‘Frances Henderson,’ I say, my inflection making it sound more like a question; Mum’s romance readership hardly targets young Frenchmen.
‘I know her work,’ he says, which surprises me evenmore than Flynn having known. ‘Do you like to read romance?’
‘Sometimes, but I read broadly.’ I shrug. ‘How about you?’
‘The same; I read a lot for work.’
‘What is it you do?’
‘I’m a journalist, mostly book reviews and author features,’ he explains.
‘Nice,’ I say, impressed, and the tiniest bit jealous.
‘It’s why I’m on the train; Flynn asked me to review the experience. We know each other from university days so it’s sort of a favour for him.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ I reply, thinking Jude would be pleased that I’m already hanging with someone firmly rooted in the world of books. I want to ask a little about the paper he works for and his own reading tastes, but we’re distracted by Flynn coming through the carriage, head down, eyes on his phone.
‘Flynn,’ Nicolas calls, waving casually.
Flynn looks up, clocks me and Nicolas, and quickly shoves his phone in his back pocket.
‘Nicolas, good to see you,’ he says, oddly formally for friends, and shaking his hand.
‘Good to be here,’ says Nicolas, followed by a slightly uncomfortable second or two where the two stand together, Flynn’s stance strong and wide in his brogues, Nicolas loose and light in his black Converse boots. I wonder about their time at university, thinking them an unlikely pairing. I wonder if Flynn was the chilled version of himself that I met in the shop, or if he’s always had this harder, more business-like side.
‘Do you have everything you need?’ Flynn eventually asks me, his voice and gaze a smidge softer than earlier, for which I’m glad.
‘I’m a bit low on stock. Any chance you could grab me some more from the kitchen?’
He looks to Nicolas with an almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes then back to me. ‘Sure,’ he agrees, and heads off.
With Flynn away, the observation carriage steadily begins to fill again with readers. The first to approach the stall are a couple of late twenty-somethings in baggy, loud clothing.
‘How are you enjoying the journey so far?’ Nicolas asks when they’re finished browsing the small selection of titles.
‘It’s great,’ says the woman with a grin, and I think I detect a New Zealand accent. ‘Joe and I have just been to the Levi Parker cookery demonstration. It was fantastic! The chilli prawns blew my socks off.’
‘Who needs lunch when you can fill up on barbecue bites,’ jokes Joe, with a Brummie twang.
We introduce ourselves and talk for a while about why they’re on the train – Daisy explaining that a wealthy aunt was meant to be on the trip but fell ill and gave her the tickets instead. We chat until I see Flynn coming back without any books and a terse expression. He gestures for me to join him.
‘The books have had cooking oil spilt all over them. They’re ruined,’ he whispers.
‘You’re kidding?’ I ask, fully aware from the tension in his shoulders and the bloom on his brow that he isn’t.
He glances over my shoulder to where Nicolas is talking to Joe and Daisy, a growing group of readers gathering round the stall.
‘Give me a minute,’ I say, because despite his reserve, I want to help. The last thing Flynn needs is for a reviewer, friend or no friend, to get wind of the mishap, and the last thing Dad needs is for me to make Henderson Books look bad.
‘Nicolas,’ I say, gently touching his arm to segue into the conversation. ‘Maybe you could take Joe and Daisy to the bar, do a reader interview, get a little more of their story and experience so far?’
‘I’d love that!’ enthuses Daisy, pulling her thick curls into a scrunchy, and Joe agrees. Nicolas barely has time to respond before Daisy has threaded her arm through his and led both him and Joe out of the carriage.
‘Thank you,’ says Flynn, his shoulders relaxing a smidge after he’s assured the readers that more copies of books will be available soon. It reminds me of a similar occasion when books didn’t arrive for an author event at the bookshop, and Dad and I had to placate customers with makeshift goodie bags.
‘No problem,’ I say, as Grant approaches, sashaying purposefully towards us in his tartan trousers.
‘Flynn,’ he says, his palms held out as if to stop an unrelenting force tearing towards him.
