Page 44 of Just for December
‘Do you know your room number?’
‘Two-twelve.’
He nods again. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he says. ‘In the morning. About 8 a.m., okay? I have to go to bed now.’
His mother stands up as he does, and Duke sees Roger approaching and gives a little wave.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Duke says, and he goes up to his room. He gets his phone out of his pocket, and then puts it backagain. He’s not sure if he wants to talk about his mother being here, making it real, or to go to bed and close his eyes and pretend it’s not happening. The hotel phone on his bedside table rings.
‘Hey.’
It’s her. Evie.
‘Can you come up?’ he asks her.
It takes her less than three minutes. He opens the door to her and she looks at him, and it isn’t pity, he doesn’t think, like she feels sorry for him. It’s real, proper concern.
‘I won’t ask if you’re okay,’ she says, opening her arms wide, asking permission to hug him. He lets her. She smells like watermelon and green apple. Citrusy. ‘Did you have any idea?’ she presses, holding his hand and leading him to a chair in the corner. He sits in the chair, and she sits at his feet on the woven rug, her arms draped over his legs, her eyes inquisitive.
‘None,’ he says. ‘I’ve not seen her since, like, three Christmases ago when she ended up in A&E from drunk driving. I was so mad at her, Evie. She could have killed somebody. I mean, by all means she can drink herself to death but there could have been a kid, somebody’s uncle or father or sister … She says she’s sober now.’
Evie nods. ‘Do you believe her?’
Duke sighs. ‘I really, really want to,’ he says, ‘But honestly? I don’t know how much hope I have left in me when it comes to her.’
He moves to the bed and sinks down, exhausted.
‘Okay. You asked me once what you could do to help. My turn to return the favour … What do you need?’
‘I … don’t know.’
‘Well, how about I go grab my laptop and I sit here and write? Then if you need me I’m here and if you don’t, no worries.’
He nods. ‘That’s kind,’ he says.
‘Of course,’ she tells him. ‘You can even fall asleep, if you want. I’ll just … be around.’
This is the Evie Duke thought he’d meet all along. He knew she was in here somewhere. Not an Evie to look after him, but a thoughtful, careful Evie. One without armour. It makes Duke reveal more of himself, too. It feels human. Empathetic.
Duke remembers getting to the last page of the book Adele lent him on that holiday together, stretched out on the sun lounger with tears pricking at his eyes, a lump in his throat that might have been sadness or might have been optimism. Evie’s words tread a fine line. He’d read her acknowledgements, short and sweet, and then on the inside cover was her photograph. He’d looked at her wide eyes and arched eyebrows, the almost-smile on her lips and her serious, earnest gaze. The bio underneath said, simply:Evie Bird is a writer from Utah. She has been nominated for the Romantic Writers’ Award six times and won three.No Stopping Usis her eighth book. She is currently writing her ninth.
He googled her, but not much came up – a webpage with her book covers and links to buy, no contact page or email box to write, and a social media page that stated in the bio that it was run by a social media manager. He’d brought the book home with him to London, put it on his shelf and ordered her back catalogue. For the past few years, he’s hadher next publication on auto-buy, and whenOn the Romantic Roadwas released, just before yet another Christmas his mother ended up in hospital, he knew it needed to be a movie, and that she needed to be involved. Her words saved him, and she’d had no idea.
Evie nips back to her room for her laptop, and when she’s back Duke feels a swell of gratitude.
‘Hey,’ he says, suddenly remembering something Daphne had mentioned.
‘Hmmmm?’ she asks.
‘I just want to say – Daphne said you found an information sheet on yourself? It really was hers, you know. I don’t want you to think I’ve been putting on a front about how I relate to your work …’
She looks at him and smiles. She seems pleased.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I think I believe you.’
‘Think?’
She shrugs. ‘Ninety-eight per cent, yeah.’
