Page 55 of Romantic Hero
‘We were just about to set off for Little Crumpet, but here you are, thank God.’
‘Jeez. Look, I’m totally fine. I was halfway through texting you when my phone fell in the jacuzzi and it’s still drying out.’
‘In rice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘But I’m fine. I’m sorry for worrying you. Are you both okay?’
Bridget nods quickly, attempting to recover some semblance of professionalism despite the evidence. ‘Yes, all good. But an update on the manuscript would be fab now that your safety has been established.’
‘Are you going to come in?’ Mrs Casablancas says archly. ‘Only we cannot be standing in the hallway all day. This is not an episode of the popular NBC sitcomFriends.’
‘Friends?’ River screws up his face. ‘Never heard of it. Can’t be that popular.’
Is he joking? Not his best one, I have to say.
Mrs Casablancas bustles us all into her flat. River looks around in amazement at the colourful maximalist décor – every spare inch of space covered with creations and paintings and objets d’art. As Mrs Casablancas heads over to the bright yellow open-plan kitchen and fills up the kettle, Bridget gives me a little kiss on the cheek, a display of affection that is most unlike her. ‘I’m glad you’re alive,’ she says, and I idly wonder if that’s because she genuinely cares for me or because her least favourite thing to have to deal with is a client missing a delivery deadline.
When we’re all settled into her soft overstuffed floral sofas, Mrs Casablancas carries a pot of tea over to the coffee table, pouring us each a cup.
‘None for me, thank you,’ River says, trying to put Squish down onto the carpet but not having much luck since Squish is now refusing to be anywhere other than in his arms.
‘No sugar, thanks,’ Bridget instructs.
Once she’s served the tea, Mrs Casablancas stands over River and inspects his Stetson. She lifts her glasses from where they dangle on a silver chain around her neck, slides them on and examines it right up close. ‘This is exquisitely made,’ she says knowledgeably. ‘The stitching is quite something. It is givingMade by Cinderella’s Mice. Though look here.’ She fingers the brim. ‘There’s a tear. Shall I mend it for you? I am an excellent seamstress.’
River’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Really? That would be great, thank you!’ He pulls off the hat and hands it over to Mrs Casablancas, who turns it around in her hands.
‘I’d been meaning to get it repaired with my jeans,’ River adds.
‘You have jeans to be repaired too?’
River nods. ‘A whole bunch. Life of a cowboy, you know. They get pretty worn.’
‘Bring them to me later on,’ Mrs Casablancas instructs as she plops down into her pink velvet armchair. ‘I will give you a good deal.’
‘You’reactuallya cowboy?’ Bridget asks, taking a delicate sip of her tea, her shoulders sinking a little in response to its soothing properties. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
River, still half-distracted by Squish, leans across the coffee table, holding out his hand. ‘River Oakley, ma’am,’ he says as Squish starts to scramble onto his shoulder. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Bridget doesn’t take his hand, just stares at him for a second, her eyes widening as what he just said dawns onher. I tut at River in annoyance, wishing that after the debacle with Henry at the quiz we’d just given him a fake name. And now the same thing has happenedagain.
‘River?’ She laughs a little. ‘Oakley? You just said your name is …’
And then her face drops as she takes in the Stetson Mrs Casablancas is holding. Then she leans closer to River, gasping as she studies his face.
‘Eyes the exact colour of winter pine trees cast in the shadow of a storm cloud,’ she murmurs, mimicking the book’s description of River. And then she glances at his belt buckle: the engraving of a moon wrapped in a lasso. Then at the scar on his cheek.
‘Oh no,’ she says eventually, pressing a hand to her forehead, eyes closing apprehensively. ‘Oh God.Not again.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Bridget? What do you mean “Not again”?’
Bridget gets to her feet and starts pacing around Mrs Casablancas’ living room, not able to gather much momentum because there is so much furniture and more than one home-made clay sculpture in her way. She buries her head in her hands. ‘I cannot believe this. When it happened before I thought it was a one-in-a-million thing. But again? It can’t be!’
