never showing off. She remembered that at the beginning she’d felt he’d had a sense of entitlement, but she had come to see that as the remains of the confidence he’d had before Eddie’s interview thrust him unkindly into the spotlight, and his frustration at the turn his life had taken.
She couldn’t imagine any scenario in which Jack was responsible for Eddie’s behaviour, but even after a brief encounter with him, she could see how he could get Jack to believe that, could weave his web around his friend in order to bring him down too. Eddie Markham was definitely a storyteller, even if his best ones hadn’t made their way between the pages of a book.
When Abby tiptoed into the living room, Jack was standing at the window with his back to the room, and Leo was sitting on the sofa, Raffle lying across his lap. His narrow face was punctuated by worry lines, and his smile, when he acknowledged her, was weary.
‘Hi Abby,’ he said. ‘Your dog’s taken a bit of a liking to me.’
‘Leo, it’s good to see you again. Even when—’ She gestured, unsure how to encompass everything. ‘Let me get him off, he gets heavy after a while. Raffle, come on dude.’ She stroked the fur between her dog’s ears and coaxed him off Leo’s lap. Raffle gave a single, loud bark and scrambled onto the floor.
Abby sat on the sofa next to Leo and saw the clutch of Sunday papers that he must have brought with him. The first one had a story about a hurricane in America on the front page, the devastation it had caused, but in the bottom right was a small, blurry picture, and Abby felt the shock at seeing herself, her bright blue T-shirt and denim shorts, her hair looking lighter in the sun.
The photo had been taken at the moment when Eddie had made his move, in the seconds when she’d been too stunned to react, and the headline accompanying it read: Markham and Westcoat’s war turns personal. Abby closed her eyes, torn between wanting to read what was written, and wanting to bury her head in the sand.
‘I’m sorry Abby,’ Leo said gently. ‘This is the worst one. I would say don’t read it, but I think you need to know what they’ve said.’
He riffled through the pile, pulled out a paper that had nothing about them on the cover, but then he turned to one of the pages inside and Abby saw the headline running across the top in bold font.
Thick as thieves: Eddie and Jack share same woman, hours apart!
Abby forced herself to read the short article.
The rivalry between authors Eddie Markham and Jack Westcoat took a new turn today when, we can exclusively reveal, they were seen snuggling up to the same woman, only hours apart. Eddie Markham, 34, whose second novel, Stifle, was published last year, was pictured in an embrace with 31-year-old mystery girl, Abby Field, the morning after the Page Turner literary gala, where she had accompanied Jack Westcoat, bestselling author of In the Grip of Death and The Fractured Path, among others. Jack and Eddie’s once-close friendship blew up last July when Eddie revealed that Jack had helped him cover up an alleged plagiarism scandal centred around his first book, The Scoop. Westcoat, 34, retaliated at the Page Turner awards with a well-aimed punch, and had been in hiding until making a triumphant appearance at the gala on Friday night. With his new book due to be published in less than three months’ time, it is yet to be seen what effect this new development will have on his troubled career. It is understood that Ms Field is a resident of the Suffolk village where Jack has been staying, while her involvement with Markham is still a matter for speculation. At the time of going to print, neither of the authors’ spokesmen were available for comment.
The rest of the page was taken up with two photographs. A bigger, grainier version of the one she had seen on the cover of the other paper, Eddie’s hand around her arm, his face inches from hers, Raffle positioned behind them so that his bared teeth were hidden from view.
The other was a snap from the gala that she hadn’t realized was being taken. It showed her and Jack, dressed in their finery, her arm in his as they stepped towards the hotel’s grand entrance. Jack’s head was angled towards hers, his hair flopping over his forehead, and he was smiling. She was looking down, probably concentrating on the steps, but her pink lips were curved upwards, the sheer fabric of her dress glistening like water under the camera’s flash.
If it hadn’t been in a national newspaper, used to tell a story that was so far from the truth that it was laughable, she would have wanted to cut it out and keep it as a memento of that night. She realized that she had no photos of Jack, that they had never stopped for a selfie, that she hadn’t taken one spontaneously, surprising him when they’d been walking through the woods.
‘Eddie hasn’t made a statement,’ Leo said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Which is a good thing. Maybe he’s hoping the pictures will speak for themselves, because he knows that if he tries to claim anything more then it will be quickly denied.’
‘By you?’ she asked.
Leo nodded, his fingers pressed against his lips.
‘We’re going to respond to this,’ Jack said, turning from the window. ‘We’re going to say that Eddie staged it, that it was the first time you had spoken to him.’
‘We’ll keep your name out of it, Abby,’ Leo added.
‘How? It’s already in here.’ She pressed her hand over the page, the newsprint dusty beneath her palm.
‘But we don’t have to confirm it,’ Leo explained. ‘We’ll refer to you as a close friend of Jack’s, if that’s OK with you.’
‘Sure’ she said. ‘Look, I – I should leave you two to it, shouldn’t I? Packing, and everything.’
Leo stood and gave her a quick, tight hug. ‘It’s been lovely to get to know you, Abby.’ He patted her twice on the shoulder, then stepped back. ‘Hopefully we’ll see each other again soon. And don’t forget to smile, OK? However miserable you feel on the inside, smile, and you’re halfway there.’
‘I’ll try,’ she said, forcing a smile, wondering why that phrase sounded so familiar.
Jack walked with her to the front door. She stepped onto the path, into a beautiful day bursting with the heady scents of early summer. She let Raffle’s lead out, allowed him to snuffle at the grass, at the tires of Jack’s squashed-frog Range Rover that, in a few hours, would be speeding down to London.
‘This is too hard,’ Jack said, wrapping his arms around her waist. ‘I’m supposed to go back to my flat, stand up to Eddie, talk passionately about my new novel, while you’re here.’
‘You’re going to be fine,’ she said. ‘Better than fine. You’ll tell your side of the story, prove that you don’t deserve the accusations, that you’ve done nothing but try and help him, and your new book will be brilliant. You’ll be a huge success.’
‘What about you?’ he asked, tipping her face up to his. ‘Tell me what you’ll do.’
‘I’ll save Meadowsweet,’ she said. ‘And the house of birds and butterflies.’
His smile was strained. ‘I don’t doubt that for a second. I’ve seen you at work, seen the way people respond to your enthusiasm, how you’re inspiring a new generation of nature lovers, children – fledglings – who will grow up to make a difference. You give people hope, Abby, and I haven’t been immune from that. Even in the face of what’s happened, I’ll
