The glorious weather provided a stark contrast to Amy’s mood, which remained dark– her equilibrium still upset after her confusing near kiss with Sam. Determined to reassert their professional boundaries, she went out of her way to avoid being alone with him, but– in typically aggravating fashion– he plagued her thoughts whenever she lowered her guard.
She even had several dreams not unlike the one she’d experienced on the night after the Rowton Hall book club meeting– though these new versions of the narrative all concluded with Sam, hungry-eyed and intense, happening upon her in some deserted, long-forgotten corner of the manor. Such fevered imaginings always saw her startle awake, sweaty, disorientated and filled with longing.
Terrified that he might somehow intuit his sleep-thief status from simply looking at her, Amy took to conducting as much of their business as possible via email or online meetings. On several occasions she deliberately scheduled face-to-face appointments in Birmingham, Leicester or Nottingham on the same days she was due to catch up with Sam, meaning that their conversations had to take place virtually.
On one day, to her private chagrin, she even fabricated such an engagement for the sake of steering clear of him. After long hours spent cafe-working in Leamington Spa, she dialled in to a meeting with him and claimed she’d been rushed off her feet with agent and author meet-ups since 10 a.m. The barista who’d served her several coffees, a mozzarella melt and innumerable glasses of water had raised his eyebrows at this, but wisely said nothing.
In addition, it had become clear that Hugh had no intention of stepping back from RomFest or the launch of Torch– even though it was perfectly obvious his input was neither needed nor welcome. Sam seemed to find this both baffling and amusing, remaining polite in the face of his posturing and, occasionally, the sort of outright rudeness that Amy thought thoroughly deserved one of Sam’s trademark witty takedowns– or failing that, a punch in the face. Her concerns about Hugh’s ongoing presence in Torch meetings, her email inbox and her life in general simmered on a low light. She knew that, at some point, she was going to have to deal with him– but it made little sense to bring their inevitable confrontation forward.
As well as staying on top of work– which now included the editing of Philippa Fotheringham’s next title,Love to Hate You– Amy had her grandmother’s upcoming operation to think about. Grace had been called for surgery in just over a week’s time, and the cottage needed to be made ready for her recovery period. Amy cleaned the house from top to bottom, ensured their supply of books, magazines and box sets was in order, and organised everything so that Grace would have no need to trek up and down her perilous stairs, aside from to get up in the mornings and head to bed each night. She also tidied the bathroom and kitchen, streamlining the contents of drawers and cupboards so that, once she was back on her feet, Grace would be able to do basic things for herself quickly and efficiently. Amy knew her gran would want to maintain as much independence as possible while her hip healed, and was determined to do everything she could to enable that.
Any alarm she felt about Grace going under the knife was squashed– at least outwardly– by the mask of unrelenting positivity she maintained during every discussion about her grandmother’s hip replacement. The notion that something might go wrong, and the reality that general anaesthetics always come with risks, were permitted no part in conversations and granted zero purchase on Amy’s thoughts– as though refusing to acknowledge her deepest fears would shrink and ultimately nullify them.
Given the volume of things on her mind, it perhaps wasn’t surprising that Amy forgot all about the book club’s planned trip to the theatre. It was only when Nisha messaged the group about who was willing to drive that Amy remembered it was that evening– and therefore a little late for her to start scrabbling for a reason not to go.
As it turned out, she was one of the few book club members with access to a car; bowing out wasn’t an option unless she was prepared to prevent others from enjoying the performance or consign them to spending huge sums on cab fares. Reluctantly, she agreed to meet Barbara, Dave and Simon on the corner at 6.15 in Grace’s faithful Nissan Micra, ready for their journey into town.
Since he had business in Old Rowton in the afternoon and they’d both be on that side of the bridge, Mr Bradley had volunteered to drive Nisha and Meg. Grace, meanwhile, couldn’t face the prospect of being confined to an uncomfortable seat for several hours, and had opted to stay at home with Bertie. With Philippa’s approval, Amy had given Grace access to a proof copy ofLove to Hate You, which she was already nose-deep in by the time Amy finished work. She barely noticed when Amy kissed her cheek, ruffled Bertie’s floppy ears and said goodbye to them both.
Amy had deliberately avoided asking Nisha or Meg whether Sam would be joining them– though it seemed reasonable to assume he wouldn’t, given there was no mention of his travelling with them. He didn’t respond to any of the messages that flew around in the Rowton Readers WhatsApp group, and when Amy– to her shame– checked whether or not he’d read them, she discovered he was offline.
The relief Amy felt at concluding he wouldn’t be coming was only intensified when Mr Bradley revealed the play he’d got tickets for wasMuch Ado About Nothing– the Shakespeare she and Sam had studied for A level, then bantered about on the night they’d ended up kissing. Her sense of having escaped an awful fate was undercut with something else, though– her certainty that the night wouldn’t be as much fun without him there. It was infuriating.
Since her return to Rowton, Amy reluctantly admitted to herself, Sam had begun to loom just as large for her as he had in their teenage years. She fought the pull of him now in the same way she’d railed against it then– but the world burst into full, blazing colour when he was around and then faded back to monochrome when he wasn’t. In London, she’d been content to live in many and varied shades of grey. From here, that existence increasingly looked flat, dull and incomplete.
Around thirty minutes after they’d first set off– and having banned Simon from speaking so she could concentrate on a parallel parking manoeuvre– Amy pulled the Micra into a small space on a side street around the corner from the theatre. They’d agreed to meet the others outside the main entrance, so had only a short walk to find them. Within seconds of exiting the car, Dave blithely asked, ‘What’s this play all about then? Normally I look them up on Wikipedia but I didn’t get around to it today.’
Before Amy could give him the brief rundown he was after, Simon began a detailed lecture on Shakespeare’s comedies and the place ofMuch Adowithin the wider canon of his works. Amy saw Dave’s eyes take on the sort of vacant glaze she remembered some of her less engaged classmates sported during Mr Bradley’s lessons.
When Simon started espousing the virtues of ‘the so-called problem plays’, she felt compelled to intervene on Dave’s behalf. His expression had slackened, and he had the look of someone who’d just received terrible news from a doctor rather than a ‘quick summary’ of the events inMeasure for Measure.
By now, the group had reached the steps that led up to the main entrance to the imposing but elegant theatre building. As Simon droned on behind her, Amy spotted Nisha, Meg and Mr Bradley waiting for them a short distance away. Knowing he’d probably listen to her, but cringing at her awareness of the fact, she turned to suggest to Simon that now might be a good time to pause the conversation, head inside and grab a pre-show drink. Before she could say anything, however, she stopped short. A metre or two back, among the crowd of people making their way towards the theatre’s large double doors, was Sam.
At his side was a slender woman with long, pale blonde hair. Amy guessed she was the best part of a foot taller than her, and she had on a pair of expensive-looking gladiator sandals whose ties wrapped up and around her golden, tanned shins. On Amy, the straps would likely have come up as far as her knees, and against her pale skin they’d have made her calves look like raw poultry, trussed and ready for roasting.
The woman wore next to no makeup– just a slash of bright, perfectly applied poppy-red lipstick. Amy didn’t need anyone to tell her that the woman next to Sam was Tilly Wexmore-Yates– his supposedlyex-girlfriend and the woman his parents had wanted him to marry. A little like Sam himself, she was somehow more beautiful in real life than in pictures or on TV. Amy spotted several passers-by staring at Tilly, then whispering to one another excitedly– presumably confirming that she reallywasthat woman they’d seen onThe One Showlast week.
Amy felt suddenly relieved that she’d made time to change before coming out this evening. Despite her determination to stay away from Sam, she’d recently found herself making an extra effort with her appearance on the off-chance she might bump into him– a habit she hadn’t allowed herself to interrogate. Tonight she was sporting dark denim skinnies, a soft, egg yolk-yellow silk shirt and a blue beaded necklace that matched her eyes. Her hair was loose, falling in gentle waves that almost touched her shoulders. It was a little longer and decidedly less sleek than it had been when she’d first come back to Rowton– partly because she hadn’t bothered to find a local hairdresser, but also because she’d discovered she rather liked what Kit had always called ‘its natural movement’.
In need of comfort– and for the sake of not appearing interested in Sam and Tilly– she pulled her phone out of her bag to text Kit, rapidly realising she had nothing to say. She certainly didn’t want to tell him she was standing outside the theatre with a well-known TV personality– he’d only get excited, which was precisely the sort of reaction she didn’t need as she tried to ignore Tilly’s elegant radiance.
What were she and Samdoinghere, Amy wondered. Were they on a date? Perhaps they were back together. Maybe they’d never properly split up, which threw his recent tear-drying and face-caressing behaviour into pretty sharp relief. Amy forced these thoughts away in an effort that felt like dry-swallowing a massive, awkwardly shaped pill.
Whatever might be going on between Sam and Tilly, it didn’t matter. Amy didn’t care. It was none of her business.
A little too late, Amy realised she was staring. She coloured and looked away, only to hear Meg cry, ‘Sam! There you are!’
Oh,hell. Did this mean he and Tilly were joining them?
Amy stared at the pavement, willing her face to cool down and her heart rate to slow.
By the time she looked up again, Sam and Tilly had closed the gap between themselves and the rest of the book club, while Nisha, Meg and Mr Bradley had moved down the steps to greet the newcomers. All together, a rather mismatched group of nine was now gathered at the side of the theatre’s huge, wide-open doors.
Sam stepped forward, his hand at Tilly’s back, clearly intending to introduce her. Amy felt a hot, angry sensation in her chest, as though her heart had been friction-burned.
‘Evening, gang,’ Sam said, smiling. ‘I hope it’s okay with you all if Tilly joins us for a drink before the play starts. She and I have had some business together today, and she wanted to say hi.’
He nodded towards Meg here, signalling the warm friendship between his sister and his … well.WhateverTilly was. Amy couldn’t be entirely sure what Sam meant by their having ‘business together’, but by now she’d read enough romance novels to recognise a euphemism when she heard one.