While normally her make-up routine involved some tinted moisturiser and a brush of mascara, Jo had gone all out and had attempted contouring, which had involved watching some pretty baffling YouTube videos and using three different make-up sponges and five different brushes to give her a natural no-make-up look.
A pair of her favourite earrings and the fine silver bracelet her parents had bought her for her twenty-first birthday finished the look.
‘Fake it, ’til you make it,’ she told herself as she took a deep breath and got ready to leave for Once Upon A Book.
She’d snapped a quick picture and sent it to Erin, who had Facetimed her immediately to wish her all the luck in the world and tell her she was ‘smoking hot’. Jo had grinned and admitted that for the first time in a long time she felt ‘smoking hot’.
‘Well, I hope Mr McLachlan appreciates the effort you’ve gone to. Although you can admit to me that it’s the luscious Lorcan you really want to wow,’ Erin had said.
Jo had blushed and immediately denied it, but if Lorcan did happen to think she looked nice then that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. And she knew he was going to be there. True to her word, she’d spoken to Libby and had arranged an extra ticket just for him. As it happened, Libby was only too delighted to invite a possible love interest to an event Jo would be attending, even though Jo had told her that Lorcan was most certainly not in a place for a new relationship.
‘Nonsense,’ Libby had said. ‘He just needs to meet the right person. He might have already met her, for all we know.’
Jo had shaken her head and laughed it off, but something inside had fluttered a little. Something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
As she checked her bag in the hallway before she left her house, she took a deep breath.
‘You’ve got this,’ her mother said, as she walked out of the living room and stood by her side. ‘I believe in you. Your dad believes in you. Your brothers even believe in you. And you know for a fact you have fans in Clara and Buttercup. Now we just have to get you to believe in yourself.’
Jo smiled. ‘I’m doing my best. This outfit helps.’
‘So it should. It’s stunning. You look amazing, love. I’m so very proud of you.’
Jo felt her mother take her hand and her heart contracted with love.
‘I love you, Mum,’ she said.
‘And I love you, Jo. But if you don’t get going soon, you’re going to be late.’
Jo looked at her watch. She had twenty minutes to get there in time to chat with Ewan McLachlan. The walk there normally took ten minutes, which, she figured, would give her ten minutes’ grace in case of last-minute hiccups. Her plan had been to get to the shop early enough to settle her nerves before she met Ewan. She would also need to have time for a wee as she was plagued with a nervous bladder.
‘Good luck, love,’ her mum whispered to her and pulled her into a tight hug as they stood in the hall together. ‘I’m sure he’ll love your work, but if he doesn’t, then just remember he’s just one person and that doesn’t mean that no one else will love it. We all like different things.’
Jo nodded. ‘I know, Mum. I’m not getting my hopes up. He’s probably only doing this because Libby asked him and it’s her shop after all. It might have been awkward if he’d said no.’
Her mother shook her head. ‘That’s not what I was inferring at all. People like him don’t give up their time unless they want to. It doesn’t matter whose shop it is or who asked him. Ewan McLachlan is in demand. I imagine he gets to pick and choose how he fills his diary. So have faith, young lady!’
‘I’ll try,’ Jo said. ‘But you’re right, I need to go or I’ll be a complete wreck by the time I get there and have no time to calm myself down enough to be able to form coherent sentences.’
She lifted her bag, kissed her mother on the cheek and ducked her head through the living room door to wave goodbye to Clara.
‘Don’t be late!’ Clara called back. ‘You promised me cuddles!’
Libby looked flustered when Jo arrived at the bookshop, even though it seemed to Jo’s trained eye as if everything was very much under control. The chairs were laid out for those attending the reading. The coffee bar had been organised to offer tea, coffee, or chilled white wine to the customers. All of Ewan's marketing material was on display, and a table display of his latest tome, along with stock of his lengthy back catalogue, was perfectly put together.
Libby, however, was not.
‘What if no one shows up?’ she said, as soon as Jo walked in.
‘Well, I’m here, so that’s that worry out the window at least,’ Jo replied in an attempt to lighten the mood. An attempt which clearly failed.
‘But everyone else? What if no one comes and Ewan McLachlan sits here like a lemon and takes a strop. Or what if the only people who show up are those “this is more of a statement than a question” type of people?’
‘Libby,’ Jo said, taking her friend by the arm and taking some comfort in the fact she was not the only person sick with nerves. ‘These tickets sold out ages ago. You know most of the people who bought them. They are regulars at the shop, and decent people. Well, apart from Edith. She’s definitely a “this is a statement more than a question” type of person, but, if necessary, I can take her out with a well-aimed scone,’ Jo said, nodding towards the coffee bar.
Libby laughed, and pulled Jo into a hug. ‘Thank you. Thank you for making me laugh. This is just a big deal for me. He’s the biggest author we’ve had here and if he spreads the word about us, it would be brilliant! We could up our author visits, and really build on things, you know?’
Jo nodded. ‘I get it,’ she said.
‘Oh God,’ Libby exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m an eejit. Of course you get it. How are you? How are your nerves? You look amazing, by the way. I could grow to like this sleek version of Jo Campbell. Très chic! That suit looks even better on you today. It’s perfect for you.’
‘Yes. Yes it is,’ Jo said. ‘And you’ll be seeing a lot of it because it cost so much that I’ll be wearing it to every wedding, funeral, birthday, Halloween party and trip to the supermarket for the next five years at least. But, yes, I’m nervous.’
She was about to tell Libby that she was so nervous she was barely keeping it together when the bell above the door tinkled, announcing the arrival of none other than Ewan McLachlan. Jo and Libby both turned to look at him at the same time. Jo felt Libby’s hand on her arm, squeezing tightly. Jo was worried her own jaw may have dropped, cartoon-character style, to the floor.
Ewan McLachlan in his publicity photos was one level of handsome and suave. In the flesh – all his gorgeous, tanned, muscly flesh – he was positively gorgeous. His dark hair, with just a few silver strands, was perfectly quiffed. His jaw perfectly squared. His muscles perfectly rippled. Even his crow’s feet and weather-beaten face gave him a rugged intensity that made Jo wonder if it was actually possible to lose the power of speech.
That he had a Scottish accent only added to his appeal. That and, of course, the fact he was a good writer, and a successful one. When he smiled at them, he oozed an air of charm and confidence – which thankfully didn’t go as far as being overconfident.
‘Libby?’ he said, and Jo watched her friend blink, take a deep breath and pull herself together.
Back in professional mode, Libby reached her hand out to shake Ewan’s and smiled brightly. ‘Ewan! It’s so lovely to have you here. We’ve had so much interest in this event, and we’re delighted that you could make it.’
‘Well, I made a promise to myself that I’d do more to support independent bookstores, so I’m happy to be here. And, besides, I’m setting part of my next book in Donegal, so this was quite a good stopover point during a research trip. Your invite gave me the perfect kick up the bum to get on with my research. My editor thanks you,’ he said with a smile that showcased his adorable dimpled chin and did nothing to stimulate Jo’s power of speech.
‘Oh, you’ll have to tell me more about the new book,’ Libby said. ‘I’m sure your readers will be dying to know more too.’
‘It’s still early days, so I won’t be giving too much away. Maybe just one or two clues,’ he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, before he looked at Jo. ‘And you? Are you Jo by any chance?’
‘I am,’ she said, and noticed her voice sounded funny – a little squeaky. She cleared her throat and reached her hand out to shake his because it seemed like the professional thing to do. It didn’t matter that she suspected that feeling the warmth of his skin on hers would make her go a little weak at the knees.
‘I thought it was you. If this doesn’t sound too creepy, I looked you up on Facebook. Typical author behaviour, I’m afraid. To do your research.’
Jo cringed at the thought of her Facebook profile picture – in which she wore one of Clara’s princess tiaras and had a small purple butterfly painted on her cheek.
‘I apologise if you’re disappointed I’ve no tiara tonight. My little sister wanted it back,’ Jo said and Ewan smiled.
‘Shame. It suited you. But, look, it’s lovely to meet you, and if it suits Libby here, maybe we could sit down and have a chat about your work before everyone starts arriving?’
‘That’s perfect,’ Libby said, before Jo could find an excuse to turn and flee. ‘I’ve a space set up for you in one of the writing nooks. And I can get you a tea or coffee, or a glass of wine if you prefer? I’ll be locking the door now for twenty minutes, just to get my finishing touches done, so you shouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘That’s great, perfect, Libby, and a cup of coffee would be a lifesaver. Thank you,’ he said while Jo could feel her heart thump in her chest and her stomach clench. It was a strange feeling. A mixture of fear, excitement and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a little bit of lust.
Jo followed as Libby led Ewan to the Heaney writing nook, where Jo did most of her writing. ‘This is one of our author spaces,’ Libby explained. ‘We have a lot of aspiring writers come and use this space. Jo here included. This is her favourite spot, actually.’
‘This is brilliant,’ Ewan said, as he took it in. ‘I’d have loved somewhere like this to escape to when I was starting out. Peace and quiet away from home.’
Libby beamed with pride and Jo felt her heart swell with affection for her very dear friend.
‘I don’t think I’d have finished the book if it wasn’t for this space. When I come here, I can just write without distractions. It’s perfect. It was a genius idea.’
‘Having read some of your work, I have to agree. It works for you,’ Ewan said with a slow, smouldering sigh. Jo willed her legs not to turn to jelly as she smiled back, trying not to read too much into the compliment.
‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ Libby said, as she grinned wildly at Jo, clearly very proud of herself for making all of this happen. ‘I’ll bring your coffee over, Ewan, and then fetch you in about twenty minutes or so.’
She left and Jo watched as Ewan pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit down. ‘Ladies first,’ he said, and she did just as she was told. She was fairly sure she would do anything she was told if Ewan was the person doing the telling. His voice had a hypnotic quality to it.
He walked to the other side of the table and Jo’s palms started to sweat as he sat down and put the zip folder he had brought with him onto the desk.
‘First of all,’ he said, ‘thank you for letting me read this.’ He tapped the folder, and Jo realised this was the first time she had seen her work printed out.
‘I didn’t know anything about it,’ Jo stuttered, unable to pull her eyes away from the pages in front of her. ‘Libby is a friend of mine. Well, more than a friend really. She’s marrying my brother. He’s my adopted brother, you know. There’s a story there. Would be great in a book. But, anyway, she decided to send it on even though she’s only the first person who has read my work and I didn’t think it was ready for anyone to read. Not really.’
Ewan raised his hand and smiled. He had that soft, sexy smile that George Clooney perfected when he was in ER. There was a vague look of amusement on his face and Jo knew she had been rambling, yet she seemed powerless to stop herself.
‘I just wanted to say, it’s okay if you hate this. I mean, it’s the first book I’ve written, and I know it needs a lot of work. I definitely know the pacing could be a little stronger, and really, if you want, you can just spend these few minutes drinking your coffee instead of talking to me about it. We can pretend none of this ever happened.’
Ewan McLachlan laughed, his crow’s feet crinkling around his dark brown eyes. It was a warm laugh, and thankfully not the mocking kind that Jo had feared.
It didn’t stop her being aware she felt exposed. In fact, she couldn’t imagine she could ever feel more exposed even if she was sitting there in the nip in front of him.
Her faced blazed at that thought, and then she felt a momentary flare of panic that maybe, just maybe, Ewan could read minds and would have known exactly what image had just popped into her head. She looked away from him while she battered down her feelings of mortification.
‘Jo, take a deep breath,’ Ewan said. ‘I’m sensing nervousness. A lot of nervousness.’
She blinked at him again and nodded her head. She could feel a fine sweat breaking on the back of her neck.
‘I’m not here to tell you that what you’ve written is rubbish or amateurish. Not at all. Yes, it could do with some polish and the input of a good editor to tighten it up. And there’s some repetition that could be ironed out, but…’
Jo’s ears were buzzing. She couldn’t pick up on the ‘but’ because she had already focused on it needing a polish, and an edit, and tightening up, and all those things Ewan had said which had made her feel sick to her stomach. When she looked at him, his expression was warm and reassuring, but she wanted to scream: ‘You’ve just stepped on my dreams,’ or maybe an altogether more relaxed: ‘I’ll never been good enough.’
Suddenly, her expensive trouser suit felt too tight and it was as if she could feel every layer of make-up weighing down on her skin. She wanted to curl up in a ball and roll her way out of the shop and home again without making eye contact with anyone.
‘Jo? Are you okay? You’ve gone very pale?’ Ewan's lilting Scottish voice cut through her feelings of self-loathing. ‘You seem to have zoned out.’ He looked confused and, if she wasn’t mistake, genuinely concerned.
‘I… I’m just embarrassed to have wasted your time,’ she mumbled.
Again, his face was clouded with confusion. ‘You’ve not wasted my time. Why would you think that?’
‘Because it’s repetitive, and needs an edit and…’ She paused as she tried to remember what else he had said.
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘But every writer needs an editor. And there will always be work to be done on any manuscript. For a first run out of the starting blocks, it shows considerable talent. It’s original and dark and, I have to say, very beautifully written.’
Jo’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Had he said all this before and she just hadn’t been listening? Her mouth remained dry and her stomach remained clenched. ‘You… you actually like it?’ she asked.
‘Of course I do,’ Ewan said. ‘You’ve captured the setting so very perfectly. The isolation and darkness is all there. And your use of weather as a metaphor of mood and drama is exquisitely done. I don’t think I’ve ever read a description of a summer rain shower so evocative. It actually gave me goosebumps. I think you have an incredible amount of potential and I can see, now that I’ve met you in person, that you have that fire in your eyes – that special something that will propel you forward.’
Jo could hardly believe that he was talking about her. Ewan McLachlan, writer and creator of the McCreadie series, saw potential in her. That he thought her writing was evocative and exquisite. The urge to climb across the table and kiss him hard on the lips grew even larger than it had bee
n – and that was a remarkable feat in itself.
‘Thank you,’ she stuttered, overcome with emotion.
‘Don’t thank me,’ he said. ‘Allow me to mentor you. For a few days. As I said, I’m going to Donegal on a research trip. Come with me, for a day or two. Let’s work together. Nothing dodgy,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m not a creep. I’m booked into a hotel. I’ll get you your own room. I just like to support new writers when I can and this… this is worth supporting. I mean, I understand if you can’t or if it feels weird. But the offer is there.’
20
An Indecent Proposal
It had to be a set-up. Jo wondered if Ewan McLachlan had some secret recording device. Or maybe he was just an exceptionally weird and cruel man who liked to raise the hopes of aspiring writers and then laugh when they attempted to take up his offer.
What she knew was that there was no way his offer could be genuine. Things like that didn’t happen, especially not to her. It most certainly could not be genuine, could it?
‘I don’t understand,’ she eventually stuttered.
‘Obviously I’m going to Donegal to work and I’ll have to do that, but I have a few research trips planned and, from a selfish perspective, having someone local would help with those. I’m not being entirely altruistic. But I’ll have some downtime and I’d really love to talk to you more about your work. I’ll be honest and admit it, I’ve not finished it yet, but I’m far enough into it to be really intrigued. Have you thought about which publishers or agents you want to submit it to, or maybe you’ve already sent it out?’
‘Oh God, no. I haven’t even thought about it,’ Jo said, and blushed furiously. ‘I wasn’t sure anyone would think it was worth reading. Apart from my friends and my mum, obviously. I did plan to start looking, you know, at some stage.’ She decided not to tell him that she had no idea what ‘at some stage’ would have translated to. It could have been a year from then, or it could have been after hell had frozen over. Chances were it would have fallen somewhere in between.
In Pursuit of Happiness Page 12