by Emma Grey
You look like a completely different person.
‘Read it. Please. And if you hate it, don’t tell me. Just make up some praise. No, I don’t mean that! If it’s really bad, just tell me. Be completely honest with me, okay? I’m counting on you.’
He will read it. Except . . . she is wrapped in this dress . . . And her hair!
‘I never show anyone my first drafts,’ she says, gravitating to the fireplace, the light from the flames flickering all over her. She’s talking about her work, but the statement could probably apply to other things. He can’t work out what’s more attractive – how she looks or how little she seems to care about it. She’s totally focused on her writing. Which he needs to take seriously.
‘Okay,’ he says, smiling. ‘I want to read this.’
She nods, and pushes him over to the couch and sits him down on it, and positions herself close beside him, nervously.
He glances at her, then decides not to do that. Focus. Read the words. It’s hard, with her scrutinising his every facial expression, searching for clues.
Second paragraph in, he is gone. Really. The rhythm of her sentences is musical. Who is this girl? Nothing scatty about her. Nothing uncertain. It’s like her own words are weaving some sort of spell over her – calming her. Centring her.
They’re weaving a spell over him, too.
‘You wrote this today? This afternoon?’ He’s not accusing her of plagiarism. It’s just that these words seem so fully formed, so quickly.
She nods, almost holding her breath for his feedback. He reads on.
‘This is a first draft?’ he asks, clarifying.
‘Yes, Reuben. Put me out of my misery. What do you think? Honestly?’
He looks at her, sitting beside him pinning every single hope on what he thinks, and all he can see is her brain. Actually, that’s a lie. He can see the rest of her, obviously, and he’s trying to ignore that for now because it complicates things, massively, but it’s her mind that has him. Hook, line and sinker.
Fishing. There it is again. That stupid analogy Henrietta had used, but he is meant to be the one reeling her in. He isn’t meant to be sitting here with the laptop he’d bought as a peace offering, having all kinds of harebrained ideas about where raw talent like Tilly’s could go.
‘You’re not saying anything,’ she says tentatively. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘Is this saved?’ he asks. ‘Because if this isn’t saved, Tilly, save it now. And back it up everywhere. It’s in the cloud? Several clouds? I’ve got a USB in the kitchen drawer . . .’
She smiles. ‘It’s saved, Reuben. It’s totally safe.’
It might be totally safe, but he isn’t. He clears his throat. ‘What else have you written? Because I really like this.’
She doesn’t hide her delight.
‘I’ve written quite a lot,’ she says, quickly. ‘Most of it awful. I won a story prize somehow . . . It was just for young writers, obviously. Just through a magazine.’
Her potential and her confidence are at war with each other. She’s exactly where he was several years ago with his music, hardly daring to dream something might actually come from doing the one thing he loves. Playing down his ability. What’s beneath this insecure facade, he wonders. She must know she’s got it.
‘Well, these words aren’t awful,’ he says, handing back the computer. ‘It’s clever. It’s funny. It’s your turn of phrase more than the premise . . .’
‘I want to talk to you about that.’
He bets she does. ‘Quiet, studious, secretly besotted schoolgirl meets out-of-reach celebrity and presumably saves him from his cold and lonely existence?’
Stranger things have happened. Stranger things are happening, under this very roof.
‘But what is this? A novel, or some sort of satirical self-help book about dating a pop star?’
She reddens. ‘It’s a bit of both? A memoir? A cautionary tale? Successful authors say to write what you know. Not that I’m secretly besotted. Or even openly besotted! What I mean to say is I’m not at all besotted with you, Reuben. That bit is fictional, of course.’
‘Of course.’ He smiles. She really is flustered. Being real and unsettled looks good on her. It looks good on anyone, and there are far too many people in his world who disguise their true emotions.
‘My English teacher said there are stories around us everywhere. We just have to reach out and catch them. And there’s so much I want to say about celebrity worship. This is sort of an anti-fairy tale, inspired by something you said on the steps outside the ball.’
‘“Isn’t this is all backwards?”’ he says, remembering.
‘Obviously it’s him who needs rescuing,’ she explains. ‘Not her. She’s happy as she is. She has a life, and doesn’t need to be swept into a world where she can’t be herself, you know? And that’s the best bit. There’s no happy ending. Not together, anyway. Do you mind?’
Mind what? That she’s writing something everyone will know is based on him? Or that the fictional heroine is happy alone? It feels like a trick question.
‘Write whatever you want,’ he says, feeling like his carefully managed life is hurtling along an unfamiliar track, out of control suddenly.
With no warning whatsoever, she flings her arms around his neck in a hug, then immediately springs away from him and says, ‘Sorry.’ He tells her not to apologise – she’s always apologising – and she jumps up again and does this weird little dance in that amazing dress and informs him that this is going to be fun, and they are late for dinner and shouldn’t they go because she’s ravenous.
Of course they should go. Yes. They should totally celebrate this. Celebrate her and her fictionalised-meets-self-help account of what they’re going through.
Except for that thing about the paparazzi. Which he has to explain at some point in the next twenty minutes, or this magic is going to shatter and she is absolutely going to hate him.
Chapter 17
‘Tilly, I have to tell you something,’ Reuben says as he pulls the car carefully out of the driveway and onto the road for Wallingford.
She doesn’t hear him at first. She’s far away in her book, which feels like a delicious, secret dream that nobody knows about. Nobody except Reuben, of course, and he seems impressed. A bit shell-shocked by it, maybe, but still impressed.
‘It’s about tonight,’ he explains. ‘It’s important.’
She doesn’t care about tonight. This is just a meal, and soon she’ll be back in her room, out of this dress and back into something more ‘her’, with the laptop and the story and the characters and hours and hours on her own to just write.
‘Tilly?’
She feels like he’s dragging her, kicking and screaming, away from her imagined world and into a real conversation. ‘Reuben, sorry! You started this. You gave me the computer.’
He looks at her.
Does he think she’s crazy? She feels a bit crazy. But in a good way. She doesn’t really care what he thinks, anyway. Fiction feels bigger than reality, right now.
‘Henrietta phoned me,’ he says.
Would he stop talking? The band. The princess. Who cares? She has a plot to unravel and piece back together, to the exclusion of everything else in life until it’s done. Writing is a drug …
‘Can we not talk about Henrietta?’ she asks. Ugh. She just wants to put that whole debacle behind her. A few days hiding out here waiting for the press to die down, then she’ll sneak home to Australia, into her own safe, normal life. Lesson learned.
Reuben drives in silence, until he pulls the car into a dark, backyard car park on the edge of the village.
‘Ready?’ he asks, and it occurs to her that Reuben isn’t moving. He hasn’t unfastened his seatbelt. And he’s staring at her again.
‘I’m really happy about your book,’ he begins. ‘Also . . .’
Also what?
He looks at her the way an inexperienced high-school boy would look at her in a car o
n a first date. It’s weird, given who he is, and who she isn’t …
‘Shall we go?’ she asks, her stomach growling. She doesn’t wait for a response and unlocks the passenger door.
‘Wait!’
But it’s too late. She opens her door.
‘Tilly!’
‘Reuben, I haven’t had a proper meal in days,’ she implores, closing her door and heading for the back entrance of the restaurant without him. He scrambles out of the car. Slamming the driver’s door shut, he hits the ‘lock’ button and follows her.
‘If there are cameras tonight, I’m sorry,’ he says abruptly, appearing behind her. She laughs. There aren’t any cameras. Now who’s paranoid?
‘You said it was safe,’ she says. ‘I trust you.’
She smiles confidently, and pushes open the door. Walking into the room before him, she feels for once in her life like everything is finally coming together. Maybe this whole thing, this crazy fiasco, is happening for a reason. Perhaps she’s finally coming to grips with the uncertainty that plagued her all through school. Maybe being here, hiding out with Reuben and writing is showing her that she can face things without her usual entourage of supporters. Maybe this is what it feels like to be an adult!
Chapter 18
Tilly sits at the table opposite him, hilariously dissecting the hipster menu. ‘Everything has to suffer,’ she explains. ‘Smashed avocado, wilted kale, scorched pepper, tormented potato, distressed fish. When did we start treating food like this? It’s inhumane! Oh, wait, invigorated arugula! Invigorated, Reuben! It’s not all bad . . .’ She laughs, and her exhale of breath makes the candle flicker. The light dances through her hair and across her face, and Reuben tries to pull himself together.
This is not how this stint in the country was supposed to play out. A few days away from London, lying low and keeping out of each other’s hair. Not sitting here, staring at her hair, fantasising about running his fingers through it, wondering if she kisses as well as she writes. Maybe he’s been single too long. Cooped up on a country estate with a girl, hiding from the world, what did he expect would happen? He inwardly kicks himself. The theory might hold if it had been twenty-four weeks instead of twenty-one hours, and if they hadn’t spent a great proportion of those hours arguing.
Tilly leans forward, motioning for him to do the same. ‘Spooked pancetta,’ she whispers, so as not to offend the chef. ‘Spooked.’
‘I’ll raise you some spooked pancetta for some terrorised almonds,’ he whispers back.
‘Activated,’ she says, laughing. ‘Not terrorised.’
‘Mildly on edge?’
‘Alert but not alarmed.’
They both laugh and this time the force of their breath blows the candle out entirely. Apparently, she’s seen a candle lighter on the mantelpiece and, as the maître d’ who’d shown them in is otherwise occupied, she leaps up to collect it.
‘I love lighting fires,’ she confesses as she walks back to him, lighter in hand.
‘Playing with words, lighting fires . . . any other hobbies I should be aware of?’ he asks.
She leans over the table from behind his chair, her hand resting on his shoulder in a way that shouldn’t have surprised him. Of course she’d be a touchy-feely person. Normally he hates that, but he sits still as she strikes the igniter, and delicately catches the wick.
He’s barely registered her scent when she turns her face to his, close, whispering like they’re undercover cops on a stakeout. ‘Of course the candle would be suspended in an upturned whisk, wouldn’t it!’ she notes, before holding the lighter vertically, like a smoking gun, twirling it, fast, on a finger, and blowing it out.
‘Very theatrical,’ he observes.
‘All the restaurants have to outdo each other.’
‘I meant you.’
She puts the lighter back and sits down again. ‘I used to wait tables in an extremely unsuccessful cafe. The guy behind the bar and I had to make our own fun between customers.’
‘I can imagine,’ he answers, although he really doesn’t want to. The idea of Tilly and some barman entertaining themselves while she plays with fire and words and giggles over activated almonds makes his jaw clench. Not that he has any right to be jealous.
‘Tilly, speaking of boyfriends,’ he begins warily.
‘Oh, Mark wasn’t my boyfriend, he’s gay! But we had the best time. We were going to start a YouTube channel and make videos together on slow nights, but we couldn’t risk being sacked.’ She smiles at the memory.
He swallows. ‘This muse story. Or this idea of us pretending —’
They’re interrupted by the owner of the restaurant, who brings complimentary champagne, which Tilly refuses. ‘Can’t. I’m writing.’
‘Driving?’
‘Writing. I want to bash out another thousand words tonight and need a clear head.’
The meals are ordered and they’re left alone again.
‘This, um, romantic plot between us that the media’s latched onto —’ He tries for a third time to introduce the topic they have to discuss before everything is ruined.
She firmly shakes her head. ‘The media is disturbed. I hate lying. And also, I can’t act.’
‘I can’t act either,’ he argues.
‘Oh, please! What do you call all that pining around in your music videos – long looks at the camera, every girl manipulated into thinking she’s the only one for you out of millions of girls in the entire world, and it’s just a matter of time before this farcical fantasy relationship of hers eventuates!’
Wow. ‘I love it when you use big words, Maguire.’
‘Shut up!’ she says, blushing red. Clearly he’s hit a nerve now, and he wonders if she was teased at school for being so clever.
‘I apologise for the music videos,’ he says, deadpan. ‘I didn’t realise they’d have that effect on you.’
She catches his gaze and holds it, in what feels less ‘romantic moment’ and more ‘vice-like grip’.
‘You are truly unbelievable.’ He can tell from her stifled smile that he’s caught her out. ‘I’m speaking generically, Reuben. Do I look like one of your fangirls?’
Is that an invitation to look? And since when has he waited for one?
‘You’re right. You’re no good at lying.’
She takes a long sip of sparkling water, stalling. ‘I’d barely know one of your songs if I fell over it by mistake in a playlist.’
‘Harsh!’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe I’ll have to educate you, later. You show me your chapters, I’ll show you my songs.’
‘How many albums do you have?’
‘Five. Plus a Christmas one.’
‘One song per chapter,’ she says. ‘And I draw the line at the Christmas ones.’
An hour and a half of good food and banter later, and Reuben can’t delay the inevitable any longer. She won’t be convinced and won’t pretend to feel things she doesn’t. She thinks the whole idea is full of holes. So he’s going to have to own up. He can’t throw her unprepared at the swarm of cameras that will be outside by now.
‘You need to know something,’ he says as she pulls on her coat. ‘Henrietta phoned earlier, and —’
‘Please don’t ruin tonight by talking about Henrietta!’
They are standing in the confined space of the alcove at the back door. It is the sort of space that closes in on a couple and pushes them towards each other, whether they want that or not. Her face is right there, and she is slipping on her coat and adjusting a scarf around her throat – looking kissable.
‘Reuben,’ she says, after a second. ‘I have just had the most delectable idea.’
So has he, but his isn’t fictional. Or utterable.
She puts her hand on the door handle, and he snaps his attention back where it’s needed. ‘Tilly, wait!’ But it’s too late. She opens the door and it triggers the inevitable explosion of camera bulbs like it was rigged to set them off.
&
nbsp; He waits for her to scream. He wants to throw his arms around her and guide her safely through the pandemonium. Instead, she shakes away his arm and stands where she is in the dazzling lights, staring at him, outraged. ‘Did you know about this?’
His gut falls.
‘Did you set this up? Did you bring me here for this?’
He isn’t going to lie to her. ‘I tried to tell you. You don’t understand —’
He knows she’s trying to work him out. Trying to decipher his cryptic logic. And he is powerless to do anything other than stand there in the light of camera flashes and hope she can read him.
‘Do you have a statement?’ a cameraman calls out. ‘Can you confirm you’re in a relationship?’ Reuben ignores him. It feels like she’s the only one here. And like he’s fallen over a cliff face and she’s trying to decide whether to grab his hand and pull him back or let him plunge. She owes him nothing. She has zero reasons to help him out right now, the way he wants her to.
He watches as something shifts in her eyes. She has seconds, in the cameras’ blinding lights, to make a decision.
‘Are you a couple or not?’ someone yells.
‘What does it look like!’ she calls back, and then she drops her bag on the ground at their feet, places her hands on Reuben’s chest, grabs both lapels of his jacket and pulls him towards her and into the kind of kiss that, if she writes about it later, will combine all her hobbies into one and set her book on fire.
Chapter 19
‘I’ll drive!’ Tilly snaps, grabbing the keys from Reuben’s hand and scooping up her handbag. She doesn’t wait for him to argue, and pushes through the throng of media like she’s been managing the attention for years. Miraculously, the photographers seem to sense she means business and part to let her through, then swarm around her as she unlocks the door, leaving Reuben shut out in the cold behind the pack. She is going to throttle him.
When he forces his way through the melee and into the car, she revs the engine and reverses. Cameramen jump out of the way and onto motorbikes and into cars, and she swings out of the car park, into the laneway, and screeches through the town’s high street, lights on full beam, heading towards Oxford.