Rules for a Successful Book Club (The Book Lovers 2)

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘Archie!’ Polly shouted as she saw a motorbike turning into their lane. Dropping her bag and running out after her son, she managed to grab him by the arm and pull him to safety on the other side of the road whilst the motorbike swerved dangerously and tore up the green, leaving a deep skid mark in the soft grass before almost crashing into a tree.

  ‘Oh my God, Archie! What did you think you were doing?’ Polly cried, holding her son’s face in her hands.

  ‘I was going to pick up that crisp bag,’ he said, his big eyes wide with innocence.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was littering our road,’ he said, pointing in the direction of the wayward crisp packet.

  ‘Oh, Archie! No crisp packet is worth risking your life for,’ she said, ‘and what have I told you about crossing roads? You know you’re not meant to run out into them without looking!’

  It was then that Polly remembered the motorcyclist and looked up to see him wheeling his bike back onto the road. He was tall and was wearing leathers and a helmet which he took off as he approached them.

  ‘Are you guys all right?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re fine,’ Polly said, taking in the handsome face with a wide mouth and messy fair hair that was blowing in the wind now that it was released from its helmet. There was something familiar about him, but Polly couldn’t quite put her finger on it. ‘I’m so sorry. My son wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Jago?’ Archie suddenly said.

  ‘Archie?’ the young man said. ‘Are you okay? I didn’t recognise you in your hat.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘You two know each other?’ Polly said.

  ‘I’m Jago.’

  Polly frowned, none the wiser.

  ‘I came round a few weeks ago,’ he continued. ‘About the guitar lessons. I met Archie out on the green one morning when he was walking your dog. A spaniel, right?’

  ‘Dickens,’ Archie said. ‘Dickens likes Jago, Mum.’

  ‘Does he?’ Polly said with suspicion.

  ‘I was just leaving my house and Archie clocked the guitar I was carrying, didn’t you?’

  ‘He straps it on his back when he takes it out on his bike,’ Archie said, obviously impressed.

  ‘Right,’ Polly said, less impressed than her son. ‘But we don’t want guitar lessons.’

  ‘I know,’ Jago said. ‘You told me.’

  ‘I do, Mum!’ Archie piped. ‘I want them!’

  ‘Archie, we’ve been through this. You’re already learning the piano and you’re struggling with that.’

  ‘But that’s because it’s boring!’

  ‘Oh, and you wouldn’t get bored with guitar lessons?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’d love guitar lessons!’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to talk about it now, okay?’ Polly told him. ‘Listen, are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked, turning back to Jago.

  ‘No bones broken,’ he said.

  ‘And your bike?’

  ‘Needs a good wash after all that mud, but it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to have given you such a fright. Tell Jago you’re sorry, Archie. You might have caused a serious accident.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Archie said, his cherubic face looking serious for a moment.

  ‘That’s all right, little man,’ Jago said. ‘No real harm done.’

  Polly watched as he turned around with a wave of his hand and crossed the green to rescue his bike.

  ‘Archie Prior!’ Polly said, as soon as Jago was out of earshot, ‘what are you doing to my nerves?’

  Archie looked up at her with a face so full of innocence that she couldn’t be angry with him for long.

  ‘Can we have tea now?’ he asked.

  A laugh exploded from her at her son’s effortless return to normality.

  ‘Yes, let’s have tea,’ she said. ‘As soon as you’ve practised that new piano piece.’

  ‘Aw, Mum! Can’t I learn to play the guitar instead pleeeease?’

  ‘No you can’t. Your father wanted you to learn the piano and that’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it?’

  Archie stomped angrily into the house and Polly followed him, silently cursing the guitar-wielding biker for putting such notions into her young son’s head.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Callie Logan had been staring out of the window of her study at Owl Cottage for some time now, taking in the pretty view across the green at Newton St Clare. Even in the middle of winter, it was a view she loved and she really couldn’t imagine any other now, but it could be an awful distraction from her writing and she was meant to be making headway with the second book in her new series.

  Callie’s soon-to-be ex-husband and current editor, Piers Blackmore, had already sent her a few pertinent emails reminding her about the importance of keeping the ball rolling when you were onto a good thing and Callie couldn’t help feeling anxious. She’d only just signed the contract for her first book last month and, although she’d received a handsome advance, she felt deeply uneasy about the prospect of working with her ex.

  She’d known that Piers wouldn’t make life easy for her if she agreed to sign a new book deal with him and, so far, she’d been proved right. Of course, she had chosen to accept his very generous advance and knew full well that there’d been strings attached. She couldn’t have everything her own way, she knew that, but she couldn’t help thinking that there was more to all this than just business, and it was hard to shake the image of his face when he’d visited Owl Cottage back in November and told her that he’d made a big mistake in letting her go and that he wanted them to get back together again. It was as if he’d conveniently forgotten that they were getting divorced and that Callie had made a new life for herself in Suffolk.

  Her real fear was that he’d try that again. Her agent knew how she felt, but she’d casually brushed aside Callie’s feelings.

  ‘Piers is a professional,’ Margot had told her. ‘You won’t be working directly with him anyway.’

  Well, Callie hadn’t believed that for a moment and, sure enough, Piers had made sure that he was her editor even though she’d been told she’d be working with somebody else.

  She stood up from her desk and went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea, switching on the lamps in the living room, but leaving the curtains open for a little longer as the last few streaks of light faded from the winter sky.

  She was quite determined that she wasn’t going to let Piers spoil things for her. Since she’d made the decision to leave both him and London and start a new life for herself in Suffolk, she had felt a tonne of weight slipping from her shoulders, and then the most unexpected thing had happened: she’d fallen in love with Sam Nightingale. Her first Christmas in Suffolk had been spent with his family at their beautiful Georgian house deep in the countryside and how warmly she had been welcomed. If Sam’s mother, Eleanor, had been surprised that Callie hadn’t been spending Christmas with her own parents, she hadn’t shown it. Perhaps Sam had tactfully filled her in on that subject, Callie thought as she poured newly boiled water into a mug. Her parents, who lived in Oxfordshire, still hadn’t made the trip to Suffolk to see their only daughter’s new home and Callie couldn’t help feeling hurt by that.

  Still, she thought, it was insane to dwell on things she couldn’t change and she knew that her parents weren’t going to change their ways now and suddenly start showing an interest in her and what she was doing with her life, and that was fine because she knew that she was leading a good and happy one.

  Lighting the wood burner, Callie lost herself in reading some of the pages she’d printed out of her new novel, attacking dreadful sentences with a purple pen and making notes in the margins for additions to be made later. It was as she was coming to the end that she heard Sam’s Volvo pulling up outside Owl Cottage.

  ‘Hey,’ he said a minute later when she opened the door to him. He bent his head down and kissed her and Callie couldn’t quite believe
that this handsome sensitive man was really in her life now. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good,’ she said, caressing his face. ‘Come on in. It’s nice and toasty by the wood burner.’

  He followed her into the living room.

  ‘Here,’ he said, producing a book from out of one of the brown paper bags with the Nightingale logo on it, For books which make your heart sing. ‘I brought you this.’

  ‘Sam, you can’t keep giving me all your stock. You’ll have nothing left to sell!’

  ‘It’s just one book,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Yes, but you’ve been giving me “just one book” each day for the last week!’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ Sam said. ‘I couldn’t not give you this.’

  Callie couldn’t help but smile. She loved being spoilt especially when the spoiling came in book form, so she took the little book and looked at it.

  ‘Conversations with my Agent,’ she read.

  ‘By Rob Long,’ Sam said. He’s a writer and producer in the US. It’s a very funny book. I think you’ll like it after what I’ve heard about your own agent. I think it’s a universal thing that agents never listen to their clients.’

  ‘Good to know,’ Callie said with a laugh. ‘I was beginning to think I might have just got unlucky.’

  Sam took a step towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You’re not looking forward to going into London, are you?’

  ‘I just don’t see why I have to,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’ve told Margot that everything can be done over the phone and by email these days, but she insists that I attend this silly meeting.’

  ‘Well, it is often better to talk business face-to-face,’ Sam said.

  ‘Traitor!’ she said. ‘I thought you were meant to be on my side.’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Just tell Margot – and Piers – that this is your one exception and that you expect to be left alone to write your book in peace after.’

  Callie nodded. ‘I’ll tell them.’

  ‘And I can come with you if you want some moral support.’

  ‘Really? I thought you hated London.’

  ‘With a passion,’ he said, ‘but I’d come with you if you needed me to.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, thinking once again about how lucky she was to have found a man like Sam. ‘I’ll cope.’

  ‘I know you will.’ He bent to kiss her again. ‘Now, what shall we have for tea?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll bring you a few cook books tomorrow,’ he told her with a grin.

  Polly had just tidied up the tea things when there was a knock on the door. She frowned. It was unusual for anybody to call in the evenings and she certainly wasn’t expecting anyone.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called as she walked down the hallway, checking that her hair was still neatly clipped back.

  ‘Jago Solomon,’ the voice came back and she opened the door. ‘I’ve come to see how the little lad’s getting on.’

  ‘Oh,’ Polly said in surprise, ‘come in.’

  He bent his head under the low door frame and walked in. ‘It’s Polly, isn’t it?’ he said, holding out a large hand.

  ‘Yes,’ Polly said, shaking it.

  ‘I can’t seem to get yesterday out of my mind.’

  ‘I hope you’ve not been worrying about it,’ Polly said. ‘I think Archie’s all but forgotten about it now. You know what children are like.’

  ‘And how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. It shook me up, but it’s certainly made me more vigilant now. You know he was chasing a crisp packet?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A crisp packet. He’s absolutely obsessed with litter!’ Polly explained. ‘He won a competition at school to design an anti-litter poster and it was hung in the library in Castle Clare for a month. Well, he thought that would solve the world’s litter problem!’

  ‘So, he’s a young eco warrior?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Polly said.

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘He’s watching TV in the living room,’ she said.

  ‘All right if I go through?’ He motioned towards the door.

  ‘Okay,’ Polly said, ‘but mind the–’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘–beam.’

  Jago rubbed his forehead. It really wasn’t a good idea to be over six feet tall in Suffolk what with all the low ceilings and beams to negotiate, Polly couldn’t help thinking.

  They walked into the living room together where Archie was sitting on the sofa. Dickens, who’d been curled up at his feet, was up now and eager to greet their visitor.

  ‘Jago!’ Archie said, abandoning the garish cartoon on the TV as he realised who it was. ‘Did you bring your guitar?’

  ‘Not tonight, Arch,’ he said, bending to give Dickens a friendly pat. ‘Maybe another time?’ He turned to look at Polly who was taken aback by the unexpected offer.

  ‘Erm, maybe,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, go on, Mum. I want to hear him play. He can play Vixen Vibe on it.’

  Polly rolled her eyes. Vixen Vibe was the latest chart-topping hit that was difficult to escape if you had a child. It had been in the soundtrack of a smash hit film and was being played everywhere.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to hear that,’ she said, giving a tiny smile.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jago said, ‘it’s not my only tune.’

  ‘I want to hear them all,’ Archie said.

  Jago looked at Polly. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you?’ he said, his wide mouth stretching into a grin.

  ‘Archie – let me have a word with Jago about all this, okay?’ she told her son before leading Jago into the kitchen.

  ‘I was just going to make a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She filled the kettle and cleared her throat, unsure of how to speak to the young man who seemed to be so chummy with both her son and her dog.

  ‘You’re Maureen Solomon’s son, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘I’ve not seen you around before,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve just got back from America.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, turning to face him.

  ‘Spent a year out there after university. Got an uncle who runs a bar in a town near Seattle. I worked there, provided a bit of evening entertainment and travelled around a bit.’

  ‘Sounds like fun.’

  ‘It was,’ he said. ‘The Pacific Northwest is beautiful. I went up to Alaska for a bit too. Awesome landscape.’

  ‘But you came home to Suffolk?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? I really thought I might make a go of it in the States, but – well, you know.’

  She wondered what he meant by that. Had something in particular brought him home? He really was very handsome, she couldn’t help thinking, with his dark blond tousled hair and his ever-present smile. He had nice eyes too. Slate-grey, she noticed. He was wearing a big bulky coat and black jeans and biker boots.

  She blinked. She was paying far too much attention to him.

  ‘Milk?’ she asked, turning back to the tea things.

  ‘Black. No sugar,’ he said.

  ‘Have a seat,’ she said, presenting him with his tea a minute later and joining him at the kitchen table.

  ‘So,’ he said without preamble, ‘what have you got against the guitar?’

  Polly was surprised by the forthright question. ‘I don’t have anything against the guitar,’ she said. ‘But it isn’t right for Archie.’

  ‘Why not? He’s showing a real interest in it and that should always be encouraged, I think.’

  ‘Look,’ Polly said, deciding it was best to take control of the situation once and for all, ‘it’s really admirable that you’re so passionate about music.’

  ‘I am passionate,’ he said, a light dancing in his slate-grey eyes.

  ‘And
I admire that,’ she said, ‘but Archie is learning the piano and I really think that’s enough to be getting on with. He’s only six–’

  ‘When I was six, I was playing the piano, the guitar and the drums.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t mention drums to him!’ she said.

  Jago laughed. He had a nice laugh. It was big and warm. An honest, wholesome laugh, Polly thought.

  ‘I won’t mention drums,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘On one condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you let me bring my guitar over,’ he said.

  ‘Look – I really don’t think–’

  ‘Just to let him see it and hear it and have a go,’ Jago said. ‘That’s all I’m asking.’

  Polly frowned. ‘Why is this so important to you?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I guess I saw something of me in Archie that morning on the green. He’s got a spark about him, you know?’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ Polly said with a smile.

  ‘Then you should help that spark take light. You shouldn’t be trying to extinguish it.’

  Polly’s mouth dropped open. ‘I really don’t appreciate being told how to raise my son.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I wasn’t suggesting–’

  ‘I might be a single parent,’ she interrupted, ‘but Archie is the centre of my world. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.’

  ‘I’m sure there isn’t,’ Jago said, his face flushed red in embarrassment.

  ‘And for you – a young stranger – to come waltzing in here and criticise the way I do things–’

  ‘I wasn’t criticising,’ he said. ‘Honestly I wasn’t.’ He reached out across the table and picked up her hand. Polly gasped at the sudden, intimate touch. ‘I’m sorry. I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?’

  Polly could feel that her heart was racing. She wanted to tell him to go, but the words wouldn’t quite come out.

  ‘Why don’t I let you think about it for a bit?’ he asked. ‘Okay?’ He let go of her hand, took a huge gulp of his tea and then scraped his chair back and stood up. It was then that something caught his eye.