‘Also,’ Philippa said, ‘and I hope you’ll forgive me for this overstep, because when you work with me you have to get used to them– did you never think he might be waiting foryouto reach out tohim?’
At this, Amy shook her head. When she was in her teens, she hadn’t considered herself the sort of girl boys mooned over or desperately hoped to hear from– especially not popular, wealthy, handsome boys like Sam. It had never occurred to her that she could possess that sort of power. But even as an adult, she realised, she’d been known to underestimate the feelings other people might develop for her. While Hugh’s seemed mostly founded in his weird, possessive streak as opposed to genuine affection, she’d been totally blindsided by his decision to propose.
‘Well. I’ll leave that thought with you,’ said Philippa. ‘And I’ll say one last thing before we put that waiter out of his misery and order some pasta. If I were writing this story, it would be nowhere near over yet.’
Amy smiled wistfully. ‘Thanks for listening, Philippa– and I’ve no doubt if you were working on it, it would make an excellent novel. But it’s real life, sadly, not a story with a happy ever after. No one’s writing it.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Philippa said, patting Amy’s hand and beckoning for the stressed-looking boy in the bow tie to come over to their table at last. ‘Romances are powerful because– despite all crowing to the contrary– they draw on what’s real. The novels matter to people because they recognise the feelings in them as true. And I would say this because I’m an author, but life is always a story. As for who’s writing yours, I’d have thought that was pretty clear to such a clever young woman:youare.’
After a humongous dish of pasta arrabiata (only half of which she managed to force down) and a few bites of tiramisu, Amy’s stomach was full enough that the Taittinger effect had worn off.
She’d managed to keep the rest of the conversation with Philippa light and less personal, focusing on the marketing plans that had been drawn up so far forLove to Hate You– and which were set to kick off at RomFest. Between them, Amy, Carolyn and Philippa had ardent ambitions for this book. Their confidence that it would firmly establish Philippa as a household name was high, as was the hope that it would put Torch firmly on the map in the world of publishing.
As she sat on the train back to Stratford-upon-Avon, Amy tried to imagine how she’d feel in a month’s time.Love to Hate Youwould be out there, hopefully topping book charts and bestseller lists everywhere. RomFest would be over and done with and– unless she performed a dramatic U-turn– she’d have no reason for any further contact with Sam.
They’d be reduced to casual, awkward acquaintances who saw one another only if they both turned up to book club meetings or happened to bump into one another in the village. She could see it now: the embarrassing, stilted ‘how have you been?’ chat that they’d struggle through if their paths accidentally crossed over the purchase of a pint of milk. Then the inevitable excitement would start, she supposed; increasingly frequent sightings of Tilly zooming in and out of Rowton Hall’s grounds in her shiny blue car would give rise to rumours of a reunion, then a wedding … Amy’s stomach lurched, drop-kicked by her own fevered imaginings.
Time and time again she’d replayed everything she and Sam had said to one another during their argument in the wood. But it was the ghosts of thingsunsaid that really plagued her.
I’m not going to justify or explain myself, since you’re determined to think so little of me. What had he been too proud, angry or upset to tell her?
We’ll do exactly as you wish: pretend we’re merely colleagues.But what elsecouldthey be? What other options were there?
On some level, she knew this to be a wilfully stupid question. The chemical fizz between them was sometimes so fierce she was amazed it wasn’t visible to the naked eye. She didn’t doubt he felt it too, though she had no idea what he thought itmeant. In any case, in the context of his rekindled relationship with Tilly, it didn’t speak highly of him that he’d referenced it at all– regardless of how obvious it was.
Amy’s reverie was interrupted by a chiming from her handbag. When she extracted her phone, she saw that she’d received a text from Lily. She swiped and tapped to open it, only to discover an image of a tarot card captioned with three exclamation marks.
The card itself was a colourful image of a man in Renaissance-era clothing– blue stockings, a red shirt and some kind of long green waistcoat– seated on grass, with his back against a tree. Oddly, and somewhat annoyingly, it made her think of herself and the elm she used to lean against on her secret evenings spent in the wood at Rowton Hall. The man had three golden goblets at his feet. His arms were folded in a gesture of dismissal, disappointment or maybe even overwhelm. On the left of the image, what looked like a cloud was offering him a fourth goblet, but to no avail. A shining hand peeped out from the wisps of air depicted, clutching the cup by the stem and pushing it towards him– but the man seemed barely able to look at it.
Amy shook her head at the picture and sent a reply.
Amy: I don’t know what this means …
Lily: It’s the four of cups. What do you *think* it means? What vibe does it give you?
Rolling her eyes, Amy typed:
Well. I’ve just been out for lunch with one of my authors and arguably had more champagne than was sensible in the middle of the day. Maybe the dude in the picture has already had enough of whatever’s in those cups– he definitely looks a bit pissed. So perhaps this card means ‘don’t be such a lush, Amy’. In which case, I take it all back: tarot IS real!
Lily: That’s just the kind of response I’d expect from someone in the headspace to pull the four of cups. It’s concerning.
Amy: But I DIDN’T pull the four of cups! Once again, YOU did it for me. Is there some tarot police force I can complain to about this? Some authority that can stop you doing readings for me against my will?
Lily: Of course not. And it’s only bad form to read the odd card for you if my intentions aren’t honourable. I’ve explained this plenty of times before.
Amy gritted her teeth, waiting for Lily to say more as the train sped away from the city and into sunlit, rolling countryside: wheat fields studded with vivid red poppies and vast expanses of dry grass dotted with cows.
After a few minutes, it became obvious that Amy was being punished for her sarcasm. She sighed and sent her mother another message.
Amy: OK, OK, I’ll bite. Tell me: what does the four of cups mean? Am I really doomed this time?
Lily is typing …
Lily: It’s a very significant card, Amy.
Sigh. Lily said that about literally every single card in the deck.
Lily: The four of cups generally speaks to our tendency as humans not to see what’s right in front of us. It demands a re-evaluation of your attitude and everything you think you understand. The hand coming through the clouds is the universe offering you a way forward– but it’s on YOU to discover what that way forward is, then be brave enough to follow the path.