‘Me too. Let’s go together!’
Before Quinn could say anything, her hand, full of rings with glittering jewels, grasped his, and she escorted him across the field to the ticket entrance.
They scanned their tickets and entered the festival under the canvas canopy. Wooden walkways stretched away from them to different stages, all housed in similar gazebos. The atmosphere here was lively, with people browsing pop-up bookshops, buying from local makers, or drinking at the makeshift bars. The aroma of hot chocolate, gingerbread biscuits and sizzling food made Quinn’s stomach rumble.
‘Champagne?’ a young waitress asked.
‘I’ll take two,’ Ivy declared. Quinn held his hand out, expecting her to give him a glass. ‘Oh, no. Both for me!’
The server smiled as Quinn took his own glass; the bubbles fizzed inside, and they strolled further into the festival.
‘I can’t wait for Stephen Fry’s talk,’ a passer-by said.
‘And Margaret Atwood!’ another said. ‘I heard Dua Lipa is interviewing her!’
‘Shame it clashed with the talk by André Aciman.’
‘Ah, books,’ Ivy said with a deep breath. ‘Count ourselves lucky we live in this area of the world, Quinn. It’s just magic, isn’t it?’
‘I love it,’ Quinn agreed. ‘One of my favourite times of the year.’
Magic was the right word. Enchanting fairy lights crisscrossed above the walkways from the top of the canvas tents, glittering a warm yellow. Decorated Christmas trees were on every corner, their tinsel and baubles hanging with precision.
‘Christmas is your favourite time of the year?’
‘I think so,’ Quinn said. ‘Who wouldn’t love it?’
‘Worn-out people spending too much money because they get pressured by society,’ Ivy deadpanned. ‘Me? I prefer Halloween.’
Quinn observed the rings on her fingers, the glittering amethyst necklace around her neck, and her hair tied up in a stylish bun. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were big on your horror.’
‘Not the horror side of things, Quinn.’ Ivy laughed. ‘No, the spiritual side. Samhain. The veil is thin between our world and theirs.’
Quinn paused. ‘Theirs?’
‘Theirs.’ Ivy’s eyes widened. ‘The dearly departed.’
‘Of course.’
‘You don’t believe?’
‘No, I do,’ Quinn said. ‘I haven’t thought much about it.’
‘No, people seldom do. It offends them.’
Ivy Heart intrigued him from the moment her flyer arrived through the door of his shop, a business card with her name attached, a name sure to catch attention. She ran a cleaning company, and the locals loved her. She carried herself well; a confident woman with an answer for everything. People were mesmerised by her as she walked by, how she shook her head and her hair fanned out around her. She was tall, athletic, beautiful, stylish. She gave off the vibe of a woman who loved herself, but not in a conceited way. Quinn thought that if she were to write an autobiography, it would be titledConfidence and Class.
‘How’s your bookshop looking? Sparkling clean?’
‘I keep on top of things.’ Quinn sipped his drink.
‘You know where I am if you need help.’
‘You saying my shop doesn’t pass the cleaning test?’
Ivy grinned. ‘I’m saying, why waste time cleaning when you could focus on selling books?’
Quinn nodded, savouring the champagne.
