believe he’d do that. He’s still my husband.’
Daniel sighs and shakes his head. ‘No, I guess not. I just think Malcolm’s a total arse for almost losing you.’
Almost losing me? Does he think I’m going back to my old life? My sensible, ordered life that seems very enticing all of a sudden, particularly after the bake-off punch-up and now with S.R. Kinsley in a drunken heap behind me. Maybe I should go back to helping out in the restaurant and not overreach myself.
‘I’m waiting!’ yells Malcolm up the stairs. With a lift of his eyebrow, Daniel turns away and hurries down to him.
I look at our author, who’s flat out on the bed, and drape the thin sheet over him. Luckily, his snoring has reduced in volume to a rhythmic snuffling. My anger and panic are morphing into general resignation and I can’t help feeling sorry for someone who feels the need to drink two bottles of wine at lunchtime. He’s caused a huge problem, but I wonder what problems of his own he’s trying to blot out.
We’ll keep an eye on him for a couple of hours and, when he’s sufficiently sober, we can put him on a train back to London. Telling everyone downstairs the truth is an option, but I’d rather spare Mr Kinsley’s blushes. It was kind of him to agree to talk for free in my little shop, even if his visit didn’t turn out quite as I’d hoped.
As I get to the stairs, he shifts in his sleep and lets out a rumbling fart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Millicent got it spot on. The crowd waiting for S.R. Kinsley are definitely not impressed by Alan’s tales of life on the West End stage. And neither is Katrina.
‘Oh, thank goodness. He might shut up now,’ she groans when she sees me. ‘He only had a few minor ensemble roles but he carries on as if he was best mates with Ian McKellen.’
Alan is holding forth in the makeshift stage area Becca and I sorted out earlier. He’s bellowing into the microphone, though he definitely doesn’t need it, with his arm draped across a plastic display stand packed full of S.R. Kinsley novels.
‘She’s here!’ yells Millicent, wrestling the microphone from Alan’s hands as a general sigh of relief goes up from the crowd. At the back of the room, Malcolm is standing with his hands in his pockets and a strange look on
his face.
I gaze at all the people who’ve turned up for our special speaker and swallow. There are far more people here than I’d imagined. Lots of them haven’t been into the shop before and I don’t suppose they’ll come back once they hear what I have to say.
Standing so I block the bestsellers display, I start speaking into the microphone. ‘Thank you all for coming, and I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. First of all, I’d like to announce the winner of the Best Book I’ve Read survey. Local readers were asked to nominate the book that they’ve enjoyed reading the most over the last three months. We’ve had loads of entries and I’m delighted to announce that the overwhelming winner is Day of Desire by April Devlin.’
A collective cheer goes up from most of the women present, and a couple of the men, I notice.
‘I’m delighted that this particular book won because I’ve really championed this gorgeous love story. It’s set amid the minutiae of everyday life and touches on universal feelings but describes them almost poetically. It’s a wonderful book, and I hope, if you haven’t read it, that you’ll buy a copy today. We don’t know anything about the author, April Devlin. She’s a bit of an enigma and, as far as I’m aware, she hasn’t written anything else, which is such a shame. Anyway, let’s see who’s won a book token for nominating this novel.’
I reach into a black velvet bag that Phyllis has made especially for the occasion and pull out a folded sheet of paper.
‘The winner is… Eileen Conway. Congratulations.’
Eileen, an elderly woman with snow-white hair, makes her way through the crowd and smiles as I hand over the book token. ‘It’s a fabulous book,’ she mouths at me, before disappearing back into the crowd.
Right. Next comes the difficult bit. I clear my throat and raise the microphone as Malcolm gives me a thumbs up from the back of the crowd.
‘Next, I was hoping to introduce our special guest, bestselling author S.R. Kinsley, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Mr Kinsley has had to cancel at the last minute because of… um, ill health.’ A murmur of disappointment and discontent grumbles through the crowd. ‘I’m so sorry but I’m afraid it’s outside of my control.’
People are leaving. Of course they are. And Alan, at the back of the room, is glowering at me as though I’m personally responsible for ruining Charter Day. Everything was going brilliantly and now I’ve chucked a huge spanner in the works. So much for hoping to be a valued part of this community. I bite my lip as an urge to cry bubbles up inside me.
As I stand there, lost for words, I spot Daniel at the side of the room and our eyes meet. He stares at me for a moment and then marches over and grabs the microphone. ‘Don’t go,’ he says, pulling back from the microphone when there’s a feedback screech that stops people in their tracks. ‘Please don’t go. You haven’t heard what Flora has planned to take the place of S.R. Kinsley.’
People are no longer moving for the door but they’re not coming back either. Daniel takes a deep breath. ‘Flora is going to reveal the identity of mystery author April Devlin.’
Has he gone completely mad? People start taking their seats again as I hiss at him, ‘What are you doing? I don’t know who April Devlin is.’
‘But I do,’ he says, simply.
It is Emma! No wonder my sixth sense kept telling me so. And Daniel is about to spill the beans in order to salvage something from the remains of my wrecked event. He’s going to tell everyone – even though it’s obviously important to him that it remains a secret.
‘Don’t do it,’ I blurt out.
‘Don’t do what?’
‘Tell everyone if you don’t want to.’
Daniel lowers the microphone and takes hold of my hand. ‘Trust me, Flora. Do you trust me?’
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Malcolm bearing down on us. When I nod, Daniel gives me a crinkly-eyed smile and swallows loudly. Then, he turns to address the people who have crowded back around the stage.
‘Who is April Devlin then? Don’t keep us in suspense,’ calls Katrina. ‘Who is the mystery woman?’
Daniel is gripping the microphone so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. ‘She is actually a he. The author is Daniel Purfoot.’ He shrugs. ‘That’s me. I’m Daniel Purfoot and I wrote Day of Desire.’
‘Get outta here!’ Oops, did I say that out loud? I think I did, but what the actual…? April Devlin must be Emma. She can’t be Daniel.
Katrina’s mouth has dropped open, along with the mouths of several other women in the front row.
‘No, you did not,’ snorts Malcolm, his face twisted in confusion. ‘You’re making it up to save the day and get into Flora’s good books. You did not write that sissy potboiler.’
‘A fantastic book that has just been voted Honeyford’s Best Read,’ I shoot back.
‘I did write it,’ says Daniel. His cheeks are flushed and I’m close enough to notice a tremor in his jaw. Mind you, I’d be bricking it if I was him, coming out as the author of a novel supposedly written by a woman. I knew there was something weird about his connection to the book, but it seems my suspicions were way off the mark.
‘If you’re the author, why didn’t you publish the book under your real name?’ calls Katrina.
Daniel half-smiles. ‘Because I was worried that people might describe the book as a “sissy potboiler”, as Malcolm so eloquently put it. Boring accountants don’t write books about feelings. And, to be honest, I thought it might be rubbish.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ shouts a woman at the back, as I try to look all calm and collected, while my thoughts are racing. Daniel, the man who I once thought was a bit of a cold fish, is actually a seething mass of emotions who really ‘gets’ women and their lives.
‘You’re Luna’s boy, aren’t you?’ calls Vernon, pushing his way to the front. He’s only just finished serving up dozens of hot dogs to people watching the parade, and there’s still a faint whiff of cooked meat about him.
‘That’s right. I’m the son of Luna, who runs the magical emporium further along the High Street.’
‘And you’re an accountant, you say?’ Millicent looks totally confused.
‘That’s my day job.’ Daniel takes a seat and gestures for me to do the same. ‘I wrote this book a few years ago, after my wife died and I was bringing up my young son on my own.’
News that a tall, handsome local man is the author of their beloved book has made many of the women present go gooey-eyed. And this latest snippet of information, that he’s a vulnerable widower with a small child, sends them over the edge. They hang on his every word, and Katrina gazes at Daniel with unadulterated lust, as he explains how he wrote the book in the evenings, after Caleb had gone to bed, and published it himself, rather than send it out to agents and publishers.
‘I didn’t want anyone to know I’d written the book because it felt so’ – he pauses and swallows – ‘raw.’ He looks at me. ‘I guess it showed parts of me that I wasn’t prepared to let anyone ever see again. But I didn’t want it to languish in my desk drawer forever. So I published it under a pseudonym and forgot about it really. I kept one copy to prove to myself that it existed and that was that.’
‘Until it was discovered by the people of Honeyford,’ I say.
‘Until it was discovered and championed by you, Flora.’
He gazes at me with such intensity, a shiver trembles from my head to my toes. I’m vaguely aware of Malcolm tutting nearby, before Daniel turns towards the crowd. ‘And then I was outed. So much for being incognito.’
‘Does… does Luna know that you’ve written this book?’ I stammer.
‘I’ve never told her. I’ve never told anyone until now. I’ve been too’ – he breathes out slowly – ‘scared to.’
That’s it for Katrina. She sobs – actually gives a loud, gasping sob – as Daniel’s emotions are laid bare. And I feel something inside me shift. I thought I was a good judge of character but my early assumptions about what lay beneath his brusque
personality were so wrong. This man is as vulnerable as I am.
‘Have you written anything else?’ shouts Phyllis.
Daniel shakes his head. ‘I poured everything into that one book and then I kind of shut down. It was easier to get through the days, that way. And I’ve only recently started opening up again.’ He stops and bites his lip as though he didn’t mean to share so much. This must be so hard for him. And he’s doing it for me, to help me save face. To help me settle into my new life in Honeyford.
As questions come from the floor, thick and fast, and Daniel explains more about his writing, I scan the crowd for Malcolm, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Malcolm has popped up again. He’s suddenly appeared in the café, while I’m clearing up with Becca’s and Mary’s assistance, though he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to help. At the moment, he’s loitering by the coffee machine with a hangdog expression, trying to catch my attention. And my heart sinks as I realise that decision time has well and truly arrived.
When Malcolm clears his throat for the third time, Becca and Mary take the hint and scurry off to wipe down tables at the other end of The Cosy Kettle.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask, resting my broom against the wall.
‘Not really.’ He gallops over, drops onto one knee in front of me, as though he’s proposing, and grabs my hands. ‘It’s decision day, Flora, and I can’t wait any longer for you to make up your mind. I’ve kept my end of the bargain so what’s your answer? We’ve been married for twenty years and you owe it to me, to our time together, to come home and give us one more try. Or what were those years worth, Flora? What am I worth? I’ve given up everything for you.’
Hmm, that’s not strictly true. I’ve done most of the ‘giving up’ over the years to fit in with what Malcolm wants – from getting married in a register office and moving away from my friends and family, to suppressing my ambitions in favour of his.
