The Lovebirds. Cressida McLaughlin

what about Eddie?’ Abby asked, feeling indignant on Jack’s behalf. ‘What about his reputation?’

      ‘Oh, everyone’s cooing over Eddie, the browbeaten, young and impressionable friend, trying to be honest, listening to Jack when he should have stuck to his instincts.’

      ‘He was the same age as Jack, though! How has he got away with it?’

      Octavia eyed her over her glasses. ‘I’m sensing protectiveness again.’

      Abby sat back in her chair. ‘I’ve met Jack, and although I don’t know him that well, I can’t believe … what did his apology say? The one through his agent?’

      Octavia picked up a different paper and flicked through it, licking her fingers to turn the pages. ‘Here we are. Statement on behalf of Jack Westcoat: “I apologize unreservedly for my behaviour at the Page Turner awards. It was inexcusable, and I will be offering a full, private apology to Eddie Markham, Bob Stevens and the organizers of the event. There have also been recent claims about a plagiarism case in 2010. That matter is in the past, and as such I will not be making a further statement at this time. However, I will say that I believe the decisions I made were the best I could have under the circumstances, and I stand by them.” How’s that for smooth, eh?’ Octavia asked. ‘But a bit silly of him not to deny it, if it’s a load of gibberish.’

      ‘You think this Eddie person’s making it up?’

      ‘I think Eddie Markham gave the interview to tie in with the release of his new book, and was on the hunt for publicity. And he looks like a rat, if you ask me. No, on consideration, I would be delighted to have Jack Westcoat at my library. As long as we could get him to sign a disclaimer saying he wasn’t going to hit anyone.’

      ‘That might be a bit close to the bone,’ Abby said. ‘I’m sure we can trust him, unless Eddie Markham turns up.’

      ‘God save us!’ Octavia replied, and then glanced around nervously, giving a brief wave to the crucifix that was still nailed to the chapel wall. ‘Does that mean you’ll help me, love? Get Jack to take me up on my offer, once I’ve made it?’

      Abby thought of the letters lying between the pages of her book, the text messages on her phone arranging their coffee date. Now she knew more about Jack’s past she was desperate to delve further, to disprove Eddie’s words. She wondered if reading one of his novels would give her insight into his personality, and then realized the easiest thing would simply be to ask him about it on Friday. The thought brought her out in goose bumps.

      ‘Let me see what I can do,’ she said. ‘But we might have to do it gradually. After all, while everyone in Meadowgreen is aware of him, he knows hardly anyone here.’

      ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey,’ Octavia nodded. ‘I approve of your approach. Thank you, Abby, you’re a doll.’

       Chapter Three

       A cuckoo’s call is instantly recognizable. It’s friendly and familiar, and makes you think of hazy summer mornings and the glittering mere. But cuckoos have a darker side; they lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, then when the cuckoo chicks are born, they push out the other chicks and are brought up by their new, oblivious foster parents.

      — Note from Abby’s notebook.

      On Thursday evening, with the rain pounding against the window and Raffle lying contentedly on her feet, Abby undid the Amazon package, the perforated cardboard making a satisfying noise as she pulled it open. After leaving the library she had given in and ordered Jack’s latest novel, The Fractured Path. The story Octavia had relayed had left her unsettled, and in the absence of having Jack to talk to, she thought one of his books would be the next best thing.

      She took out the glossy hardback and spent a long time staring at the dark, brooding cover, and at his name, raised in blue lettering on the front. Then she read the acknowledgements, recognizing one name from Octavia’s information-dump – his agent, Leo Ravensberg. As far as she could decipher, there was no mention of a significant other, and the tone of his thank-yous spoke of the humour that she’d seen glimmers of first-hand: dry, self-deprecating but undeniably warm.

      As she turned to the prologue and read the graphic description of a body being uncovered in a London alleyway after the thawing of days-old snow, she wondered if he used darkness and irritability as a cover: something he could hide behind to stop people getting too close. Only now the barriers were beginning to recede, and Abby found she couldn’t wait to see what Jack was keeping behind them.

      He picked her and Raffle up on Friday morning in his Range Rover, and drove them to a smart, cream-walled pub called the Queen’s Head. It was a few miles away, down twisting, hedge-lined roads, bare winter fields beyond.

      The pub was almost deserted mid-morning, but the fire was lit, and Abby picked a table close to it, Raffle barking his appreciation before settling at her feet while Jack went to the bar to order their coffees. He returned with the drinks and a packet of three posh ginger biscuits that he opened on the table between them. He was wearing a black, round-neck jumper, dark jeans and smart tan boots. The fabric of his jumper looked impossibly soft, and Abby had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it.