What Happens at Christmas

by Evonne Wareham

  When you were ready, you arrogant bastard.

  In the back of his mind he was haunted by the spectre that if he’d done something straight away, she might still have been at the barn. There were plenty of valid reasons why he hadn’t, but beating himself up felt better than prodding at the lonely ache under his breastbone. The vicarage was nothing like the barn, yet he seemed to see Lori everywhere. See her, feel her, smell her in the scented candle that he’d found half burned on one of the bookshelves and made the mistake of lighting. Yeah, like every night.

  He prowled restlessly around the room. He was being gas-lighted by a ghost. A ghost in your own head. He didn’t know what to do to exorcise her. Call in the P.I. again, get them to pursue those other avenues?

  He’d been on the verge of doing that so many times.

  But it all came back to one thing.

  If she’d wanted to see him, he wasn’t hard to find.

  He went back to the window, leaning in, arms braced against the side of the frame. Wild weather, craziness, ghosts.

  Something was stirring at the back of his mind. Stren. The edgiest, most bad ass of his bad asses, who flitted through all the books like another ghost. The one whose story the fans clamoured for, the one whose story he’d always withheld.

  Because he’d never really known what made Stren who he was.

  Come on, you knew, but you were afraid to look it in the face. Afraid you didn’t have the depth and the guts to write it. To string yourself out there and hunt it down. That black pit of love, betrayal, guilt and anguish.

  Easier just to go and jump off a few more buildings.

  Shoving himself away from the window frame he padded back into the room. His hands, when he looked down at them, were shaking. Shit, his whole body was shaking. He really didn’t know if he could do this. Yet even amongst the shaking and the fear, he felt it – the cold exultant whisper of ‘why not?’

  He reached out a still trembling hand for a pad and pen, throwing himself into a chair. If he could just try to rough out an outline …

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  17 August, Early Afternoon

  ‘I say, are you okay?’ Drew looked up from the pile of books he was signing for readers who couldn’t make the afternoon talk. He always enjoyed doing this small but well-attended festival in one of London’s larger garden squares.

  ‘I’m fine, why?’ He reached for another book.

  Brandon Phipps raised one shoulder in shrug. ‘You look a bit haggard, that’s all. Probably the trial coming up,’ he speculated. Drew answered with his own shrug, signing yet another book. Phipps didn’t look that good himself. He seemed to have lost weight, the lines around his mouth were more pronounced and there was something sharp and bitter lurking in the back of his eyes.

  ‘The trial … Do you ever think about her … you know … Aveline?’ Phipps had his head down, looking at the table piled high with books. He’d already finished his pre-talk signing pile – not Drew’s full table, but still a respectable amount.

  ‘No,’ Drew replied, slightly puzzled. ‘Been working.’

  Phipps straightened up, shaking his head, as if to clear it. ‘The next book.’ He nodded, knowingly. ‘Coming along is it?’

  ‘Uhuh.’ Actually it was finished, but Drew wasn’t sharing that with anyone yet. It was all too raw. Once he’d begun to write, the thing had inhabited him relentlessly, but he was still a little startled at Phipps’s suggestion that he looked haggard. But maybe he was right?

  After a week of bleeding out on the page, he’d raised a spectre in the shaving mirror that wasn’t him, but might be Stren. After that, he’d taken himself in hand, commissioning the pub to supply regular meals and pots of coffee and setting an alarm to make sure he walked on the beach and that he slept.

  And now he had it. Stren’s story. Possibly the best thing he’d ever written. The thought gave him a mixture of pain and satisfaction he’d never experienced before. Other people would ultimately judge.

  But not yet.

  He cast a jaundiced eye over the pile of books that still had to be signed. The publishers had changed their minds about waiting for Christmas and hustled the new hardback out for the summer festival circuit.

  Oh shit! He suppressed a groan. One of the festival gofers, a cheerful soul with a well-kept goatee, a tweed tie and a droopy cardigan, was bearing down on him with yet another armful for signing. Pity you can’t get Phipps to scribble on a few. He bit down on the idea before it made it out of his mouth as a joke. That would definitely be taken the wrong way.

  This was the third time in two weeks that he’d shared a platform with Brandon Phipps. He guessed that Geraldine might have been behind that, to distance Phipps, in advance, from any mud that might be slung during the trial. Really the guy wasn’t too bad – a good speaker, if a little conscious of his dignity. His new book, a saga of soul-searching and shattered relationships amongst the bombs and ruins of World War Two, that apparently contained a surprising level of sex and violence, was getting good reviews and award nominations, even if it hadn’t yet achieved the higher echelons of the best-seller lists.

  Must get round to reading it sometime.

  ‘Are you going to the thing at seven o’clock? The Festival reception?’

  Phipps had picked up one of Drew’s books, and was examining the cover. It had turned out to be a fraction racier than Drew would have liked; the blonde on the cover a little too busty. Phipps replaced it on the table with something that might have been a curl of the lip. Drew didn’t exactly blame him. Maybe they could change it for the paperback? You must remember to ask. ‘What is it, drinks and things on sticks?’

  ‘Something like that. There’s one every evening, all different. Tonight it’s for aspiring writers – in other words, wet behind the ears wannabees. All with the world’s next piece of great fiction in their backpack, ready to hand to anyone who shows any speck of interest.’ The curl was definitely there now. ‘But I suppose we have to fly the flag and all that.’ Phipps leaned against the signing table. ‘That woman that all the fuss was about, back in May, is going to be there. Celebrity guest.’

  ‘Fuss?’ Drew had reached the top of the last pile. Once this was done, he was fleeing to the safety of the Green Room, before anyone else wanted him to write his name on anything. Conserving the strength of his writing hand, for signing after the talk.

  ‘You know, the debut book that went to auction. Four bidders.’ The pitch of Phipps’s voice dropped – awe, mixed with a good dose of envy. Drew could get behind that. Auctions were a pipedream for most. Back in the day, he’d have given his eye teeth for his debut to go to auction. ‘It’s one of those crossover things,’ Phipps was explaining. ‘You know, a kids’ book that can be read by adults – fairy stories with a message. She signed a three book deal in the end with Klonberger for an “undisclosed sum”.’ His tone put the quotation marks around it. ‘Bet it had a good few noughts at the end of it.’

  ‘Bet it did.’ Drew signed the last book with a relieved flourish. ‘I’ve been in Norfolk, must have missed it.’

  ‘We’ll be seeing plenty of her, for sure. Mallory Francis – she’ll be all over the tube stations and the bus stops this time next year. All done?’ Phipps pushed away from the table. ‘Green Room? I’m told they at least have decent coffee.’

  Chapter Forty

  17 August, 5 p.m.

  Lori stood at the back of the marquee and inhaled the scent of bruised grass, wet umbrellas and new books. It was by no means one of the biggest or oldest of the literary festivals of the summer, but it still had a lot of prestige. She’d had lunch with some of the committee, a right honourable, two merchant bankers and a sculptor who had known her mother in the dim and distant past and wanted to hear all about what her parents were doing now.

  And her agent had been there as well.

  She still hadn’t got used to the sound of those words. Maybe she never would. When she’d asked, rather hesitantly, if someone cou
ld get her tickets to the festival, a three-day pass had appeared, within forty-eight hours, along with the invitation to lunch and to the reception tonight for new and aspiring authors. Everyone had seemed amazingly gratified when she accepted. She already had a booking to speak at next year’s festival.

  Surreptitiously she put her hand on the canvas of the tent behind her, spreading her fingers to feel the texture of the fabric. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Grounding herself. Making sure that everything was real. That she was real.

  It had all happened so fast, so incredibly. She’d hoped for a publishing deal, maybe with a small independent press. She hadn’t expected a whirlwind. Dan and Nevada had supported her from the sidelines. Without their help, and the tie with Misty, to keep her feet on the ground, she wasn’t sure how she would have coped. Of course, Griff remained totally unimpressed by any of it.

  The afternoon of the auction, when each of the bids was more outrageous than the last, she’d nearly broken Nevada’s fingers, hanging on to her hand. Now at last she was Mallory Francis and there was no going back.

  The knowledge was terrifying.

  Almost as terrifying as the thought of seeing Drew again. Her heart lurched, making her feel sick.

  The crowd in the tent was clapping, all eyes focused on the stage. One of the committee members – the Rt Hon – was introducing the three speakers as they filed on to the platform to take their places. Lori slid quickly into an empty seat, afraid her knees would give way if she remained standing. Debut author faints at festival.

  The committee member introduced Drew last. Lori drank in the sight of him and the sound of his voice. The beard was gone, so the planes and angles of his face were more pronounced. He looks tired. No one else would notice it, from the banter that was going on between the three panellists, but the slight stoop of his shoulders sent a spasm of concern into her already churning stomach. Oh, behave yourself. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need you mooning over him.

  The talk was going down well. The audience was laughing. Drew was talking about his latest book. Lori focused on his mouth. That mouth …

  Alarmingly, a flood of heat washed over her. Oh God, she wanted … She wanted … We all know what you want, girl. The voice in her head was a filthy low-pitched whisper. Going to go up there and rip his clothes off, are we?

  Horrified, Lori swallowed the wrong way, choked, and smothered the cough with her hands, earning her a reproachful look from the woman sitting next to her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she wheezed, getting control of her breathing. Andrew Vitruvius brought out the absolute worst in her. It was shaming and exciting and she couldn’t tell which was which.

  They were answering questions now, deftly dealing with a forest of hands. Most were directed at Drew, leaving the other man and the middle-aged woman who were with him on the platform, looking slightly out of it. The woman wrote historical romances that Lori had read and enjoyed. The other man, Lori thought his name was Phipps, looked unwell, but maybe that was the effect of the greenish light in the tent? When he wasn’t speaking, but just following the discussion, his faced looked … haunted.

  Lori shook off the idea. Writer’s imagination.

  Although she tried not to focus too much on Drew – this was a panel discussion – her eyes kept sliding back to him as he batted questions to the others, seeking support, opinions, argument, bringing them back into the conversation.

  He’s good.

  Not just a pretty face and a hot body.

  ‘Oh, do go away.’ Lori put her hands to her reddening face as the woman sitting next to her shot her an alarmed look.

  I’m a writer. Writers often talk to themselves.

  The burst of applause signalled the hour was over. The rest of the row was reaching under chairs for festival tote bags and producing books to be signed. Lori didn’t know whether to be amused or horrified to see one of the women had brought a massive pile of dusty second-hand paperbacks for signing.

  ‘You’re going up there?’ A woman sitting in front of her, dressed to the nines, in what looked like her best wedding outfit, with matching shoes and handbag, brandished Drew’s latest book.

  ‘Er … no. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Ah, never mind love.’ The woman looked sympathetically at Lori’s simple beige sweater and white jeans. ‘Expensive things, these hardbacks.’ She wagged her head, knowingly. ‘You want to wait until the paperback comes out, love – maybe you’ll get the chance to have him sign it then.’

  Lori suppressed the laughter that had just the tiniest edge of hysteria in it, as the woman waddled off to join the signing queue, which was being directed to a side annex of the main marquee. Marshals were retrieving litter and forgotten umbrellas, and gently clearing lingerers from the seats, in preparation for the next session.

  Lori hesitated a moment. What would it be like, if she joined the queue? If Drew looked up, and into her eyes? Her heart was beating in overdrive, just at the thought of it.

  She stood up slowly. She wasn’t going to do it. She’d seen Drew again. She had what she came for. Unfortunately she hadn’t achieved her objective. Quite the opposite. Her stomach sank with the knowledge of what she’d just effortlessly proved to herself. Andrew Vitruvius’s power to turn her inside out hadn’t diminished at all.

  In fact, it seemed to be getting a whole lot worse.

  Chapter Forty-One

  17 August, 7.15 p.m.

  Drew lurked close to the wall of the tent, sipping a dry white wine that wasn’t as bad as he’d feared it might be, and watched the show. The small side tent, where the official signings took place, was thronged with the newly and very nearly published, and those who wanted to be. He was indulging in a mildly malicious guessing game of separating the sheep from the goats. Was the smug air of the hipster with the amazing beard because he was published, or because he knew it was only a matter of time, as he was self evidently a much better writer than anyone else in the tent, published or unpublished? The girl in the white frock looked too young to be drinking. She had to be aspiring, surely?

  Brandon Phipps was holding forth in the centre of an attentive crowd and a few of the other panellists in the afternoon sessions had also gathered small groups around them, dispensing words of wisdom. Drew had snagged a glass and sidled for cover before he’d been recognised and buttonholed. In a moment, when he needed another drink, he’d make a move and mingle, but now he was content to watch.

  Actually he wasn’t sure he was up to chatting intelligently to a lot of strangers. He rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he was tired. Or maybe it was just the contrast of weeks of self-imposed solitary confinement, with the press of people at the reception. He’d poured every emotion he’d ever had into Stren’s story.

  It hadn’t stopped him thinking about Lori.

  He’d even imagined he’d seen her, for a second, this afternoon, at the very back of the audience. By the time he’d been free to investigate, the woman, whoever she was, was gone. Which proved it wasn’t Lori, or she would have come forward to speak to you.

  There was some sort of announcement being made at the other side of the tent. People turned to listen. Drew sidled towards a break in the crowd, where he could see, even if he couldn’t hear. One of the festival committee – the sculptor Jessmayne, who lived in one of the houses on the square, was standing in front of the long trestle table that held the drinks. He seemed to be introducing someone to the audience. Drew knew the guy slightly. He’d bought one of the sculptor’s smaller pieces for his flat, once his royalty cheques had become large enough to support art and gas bills. Jessmayne had been instrumental in Drew’s invitation to speak, so at some point he really did need to go and say hello, and thanks. Now the guy was ushering forward the person the fuss was about. The crowd surged and Drew got a partial glimpse of a young woman with fair curly hair, in a sleek dress of pale blue linen, before the crowd shifted again and blocked his view completely.

  ‘Who is it?’ A loud stage whisp
er came from an elderly woman in front of him. He caught the tell-tale pink stub of a hearing aid as she turned her head to her companion.

  ‘That new author. Mallory Francis. She’s going to speak here next year.’ Drew took a few steps forward, curious. This was the woman Brandon Phipps had been talking about. He edged around the clump of people, realising with half an eye that a man at the edge of the group had spotted him and was nudging the person next to him.

  Well you did intend to mingle. Eventually.

  There was a smattering of applause, signalling that the introduction was over. Relieved from the need to be polite, the volume of chatter immediately rose again. Unable to get a glimpse of the debut author, Drew put his head down and aimed for the bar. If he was going to do the right thing, then he was going to do it with a fresh glass of wine in his hand. With luck he’d catch Jessmayne too, before he was swallowed back into the crowd.

  Jessmayne was still standing beside the improvised bar. He looked up as Drew emerged from the press, smiling and waving him over.

  ‘Andrew, good to see you. Great session this afternoon.’ The woman in the blue dress was standing beside him. ‘Come and meet Mallory.’

  It happened so fast he barely had time to take it in.

  Someone on the other side claimed Jessmayne’s attention, at the very moment that the woman turned towards Drew.

  Drew really thought the marquee swirled over his head as he looked into the face that had stalked his dreams for months. Everything else seemed to fade away.

  All he could see was Lori.

  She was looking up at him. He couldn’t read her expression, but what he saw in her eyes looked like dismay. Fuck, fuck, fuck. ‘Um – Mallory?’

  ‘Mallory Francis.’ She held out her hand. He took it. It was warm and familiar.

  So, that’s the way it is. This is the first time we’ve met. Well, you did agree never to talk about Christmas.