The Lovebirds

‘It sounds like a grand idea,’ Stephan called, her words reaching the café due to the building being so empty. ‘And the scopes are bound to interest a few people. You could work that into it, too.’

‘I’d planned on doing that separately, but …’ Abby chewed her pen, then scribbled everything in her notebook.

The quiet lasted close to an hour before Penelope emerged from her office, looking five years older than when she had gone in.

‘What is it?’ Abby asked. ‘Are you OK, Penelope?’

The older woman waved a dismissive hand. ‘Nothing you need to worry about. Post rarely brings good news, does it? No, this is your concern. I’m on tenterhooks wondering if it will be another complaint, or if you’ve won him round altogether.’

‘Sorry?’

Penelope slid a white envelope onto the desk, Abby’s name written in familiar, slanted handwriting.

‘Oh.’ She didn’t touch it immediately and tried to stop the smile that was threatening.

At that moment, two young women walked through the door. Their warm coats and scarves suggested they could be here for an outdoor walk, but their high-heeled boots did not. They were heavily made-up, had perfect, preened hair, and were perhaps a couple of years younger than she was. Their overall appearance was so out of place with the surroundings that Abby swallowed the urge to laugh.

She slipped the envelope beneath the counter. ‘Hello, welcome to Meadowsweet Nature Reserve – are you here for a day pass?’

‘Yeah.’ One of the women stepped forward. ‘We were wondering about those walks you do – y’know, like the one before Christmas. Are you doing any more?’

‘I’ve got several organized over the next few weeks. They’re all up on the website.’ She swivelled the computer monitor round to face them and clicked through to the relevant page.

The woman scanned the list. ‘Great, ta. And when do I know who’s coming on them?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘When do I know who else will be on the walks? Do you have a list or something?’

‘I lead most of the walks,’ Abby said, frowning. ‘Sometimes one of the wardens, Gavin or Marek, will give me a hand.’

The woman nodded. ‘So, this walk, before Christmas, yeah? I heard that … that someone …’

‘Jack Westcoat,’ Penelope finished, stepping forward, her arms folded tightly over her chest. ‘You heard that Jack Westcoat had attended one of our nature walks and are here to see if he’s likely to come on any more.’

The woman smiled, and Abby tried to hide her anger, wondering why she hadn’t worked it out sooner.

‘Yeah,’ the woman said. ‘It’s all round the Harrier estate that he was here. I’d love to glimpse him in the flesh. I’ve read all his books.’

‘Young lady.’ Penelope hardly gave her time to finish speaking. ‘This is not what Meadowsweet is for. You come to look at the wildlife, not stalk other visitors. He may have visited the reserve, but there’s no reason to suspect he will return, and even if he does, that is not information we will be sharing publicly. Do you have no concept of a fellow human’s right to privacy?’

The woman took a step back; her friend was almost at the door. ‘He’s a writer, though. Shouldn’t have written books if he didn’t want the limelight, and certainly shouldn’t have assaulted that bloke and got all over the papers. He’s fair game, as far as I’m concerned!’

‘Then I suggest you go and work out your frustrations at a hunting party, instead of coming after my— our visitors. I hear the Blasingham estate does a good grouse and pheasant shoot; you have until the end of the month before the season closes. Goodbye.’

Abby’s gaze flicked between the women, standing their ground for a moment before making a swift retreat, and Penelope, who was more riled than Abby had ever seen her. She was actually quivering.

‘Are you OK, Penelope? That was amazing.’

‘Did they honestly think they could come here to gawk at him, and that we would tell them if and when he had plans to come back? What is the world coming to? I sincerely hope that Jack isn’t leaving the cottage as they pass by, otherwise heaven knows what will happen. I’d better warn him.’ She hurried to her office and Abby was left alone, shocked by the brazenness of the young women, and wondering how close Penelope was to Jack that she could pick up the phone to him at a moment’s notice.

‘Seems the Octavia gossip tree’s made it all the way to the Harrier then,’ Rosa said, handing Abby a fresh cup of tea. ‘My neighbours haven’t said anything, but then Tim and Bob don’t seem like the kind to spread rumours.’

‘I don’t even think it’s Octavia. Remember, Jack did come on one of my walks just before Christmas. It was quite well-attended and, while nobody said anything at the time, anyone could have recognized him. He was in the visitor centre for a bit afterwards, too. He was never going to stay hidden for long, not if he’s as famous as he appears to be.’

‘He wasn’t that widely known before,’ Rosa said, resting her elbows on the counter. ‘Though he had more fame than most authors due to his first book getting so much praise, and in his twenties, too. But ever since this punching business, he’s achieved a new kind of celebrity status.’ She shook her head. ‘I wonder how much he regrets that split-second decision? Or maybe he still stands by it, who knows? From what I read, it did seem like the other guy, Eddie Markham, was behaving like a prize idiot, whatever kind of past they have together.’

Abby bit her lip. One question from her and Rosa would explain what Eddie Markham, whoever he was, had done, and then she would be able to form more of an opinion of Jack. And yet, all Rosa would know was what had been in the papers, and that couldn’t be relied upon. Abby had something much more valuable.

She waited until the coast was clear; Penelope was back in her office and Rosa and Stephan were otherwise occupied so, doing a visual check of the route from the car park to the front door and seeing no new visitors, she took the white envelope out from under the counter, and opened it.

Chapter Two

Long-tailed tits are the most beautiful of all the tits. Small and fluffy, with pinky-purple, brown, black and cream feathers and long tails, they’re very sociable and fly about in groups, spinning and bouncing like gymnasts in the trees. They’re sometimes called bumbarrels, because their nest is shaped like a barrel, with a small hole in the front for them to fly in and out of.

— Note from Abby’s notebook.

Abby folded the paper out flat as she read.

Dear Abby,

Happy New Year! I hope this finds you well, and that you had a good Christmas. Thank you for the walk, which I know you would have been doing anyway, without me, but even so. I enjoyed it. I was thinking about turning up on another one, or finding something else to complain about, and then I remembered my invitation to you. Are you still prepared to give up some of your precious time to meet me for coffee?

I look forward to seeing you soon.

Yours, JW

Grinning, Abby put the note back into its envelope and hurried to the storeroom and her handbag. She would take it home and slide it between the thick, illustrated pages of UK Flora and Fauna that sat on the bookshelf next to her bed, along with Jack’s other note to her. Now she just had to decide when, and how, to respond.

She held out until Friday, when a particularly difficult customer turned a cold but beautiful day into an extreme test of her patience. He arrived at reception with a complaint already on his lips, about how the speed humps on the approach road had dislodged the roof rack of his car, and then moaned about the quality of his lunch when he returned from his walk.

Abby had come to Stephan’s rescue and tried to placate the man, but his refusal to back down, not to mention his final comment that Reston Marsh was much more professional, left her feeling despondent. By closing time she was in sore need of something to cheer her up and, the irony not lost on her that it was a complaint that had brought her to Jack’s door in the first place, it was him she wanted to see.

Though the hour wasn’t as late, it was as dark as it had been on her ill-fated Halloween walk home, and she kept her new torch angled towards the ground. Peacock Cottage and its lit window, visible through the swaying branches, felt like a haven. She walked up the path and knocked on the door, listening to the sound of footsteps from inside, trying not to let her nerves get the better of her.

And then the door opened and he was standing in front of her, wearing a thick, sea-blue jumper with a high collar. His hair was wild, as if he’d been tearing at it repeatedly, and he had shadows under his eyes, but he was as beautiful as ever, and Abby was struck by how much she’d missed him. As his gaze met hers he smiled, the gesture lifting his face, though not entirely banishing his obvious tiredness.

‘Abby,’ he said. ‘Happy New Year.’

‘You too,’ she replied quickly. ‘I got your note, and I was wondering about that coffee? Only if you’ve got time though. I know you must be busy.’

He stepped back. ‘Come inside, it’s freezing.’

She shook her head. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I have to get home to Raffle.’

‘Of course. Let me give you my number. We can arrange a date that way.’ He held out his hand, and Abby thought for a moment he expected her to take it, but then understanding dawned and she scrabbled in her bag for her phone, unlocked it and handed it to him. He quickly tapped in his number, then Abby heard the shrill sound of a ringtone from somewhere inside the house as he called his phone from hers.

‘Good Christmas?’ he asked, as he passed her phone back and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets.

‘So-so,’ Abby said. ‘You?’

‘Pretty much the same,’ he admitted, his smile fleeting. Abby thought that perhaps there had been no glamorous parties after all, that his reality was very different to what she’d been imagining. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in? We could start the coffee trend right now.’

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, 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 wondered 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?’