The Lovebirds. Cressida McLaughlin

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      She was sorely tempted, but if she went inside, she would never want to come back out in the cold. And Raffle was waiting for her. ‘I can’t,’ she said, gesturing in the vague direction of her house. ‘But I’d love to meet up soon. Whenever you’re free.’

      He nodded. ‘I’ll call you. It’s good to see you, Abby.’

      ‘You too.’ She turned and walked down the path before she could change her mind, and didn’t hear his front door close until she was almost out of sight of Peacock Cottage.

      ‘Hangover walks, you say?’ Octavia asked, as she whizzed around the library with her trolley, putting returned books back on the shelves. ‘You think that will take off?’

      ‘I don’t know yet,’ Abby said. ‘But I’m trying to think a bit more cleverly. If we only appeal to people who already visit us, then our footfall will never grow dramatically. I want to attract brand new visitors.’

      ‘You can but try, my lovely. I’m hoping to do the same with this place, but at the moment my secret weapon is a little bit too secret.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ Abby asked, sitting in a faded blue armchair in the reading area.

      She loved the old chapel that Octavia had almost single-handedly turned into the village library, with the convenience store in what had once been the vestry. It was a tiny chapel, and yet it seemed cavernous, with several rows of bookshelves, a colourful, bean bag filled area next to the children’s books and games, and three tables with green reading lamps that passed as the reference library, alongside a tatty set of encyclopaedias. With its high roof, stained-glass windows and that cold stone smell about it despite being carpeted, Abby always felt calmer here. On this particular Tuesday afternoon, it contained only the two of them, nobody else perusing the shelves.

      ‘The elusive Jack Westcoat,’ Octavia said, pushing her red hair over her shoulders and hurrying to the desk to update the online catalogue.

      ‘Oh.’ Abby picked at a thread on the chair.

      ‘Not so elusive to you, it would seem. He turned up on one of your walks, I hear. And how was he?’

      Gorgeous, Abby thought. Gorgeous and mysterious and, understandably, a little bit shy. And he kissed me Octavia, just on the cheek but – oh, he kissed me! And we’re going for coffee, on Friday.

      ‘He was nice,’ she said, noncommittally. And then, because she had already bad-mouthed him to her own mother to throw her off the scent, added, ‘he wasn’t remotely rude. He was even slightly interested in what I was saying at one point. And he thanked me afterwards.’

      ‘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, СКАЧАТЬ