Page 23 of Just for December
‘It’s a British thing, I suppose. From when we used to wrap our fish and chips in yesterday’s newspaper. So: today’s news is tomorrow’s fish-and-chip paper. Ergo it becomes old pretty quickly …’
‘I see,’ Evie says, not bothering to reopen her laptop. She needs to admit defeat. She hasn’t published sixteen books in ten years by working when the muse doesn’t show up. Evie knows she can sit here for the next two hours and get maybe five hundred usable words, or she can wait until she’s had agood night’s sleep and let five thousand pour out of her in the morning. ‘Well, they say the internet has a long memory, so … It all remains to be seen, doesn’t it?’
‘Can I join you?’ he asks.
‘Isn’t that just asking for trouble? We’re fighting, we’re too cosy together, we’re sleeping together … What next? Plotting to ruin the world …? Plus, I thought you’d had enough of me last night. You stormed off.’
He looks around. It’s quiet. Most of the crew have gone out into town tonight.
‘I had had enough of you,’ he says, but he’s smiling, the handsome prick. ‘You drive me potty. But there’s nobody else here to have a drink with and I don’t know – I think I’m just a glutton for punishment.’ His voice is mischievously low, and it makes Evie smile in spite of herself.
‘Fine,’ she tells him. ‘I was going to order another anyway.’
Duke calls over the waiter and Evie admires the space. The bar is wood-panelled with red leather banquette seats and low lighting, and piano renditions of festive favourites play softly from a speaker above them. Coloured lights from trees in either corner dance slowly, reflecting light onto strategically placed tinsel. Garlands hang from the ceiling, and Evie only just realises that they must be made with real fir tree branches because the smell of pine permeates the air. Their red wine comes, and Duke looks at her.
‘Cheers,’ he says.
‘Cheers,’ Evie echoes. They clink, touch their stems down to the table for good luck, and drink. It’s heavy and full, berries and promise staining her lips.
Duke takes another big gulp from his glass. ‘My trainerwould kill me for this,’ he says, nodding to the wine, but Evie can’t relate.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Evie says, then. She’s already had a large glass, so she’s loosened up. It’s easier to voice your opinion when you feel loose. ‘You said it was you who put it in my contract. That I had to be here. But I don’t think you ever said why.’
‘Why did I want you out here?’ He pauses, and Evie rolls her eyes at his dramatic delivery. He’s such an actor. ‘Because I really am a fan,’ he says. ‘I’ve honestly read everything you’ve written, and I even tried to get an advance copy of next year’s, but I got told they’re not ready yet.’
Evie pulls a face. It’s the equivalent of:yeah, okay, whatever. ‘My best friend isn’t even that eager,’ she tells him. ‘Not that she should be or anything. It’s not like I go and stand in the back of her classroom and applaud her teaching, so why should I expect her to read everything I write for work?’
‘Not the same thing,’ he says. She blinks. Duke narrows his eyes. ‘Youstilldon’t believe me, do you? You don’t believe that I cried when Max and Sinita had to get on separate flights inFly Me to the Moon.Or at Luther’s scene, where he finally confronts his dad so that he can lay his demons to rest and move on with Rochelle inHope and Ghosts? I cried for like, an hour after that one. It was cathartic. Not to mention George, inOn the Romantic Road.Why do you think this movie even got made, Evie? I read the book and made it happen. I took this to Stu at Independent, got Marnie involved; I attached my name early so we could get funding. Me.’
Like a goddamn sweeping saviour, Evie thinks, darkly. But then, her jaw slackens. He seems genuine. She goes to speak,but then finds she doesn’t actually know what she wants to say. She settles on: ‘I didn’t know that. I don’t know how this all works.’
‘You do understand that you’re brilliant, though, don’t you?’ he asks her. She shakes her head. Brilliant? No. Brilliant is a bit strong. Competent. She’s competent.
‘I’m not Shakespeare,’ she says. ‘I have a committed group of readers who like my style, and I try to tell the emotional truth of things, even if I do fudge a happy ending. But it’s just stories. Just words.’
‘Words that help people,’ Duke says. ‘Surely they must tell you that, at book signings?’
‘I don’t do signings,’ Evie counters. He knits the tops of his eyebrows together. ‘I’m not very good … publicly. I don’t like it. I told you. I’m a private person.’
‘Emails, then,’ he pushes. ‘DMs.’
She shakes her head. ‘Somebody else takes care of all of that for me.’
‘Reviews?’
‘Nope.’
‘Whoa. You literally have no idea what your work means to people? You don’t have a relationship with the people who buy it?’
She shakes her head. She writes it, and what happens after that is none of her business. That’s what she’s always told herself.
‘You’re changing lives, Evie. You should fire your people if they aren’t making you see that. That’s why I wanted you here. You’vehelped me, Evie. The way you see the world helpsmeto see the world. I don’t care that your books aren’t evenfor me. I’m a dude who reads romance! So what! I bloody love them. They give mehope, Evie. Do you know how incredible that is?’
Evie can’t compute the passion with which he’s talking. It’s hyperbolic, all this. He’s an actor; he’s paid to be dramatic. And she isn’t this great inspirational figure he’s making her out to be. She’s a mess.
‘I don’t write to tell other people how to live their lives,’ she tells him, once he’s calmed down. She takes a breath, knowing what she wants to say but hesitating. Can she trust him? She decides that she doesn’t care. The truth is the truth. ‘I write to escape my own.’
Duke stops smiling. He looks at her, intently. For a moment, the air feels charged, like if she leans forward he’ll be pulled into her orbit too, right until their lips collide.
