The Lovebirds

by Cressida McLaughlin

  ‘Well, my love, that gives me hope.’

  ‘You’re still thinking of asking him to do a talk here?’

  ‘I am. We cannot waste these opportunities. I picture you all striving at that reserve, doing all you can to combat the threat of Wild Wonders, and I know that I have to take my chances too. Hold that thought.’ She lifted a finger and disappeared in the direction of the convenience store, which was manned by part-time staff and volunteers, some older people from the village who liked to stay busy and sociable, many of them also covering shifts at the reserve.

  ‘What thought?’ Abby called, but Octavia was back in a flash, carrying two cans of coke.

  ‘Kettle’s on the blink,’ she said, ‘so I hope this will do.’

  Abby thanked her and popped the can open.

  ‘So, what do you think our plan of attack should be?’ Octavia asked, sitting opposite her. ‘What will Jack warm to – flattery, directness, money? I don’t have a lot of that last one, but flattery I could give him until the cows come home.’

  ‘Our plan of attack? Octavia, I only came in here to, uhm, look at the books.’ Tessa had called Abby to let her know they were all fully recovered from their bug and to remind her that she still wanted the name of the erotic book Abby had conjured up after accidentally blurting out her Jack-inspired fantasy. Abby had thought she had got away with it, but now she was going to have to find a book that fitted her overactive imagination. Octavia, it seemed, had other ideas.

  ‘You know him better than any of us,’ she said. ‘You have to help me.’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Abby protested. ‘I’ve met him five times in four months. That could hardly be called a friendship.’

  ‘And you’re fully up to speed on all that happened, with his altercation?’

  Abby made a noncommittal noise.

  ‘You mean you haven’t Googled Mr Westcoat?’ Octavia gave her an incredulous look.

  ‘I didn’t think it was fair, all of us knowing about him when he doesn’t have a clue what we’re like. He’s alone here, and it seemed very one-sided. Besides, you can’t trust anything they write in the press.’ She didn’t want to admit that, over Christmas, she had Googled him, but that the first headline – Is acclaimed author Jack Westcoat heading back to his bad-boy ways? – made her close down the browser then spend the next three days forcing herself not to open it again.

  ‘But there were eyewitness reports from credible sources,’ Octavia pressed. ‘It’s quite the thing, Abby. You shouldn’t go into this not knowing who you’re dealing with.’

  ‘Go into what? I’m not going into anything with Jack Westcoat!’

  ‘You need to be aware of the background if you’re going to help me.’ She bustled over to a large wooden cabinet with at least twenty slender drawers, like a tall map chest. She opened one and pulled out a stack of newspapers wrapped in an elastic band. As she brought them back to the reading area, Abby could see that the pile had a Post-it Note on top that read: Jack Westcoat. Abby winced as she imagined him discovering the library had a dossier about him.

  ‘Here we go,’ Octavia said, putting her reading glasses on. ‘No – first, tell me what you know. I’ll fill in the blanks.’

  Abby sighed. She was trapped, with no way of protesting or escaping. Octavia wouldn’t let her leave until she was fully up to speed. She couldn’t even slip her hand inside her handbag and ring her phone, pretending it was someone who needed her urgently, because her neighbour would spot it in a flash.

  ‘I heard that he punched another author at an awards ceremony in the summer, and it’s damaged his reputation.’

  ‘Ah,’ Octavia said, holding up a hand. ‘The punch isn’t the worst of it; that he could have been forgiven for, it seems. It’s what led to the attack that is causing angry ripples in literary circles. Have you heard of Eddie Markham?’

  ‘Only because Rosa mentioned him the other day.’

  ‘Right. Well, it seems that Jack and Eddie were inseparable young sprogs, enduring school friends, something like that. They both went up to Oxford, had some indiscretions as sometimes happens to young men with the world at their feet, and both chose writing as their careers. They ended up publishing their debut novels six months apart. Jack’s was a psychological thriller, Eddie’s a satire. The satire flopped, but Jack’s flung him into the literary stratosphere, and he’s been a critically acclaimed, prize-winning, all-round top, talented author ever since. Until last July.’

  She smiled serenely, and Abby thought that if Octavia had been a bird, she would have been ruffling her feathers by now.

  ‘What happened in July?’ Abby asked, playing along. She braced herself, ready to hear something she would have to explain away so that Jack didn’t fall in her estimation. Or did she want him to? Would finding out about his past banish her growing feelings, and take the unwanted complication out of her life? Maybe she should have done it at Christmas, read all the sordid details and been done with him.

  ‘Eddie sold his story to a national newspaper,’ Octavia said, ‘and let it be known that, all those years ago, when fame and fortune were beckoning, his first novel, the satire, had been the subject of a plagiarism claim. In the interview, he denies being guilty, explaining that at the time he was prepared to reveal the accusation and protest his innocence, but his good friend Jack Westcoat, on the verge of being an immensely successful author himself, paid for the whole thing to go away.’

  Abby rubbed her forehead. ‘What? So … someone accused Eddie of copying another person’s book? And what did Jack do? He wasn’t under suspicion too, was he?’

  ‘No, not at all. Jack could have distanced himself from the whole thing, but according to this recent interview with Eddie he swept in like Prince Charming and paid off whichever journalist had uncovered the scandal and was threatening to go public with it. This was supposedly against Eddie’s wishes, mind. It seems that, even before he was successful, Jack’s family was fairly well off.’

  Abby could believe that. He seemed more old money than new, like he was entirely comfortable with expensive cars and watches and aftershaves. ‘But if Eddie wanted to be honest about the whole thing, then why didn’t he refuse Jack’s offer?’

  ‘Why don’t you read the piece, Abby?’

  ‘No, you tell me, Octavia. It sounds kinder coming from you.’

  ‘Fair enough. Eddie claims that Jack was very persuasive and told him it would be much better for both of them if the whole thing disappeared. Eddie even suggests – and this is the worst of it – that Jack did more than just pay the female journalist, that there was nothing to stop her publishing her story however much cash he offered, and that he had other ways of sealing the deal.’ Octavia raised her eyebrows.

  Abby had no idea what to say. Had this Eddie person honestly suggested to a national newspaper that Jack had slept with a journalist to stop a plagiarism claim being brought into the open? Despite Abby knowing very little about Jack, from what she had gleaned from their brief meetings, this seemed beyond far-fetched.

  ‘You’ve met him,’ Octavia said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Is he this handsome in real life?’ She held up the newspaper, the double-page spread as much images as it was words.

  There was a recent, posed photo of a man about her age, with a round face and short blond hair flattened to his head with gel. His expression was smug and contrite all at once. Obviously, this was Eddie Markham. On the opposing page was a paparazzi snap showing Jack mid-stride, his hand up, ineffectually trying to hide his face. She noticed the telltale darkness of broken skin on his knuckles, and his scowl was deeper than she had ever seen it, but there was also a haunted look in his eyes, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

  She tried to process the revelation. He had covered up the plagiarism claim against this man, supposedly paid a journalist a huge amount of cash, and perhaps gone even further. No wonder his reputation was in tatters. It all felt skewed, dishonourable, despite the loyalty to his friend. She wonder
ed if Eddie Markham had held something over him, something from the troubled past that Octavia had mentioned, that had forced Jack to behave like this. She wasn’t sure she believed any of it. But she didn’t know Jack, she reminded herself, she just didn’t want it to be true.

  She looked again at the photo of him, how trapped he seemed in that instant. ‘He’s better looking in real life,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Good Lord, is that even possible?’ Octavia peered at the photos, the crackle of the newspaper echoing up to the high ceiling.

  ‘So, this all happened a long time ago,’ Abby said, ‘but Eddie chose last year to suddenly reveal it to the world. Why would he do that? And Jack didn’t respond?’

  ‘Except by hitting Eddie at the awards ceremony a week later. After which, he issued an apology through his agent …’ Octavia searched the pages. ‘… Leo Ravensberg. Short and sweet, but has done nothing to improve his floundering status, it would seem. Apparently, he was on the verge of being the Page Turner Foundation’s new ambassador, all sorts of accolades and responsibilities heading his way, but that’s all out of the window now, they say.’

  ‘And what about Eddie?’ Abby asked, feeling indignant on Jack’s behalf. ‘What about his reputation?’

  ‘Oh, everyone’s cooing over Eddie, the browbeaten, young and impressionable friend, trying to be honest, listening to Jack when he should have stuck to his instincts.’

  ‘He was the same age as Jack, though! How has he got away with it?’

  Octavia eyed her over her glasses. ‘I’m sensing protectiveness again.’

  Abby sat back in her chair. ‘I’ve met Jack, and although I don’t know him that well, I can’t believe … what did his apology say? The one through his agent?’

  Octavia picked up a different paper and flicked through it, licking her fingers to turn the pages. ‘Here we are. Statement on behalf of Jack Westcoat: “I apologize unreservedly for my behaviour at the Page Turner awards. It was inexcusable, and I will be offering a full, private apology to Eddie Markham, Bob Stevens and the organizers of the event. There have also been recent claims about a plagiarism case in 2010. That matter is in the past, and as such I will not be making a further statement at this time. However, I will say that I believe the decisions I made were the best I could have under the circumstances, and I stand by them.” How’s that for smooth, eh?’ Octavia asked. ‘But a bit silly of him not to deny it, if it’s a load of gibberish.’

  ‘You think this Eddie person’s making it up?’

  ‘I think Eddie Markham gave the interview to tie in with the release of his new book, and was on the hunt for publicity. And he looks like a rat, if you ask me. No, on consideration, I would be delighted to have Jack Westcoat at my library. As long as we could get him to sign a disclaimer saying he wasn’t going to hit anyone.’

  ‘That might be a bit close to the bone,’ Abby said. ‘I’m sure we can trust him, unless Eddie Markham turns up.’

  ‘God save us!’ Octavia replied, and then glanced around nervously, giving a brief wave to the crucifix that was still nailed to the chapel wall. ‘Does that mean you’ll help me, love? Get Jack to take me up on my offer, once I’ve made it?’

  Abby thought of the letters lying between the pages of her book, the text messages on her phone arranging their coffee date. Now she knew more about Jack’s past she was desperate to delve further, to disprove Eddie’s words. She wondered if reading one of his novels would give her insight into his personality, and then realized the easiest thing would simply be to ask him about it on Friday. The thought brought her out in goose bumps.

  ‘Let me see what I can do,’ she said. ‘But we might have to do it gradually. After all, while everyone in Meadowgreen is aware of him, he knows hardly anyone here.’

  ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey,’ Octavia nodded. ‘I approve of your approach. Thank you, Abby, you’re a doll.’

  Chapter Three

  A cuckoo’s call is instantly recognizable. It’s friendly and familiar, and makes you think of hazy summer mornings and the glittering mere. But cuckoos have a darker side; they lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, then when the cuckoo chicks are born, they push out the other chicks and are brought up by their new, oblivious foster parents.

  — Note from Abby’s notebook.

  On Thursday evening, with the rain pounding against the window and Raffle lying contentedly on her feet, Abby undid the Amazon package, the perforated cardboard making a satisfying noise as she pulled it open. After leaving the library she had given in and ordered Jack’s latest novel, The Fractured Path. The story Octavia had relayed had left her unsettled, and in the absence of having Jack to talk to, she thought one of his books would be the next best thing.

  She took out the glossy hardback and spent a long time staring at the dark, brooding cover, and at his name, raised in blue lettering on the front. Then she read the acknowledgements, recognizing one name from Octavia’s information-dump – his agent, Leo Ravensberg. As far as she could decipher, there was no mention of a significant other, and the tone of his thank-yous spoke of the humour that she’d seen glimmers of first-hand: dry, self-deprecating but undeniably warm.

  As she turned to the prologue and read the graphic description of a body being uncovered in a London alleyway after the thawing of days-old snow, she wondered if he used darkness and irritability as a cover: something he could hide behind to stop people getting too close. Only now the barriers were beginning to recede, and Abby found she couldn’t wait to see what Jack was keeping behind them.

  He picked her and Raffle up on Friday morning in his Range Rover, and drove them to a smart, cream-walled pub called the Queen’s Head. It was a few miles away, down twisting, hedge-lined roads, bare winter fields beyond.

  The pub was almost deserted mid-morning, but the fire was lit, and Abby picked a table close to it, Raffle barking his appreciation before settling at her feet while Jack went to the bar to order their coffees. He returned with the drinks and a packet of three posh ginger biscuits that he opened on the table between them. He was wearing a black, round-neck jumper, dark jeans and smart tan boots. The fabric of his jumper looked impossibly soft, and Abby had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it.

  ‘This is where Flick brought me, the day you saw us together in the village,’ Jack said.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Abby focused on her biscuit.

  Gorgeous, talented and almost as passionate about nature as Abby was, Flick Hunter was anchoring the national television programme, Wild Wonders, from Reston Marsh, the nature reserve close to Meadowsweet. Abby struggled to feel any warmth towards her, because Wild Wonders was part of the reason Meadowsweet was in trouble, and also because she could still remember the tightening of her chest when she had seen her talking to Jack on the day of the Halloween event. The woman, it seemed, was determined to muscle in on every aspect of Abby’s life.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me,’ he continued, oblivious to her discomfort. ‘There’s no ulterior motive, just that Meadowgreen is very different from London, and being here is more of an adjustment than I’d anticipated. After Christmas, it feels like a bit of a sanctuary, but there’s only so long I can survive with just my laptop for company. I know we got off on the wrong foot, but after your winter walk I feel like we’re on firmer ground.’

  Abby sipped her coffee, which tasted bitter compared to her usual cup of tea, and nibbled the edge of a biscuit. ‘Much firmer ground,’ she agreed. ‘And I know what it’s like to move somewhere new, to leave things behind. I was lucky because I was starting at Meadowsweet at the same time as Rosa, so we were thrown into the deep end together, and I had lots of people to talk to. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you.’

  ‘Even so, my complaints were unnecessary.’

  ‘You can’t help how you feel,’ Abby said. ‘And anyway, they—’ she was about to say they led her to him, then realized how that might sound. ‘I just have a very long to-do list at the moment. But you
’ve stopped complaining – I can tick you off my list!’ She gave him a sunny smile.

  ‘And I suppose without them, we wouldn’t be here,’ he added, stealing her thoughts. ‘So, there’s that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Abby swallowed. ‘There is that.’

  ‘And Meadowsweet?’ Jack asked. ‘Why have you got so much to do? Is Wild Wonders really a threat?’

  Abby took a deep breath as she considered her answer. This was something she could talk about; she was on much safer ground with the nature reserve.

  An hour later, Jack probably knew more about Meadowsweet than he had ever expected – or hoped – to. But he seemed interested, interrupting her spiel with questions, laughing as she told him about Stephan’s over-enthusiastic singing, commiserating with her about the uncertain future of the reserve, intrigued by the idea of hangover walks and the star species that could be spotted at different times of the year.

  She realized, as she finished her second coffee and Jack offered her the last biscuit – Bourbons this time – that he had given up hardly any information about himself. She’d aimed a few questions at him, but he’d deflected them with an ease that probably came with being in the public eye.

  He put the empty biscuit packet in his mug and stretched his arms to the ceiling. ‘I should think about getting back. I can’t avoid the laptop forever.’

  ‘Is your new book going well?’

  ‘I’m working a bit slower than I’d like, but that’s often the way at the beginning. And it feels promising, so far.’

  The cold hit her as they stepped outside, the previous day’s damp pavements drying in a brisk, icy wind. Jack, coatless, hurried to the car, unlocking it as he went.

  ‘There are some days when I don’t even have the inclination to be creative,’ Abby said as he started the engine. ‘When the well is dry I focus on logistics instead. It must be a nightmare when your whole career revolves around your imagination.’