He ate cheese and pickle sandwiches and drank coffees as Hil handed them to him but he often forgot to finish them, and there were half-drunk cups around his desk, despite Hil trying to whisk them away when she delivered the food.
But he was so deep in the story, he had no idea what was happening outside his desk.
He typed like a man possessed, moving through scene by scene, wanting the reader to get to the pivotal moment in the plot at a good pace without being too rushed.
He wanted them to feel the world in which his detective lived. To taste the cold black tea she drank from the cup made the day before. The way she washed her underarms at the sink in the police station bathroom. How she ignored her terminally ill mother’s phone calls. How she walked the path of the murderer daily, trying to find the link to understand who he was. It felt like the first time in his writing life that he was fully immersed in the character and he knew part of the reason he could be so deep in the development was because of Eve’s presence. She was always around but not intruding. She could be found in the snug, reading or talking to Flora or Myles. Perhaps finishing off his edits and chatting with Hilditch in the kitchen. She was just there. Present, steady, calm.
There was something about her presence in any room that warmed him. It made his nights more cheerful when once he avoided them with wine and misery.
But he was torn. He wanted to finish because he needed to tell the story but he also knew that Eve would go back to her life once it was done, no matter what vague promises they had made to each other.
One kiss might have been enough to cement a marriage in the 1700s, but he and Eve were strangers with an intense attraction.
He had come out of his study to sing happy birthday to her with the children and Hilditch and had apologised for not organising a present from him.
Eve had laughed and told him a finished manuscript would be enough but still, he understood why Amber had felt so neglected. It wasn’t an excuse, it was a lack of good time management, he thought as he walked through the house. He noticed the scent of the pine decorations and the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling from the snug.
Eve had put a tree in the living room, the kitchen, the study and the snug and Edward had to admit he liked them all.
‘Knock knock,’ he said as he tapped on the open door of the snug, where Eve sat peacefully reading.
Eve looked up from her book. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Me,’ he said confused.
‘You knocked and said “Knock knock”.’ She laughed. ‘I thought there was a joke.’
‘No jokes,’ he said and he moved beside her and sat down, lifting her feet onto his lap.
‘I’ve finished,’ he said, rubbing her socked feet.
‘For the night? Well done,’ Eve said looking at the pages of her book.
‘No, I’ve finished, finished.’
‘Finished? Like done, done? The end? Denouement? Fin?’
Edward let out a huge sigh. As though he had been holding his breath for weeks.
‘Yes, it’s done.’ He turned to Eve. ‘I am so grateful to you, Eve. For the book, the kids, for me. For it all.’
Eve smiled and gave a small laugh. ‘You’re silly. You wrote the book; I just gave you a kick up the bum. And as for the kids, well Myles needed some friends and Flora needed to know she mattered. Sometimes a stranger is best at pulling the threads together.’
He took her hand in his.
‘And today’s your birthday,’ he said. ‘And I haven’t done anything for you.’
‘Yet.’ She smiled and he felt his stomach flutter and moved her dark hair behind her beautifully shaped ear. He had never noticed people could have lovely ears until he met Eve.
‘It is,’ she replied.
The tension in the room was palpable.
‘I do owe you a present,’ he said.
‘You really don’t. My work here is nearly done,’ she said.
‘Are you leaving?’ he asked.
