Birds of a Feather. Cressida McLaughlin

      ‘Jack, this is not your fault.’ She sat up. ‘How could it be?’

      ‘I should have stayed away from you. I should have been stronger, and then this – Eddie, going back to London – none of it would have mattered.’

      ‘Of course it would have. How can you say that?’

      ‘Because without you, I …’ He faltered, shrugging.

      After tomorrow he would be back in London, and Peacock Cottage would be empty again. She would be left with nothing but memories and a dull ache in her chest that was already unfurling, blossoming like the roses in the garden.

      A single tear leaked out, and she broke eye contact with him. Jack cupped her face and brought his lips to hers, and Abby let him kiss away her sadness. And, as their kisses deepened, ignoring the fact that the curtains were open, or that Raffle was sleeping loyally at their feet, all Abby could think about was standing next to him in front of Swallowtail House as the sun dipped and the windows flamed, and how much everything had changed.

      Abby stayed with Jack, returning to his bedroom, glancing at her phone screen but not replying to the persistent messages from Rosa and Octavia, one from Tessa inviting her over tomorrow. Jack, too, focused solely on her, even when Leo’s name flashed up on his iPhone.

      ‘I’ll listen to his message later,’ he murmured, pulling the duvet over them both.

      She tried not to think about the photos, and that if Eddie was as intent on hurting Jack as he seemed to be, then the pictures would most likely be online already. She tried not to think about anything but being with Jack.

      When the sun began to set, he slipped from the bed, fed Raffle some cold beef, made cheese on toast and cups of tea, and brought them back upstairs.

      Abby settled into the crook of his arm as they ate, watching the sky darken.

      ‘London’s not that far from Suffolk,’ she said into the quiet. ‘I could visit you.’

      Jack kissed the top of her head. ‘The press might follow the story, see if they can get any more on what Eddie’s fed them. I don’t want to risk you being implicated any more than you already are.’

      Abby nodded, trying not to feel it as a rejection.

      ‘And Leo will want me to concentrate on the book, the publicity.’ He sighed and put his empty plate on the bedside table. ‘I don’t want you to stay away Abby, but I need to protect you from some of this. If it gets difficult again, if I—’

      ‘Who will stop you from drowning your sorrows in a bottle of whisky?’

      ‘I promise that if I even think about it, I’ll go and get some chips instead, OK?’

      Abby laughed, the sound breaking through the quiet. ‘OK. You have to keep that promise, though, or I’ll worry.’

      He slunk down the pillows, pulling her to him. ‘I’ll be all right.’

      ‘You will?’

      He hesitated. ‘The thought of you here, striding through the reserve, sitting in the forest hide watching those ridiculous bullfinches will keep me going.’

      She nodded, wondering how she was going to go back to her job, to be bright and bubbly and full of the joys of summer when Jack was living his life without her, back in London.

      They slept, they talked, they held each other, and then, long after the birds had woken and the new day had begun, a loud knock on the door dragged them from sleep, and Jack crawled out of bed, pulled on jeans and the scruffy red T-shirt, and went to let Leo in.

       Chapter Two

       The magpie is a large black and white bird with a long tail about the same length as its body. They eat almost anything, and often steal eggs and baby birds from nests. They’re the subject of a lot of superstition – seeing a single magpie can be a sign of bad fortune, impending death or the devil. A magpie’s call is like a harsh cackle.

      — Note from Abby’s notebook.

      Abby took her time showering in Peacock Cottage’s clean but dated bathroom, hearing the low mumblings of Jack and Leo downstairs. She was pleased that, knowing everything, Jack was ready to give his side of the story, even if she didn’t believe her involvement should have been the final straw, that he should have stopped it long before now. His loyalty to Eddie was, in some ways, commendable, but she could also see that he had been trapped by him, stuck between friendship and the guilt of having been brought up in a family with more opportunities.

      But in the relatively short time Abby had known Jack, she hadn’t seen him push his wealth in other people’s faces, even if that wealth was now due to book sales rather than his upbringing. He wore expensive clothes and aftershave, drove a good car, but he’d always done those things in an unobtrusive way, 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