I side-eye him. ‘I suspect you’re trying to pump me full of confidence before this weekend, so that I do a good job. And I appreciate the quasi-compliment. But like I told you last night, Henry genuinely isn’t bothered about looks. I mean, I’m sure he’s pleased all my features are in approximately the right place, but he loved me – hopefully still loves me – for mymindand mysoul.’
‘How noble of him. I noticed your ass within thirty seconds of meeting you.’
‘You’re a pig.’ I tut, sliding my glasses up my lightly sweating nose, my cheeks flushing a little.
‘Only one of many fascinating facts about me,’ River quips, finishing his apple and reaching back into the snack bag for another one. ‘I’m sure there are lots more fascinating facts to learn about each other.’ And then, to my surprise, he pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, opens it up and rests it on his thigh. I peek down to see lines of numbered questions written in perfectly neat pencil loops. ‘I took the liberty of preparing some questions this morning before you woke up – the sort of things that two people dating each other ought to know. You want something from the snack bag before we start?’ He bends down and rummages around in the footwell.
I shake my head no. ‘We’ve still got another two hours of driving. It’s too early for snacks. If we eat all the snacks at the start of the journey, we won’t have any for later.’
River stares across at me as if I’m an idiot. ‘So … then we’ll just get more snacks.’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ I grumble.
River grabs another apple and hands it to me.
‘What if it is, though?’
I pull a face. I don’t have a good answer to that.
With a huff I snatch the apple off him and take a loud bite.
It’s delicious.
*
By the time we pass an elegant dark blue road sign welcoming us to the village of Little Crumpet, population four thousand,River and I have learned a whole lot more about each other. I tell him about my most embarrassing moment – the time I was at a Christmas Eve church service and did a very noisy sneeze, only the ‘choo’ bit of the sneeze never materialised, so it was just me suddenly crying out ‘ah ah ah!’ to the horror of all the other churchgoers. He laughs so hard at this that he has a small coughing fit and we have to pull over so I can slap his back. He tells me that what makes him happiest is riding his old horse, Kenneth, out to a place called Blue Egg Meadow, and watching the sun go down over the horizon. I tell him that my favourite colour is green, specifically olive. He tells me that his favourite musician is Stravinsky.
‘Interesting!’ I exclaim. ‘I actually thought you’d only be into country music or bluegrass or something … you know, with the harmonica and everything.’
River scoffs. ‘That’d be one helluva cliché, Gertie, don’t you think?’
I scan his Stetson, his surly face, the charcoal smudge that appears to be on his cheek – although, as far as I know, we’ve been in contact with zero charcoal – the Wrangler jeans straining across his thick thighs and, of course, the lightly scuffed cowboy boots. ‘If the cowboy boot fits,’ I say under my breath.
But the truth is, there does seem to be quite a lot more to him than the showy obnoxious bravado of the books I wrote, which I’m still having a great deal of trouble getting my head around.
When we approach the car park of Little Crumpet Manor House, River turns to me, expression serious.
‘Okay, Gertie. You ready for action?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Ready.’
I’m lying. I’m not ready at all. The thought of seeing Henry? Of pretending that I’m already dating someone else? The fact that this mission has potentially world-changing ramifications for River’s life as well as my own? All of those things make my insides tumble about like a sock in a washing machine.
Jim Kellerman appears from the hotel entrance, walking springily across the car park, wild red curly hair, tartan trousers and black bow tie displaying the jolly, eccentric personality that’s helped him become one of the most popular cosy mystery authors in the UK.
We get out of the car, River immediately doing a giant stretch. ‘Blessed freedom,’ he mutters.
‘Hallo!’ Jim cries happily. He plants a kiss on my cheek, his cherubic face beaming as always. I’d be beaming too if I had his sales figures. ‘Goodness me, how marvellous to see you, dear Gertie. Welcome, welcome,welcometo the birthday shenanigans!’
‘Sorry about the last minute-ness!’ I apologise, remembering immediately how much I like this lovely, warm-hearted, singular author who genuinely deserves every bit of his success.
He turns to River. ‘And my, my, you must be the mysterious River?’ Jim holds out his hand as River plucks his Stetson out of the back seat of the mini and drops it neatly onto his head.
‘Oakley’s the name. River Oakley. Pleasure’s mine, Jim.’
‘How wonderful. Gosh, you’re a strapping lad, aren’t you? Gertie’s friend from …’ He squints his eyes. ‘Oklahoma, was it? My favourite musical.’
‘Texas actually, not so far outside of Austin,’ River corrects with a low chuckle, taking Jim’s normal-sized hand between his large ones and pumping it so hard that Jim sort of jiggles in time with the movement. ‘But you must be confused, Jim; I ain’t no friend of Gertie’s. We’re lovers.’
