The Lovebirds. Cressida McLaughlin
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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