‘Is your young man getting you a drink, or shall I?’ Dave asked Amy, as though it were common knowledge that the two of them were– as he would no doubt have put it– ‘courting’.
‘Er … I shouldn’t think so. He has absolutely no reason to be buying me a drink,’ Amy said, bewildered. After seeing how enraged she was at news of their home’s forced sale, how could Dave possibly think there was anything going on between her and the Viscount’s heir? It was baffling.
‘Wine, then?’ Dave asked, evidently feeling no need to explain himself, or ask any questions that might help him improve his understanding of the nature of Amy and Sam’s fraught relationship.
‘Better not,’ Amy told him, despite an overpowering urge to down a G&T. ‘I’m the designated driver, after all. A lime and soda would be great, though, thanks.’
Dave and Barbara went in search of the bar, as did Meg and Nisha. Seconds later, Mr Bradley excused himself to go to the gents. To Amy’s dismay, Simon took this opportunity to slide across the vacant seats between them and temporarily occupy Dave’s.
The last thing Amy needed right now was a one-sided conversation with someone who paused for breath so rarely it was a wonder he wasn’t oxygen-deficient. Alas, the moment Simon was settled he began explaining the reasons whyMuch Ado About Nothingwas, ‘in many respects, the original romcom’.
Amy resisted the urge to point out that she’d previously studied this play, had a first-class degree in English Literatureandworked in publishing– latterly specialising in the very genre he was so avidly telling her about. She was abundantly grateful when the rest of their cohort– still minus Sam– reappeared, and even more so when Dave insisted he had no intention of playing ‘musical bloody chairs’ with the postman and wanted his original seat back.
As the lights dimmed and the audience readied themselves for the second half of the play, Amy felt a sick sort of dread settle in her stomach. Had Sam actuallyleft? Had their argument bothered him so much he’d felt the need to publicly abandon the evening? In theory, the possibility should have made her feel like she’d won something: the upper hand, their latest argument, the most recent round in their lifelong war of wills. Instead, it left her cold and confused– and with a gnawing, sharp-edged sensation that, somehow, she’d lost.
Her panic rose as spotlights once again illuminated the stage– the actors playing the night watch tramping out and immediately prompting laughter. Amy tore her gaze from the empty seat beside her to watch, then felt someone sink into the chair to her right.
She didn’t need to look over to know it was Sam– just like she didn’t need to glance up to know that the sky was blue, or stare at the stars to be sure they were there. Relief flooded her, closely followed by alarm. Her reactions to him were too intense, too erratic, and she knew it. Her feelings were horribly confused, totally inconsistent and all incompatible with one another. Everything was becoming ungovernable: senseless and resistant to reason. It absolutely terrified her.
He nudged her in the same way he had earlier, catching her eye and looking at her gently through the darkness.
‘Truce?’ he whispered, dipping his head towards hers. His breath warmed her ear as she nodded, a little too eagerly.
‘In that case … here,’ he said, pressing something shockingly cold into her hand. She gasped involuntarily and heard him smother a laugh, then looked down to examine whatever freezing thing he’d given her.
She swiped frost from the side of a small cardboard tub to discover the words ‘Ginger Spice Gelato’ written there. He’d bought her ice cream.
‘Peace offering,’ he said quietly.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and swallowed hard.
‘I hope it’s okay,’ he murmured, slightly embarrassed. ‘I debated all the options and then took a punt.’
‘It’s fine,’ Amy whispered softly, peeling back the lid so she could start surreptitiously eating and taking great care not to let him see her smiling face.
It was perfect– her favourite flavour. And she was almost sure he knew it.
Chapter 20
In the week after the Rowton Readers’ theatre trip, Amy saw more of Sam than she had in the previous three or four weeks. On an almost daily basis, her head now did battle with her body– her brain attempting to exert control over her unruly physical reactions to his presence.
‘Stomach drop sensation’ seemed a poor moniker for what she experienced every time he leaned to read something over her shoulder. When the heat from his body warmed her skin, his arms bracketed hers or their fingers accidentally brushed over her laptop’s trackpad, Amy felt like life snapped into high definition– as if all other sensations were pale, feeble excuses for feelings.
To make matters worse, her mind continued to turn traitor at every opportunity. Left unchecked, it would set her adrift on a sea of daydreams that involved the sort of clinches she’d never previously imagined enjoying in the workplace– not even when she worked with Hugh, her actual boyfriend.
Stubbornly, Amy told herself that stress must be behind her inability to keep her lustful yearning under proper control. With RomFest now less than two months away, the pressure to make it a success was intensifying.
Tickets went on sale this coming Friday, and Amy knew that the more they sold, the easier it would be to get more authors, journalists and ‘bookfluencers’ to help promote it or come along on the day. By dint of supporting the festival, these big names could help to establish Torch as the new place to be for proud writers and readers of an often-derided genre– a genre Amy had come to enjoy, but perhaps more importantly respect over the past few months.
When a broadsheet columnist she spoke to about a possible feature asked her whether the world reallyneededmore books about women falling in love, Amy’s earnest defence of her authors’ work had surprised even her. It did, she’d said, because people’s lives were made brighter by entertaining stories that– at their best– were inclusive, insightful and emotionally resonant. Amy had also pointed out that there was something worrying– and perhaps rather revealing– about the ease with which books about unhappy, abused or even murdered women were accepted as ‘serious’, while stories about them having fun, strong friendships and satisfying sex were deemed vapid or unrealistic. She’d scored Torch and RomFest a two-page spread in a popular Sunday supplement, titled: ‘Shining A Light On Love: why it’s time to take romance seriously’. Carolyn had been so thrilled with the piece that she’d actually phoned Amy to congratulate her on the morning it came out. This, Amy knew, was an unheard-of level of appreciation from her usually tight-lipped boss; the professional equivalent of hell freezing over.
During their next online catch-up, Hugh– prompted by Carolyn– had offered Amy a grudging, lukewarm ‘well done’. After he and Carolyn had left the call, Sam openly and scathingly wondered what his problem was. ‘It’s like he’d prefer for the whole enterprise to fail,’ he’d said. ‘Which makes me wonder whether he understands what the job of finance director actually entails. Or maybe it’s that heassumedit would go badly, which doesn’t speak too highly of his judgement. No one sensible would ever bet against you.’ At this, Amy had demurred and turned pink, then quickly changed the subject.
It had been decided thatLove to Hate You, Philippa Fotheringham’s new book, would be the first Torch title to publish, not least because it could be made ready to hit e-readers only a few days after RomFest. Exclusive merchandise specific to the novel– including ‘chilled-out night in’ bundles containing chocolates, cotton pyjamas and a special, RomFest-only edition of the e-book– would be available at the event. Even better, the author herself would be there in person to talk about her work.
Amy’s busy schedule was put on pause when the day of Grace’s hip replacement operation arrived. She had booked the day off, as well as a few days post-op to ensure she could devote her full attention to her grandmother. On the morning of Grace’s surgery, Amy and Mr Bradley both went to the hospital with her and waited until she was taken down to theatre.
In recent weeks, it had become clear to Amy that her ex-English teacher and college principal was beyond besotted with her gran– that his ‘courting’ of her was truly in earnest. Amy had frequently found herself holed up in her bedroom or hanging out at Nisha or Meg’s in order to avoid feeling like the third wheel while Grace and Mr Bradley watched documentaries or old episodes of cosy-crime dramas. Meanwhile, dinner times either involved all three of them, or consisted of a solitary ready meal for one because Grace and her beau were out and Amy was alone.