They both looked at his trousers, garish and brash.
‘They are perfect.’ Ivy said, with no sense of irony. ‘Now come. Bring your beer with you.’
She took his hand, and clutching his pint, he allowed her to usher him across the bar area. They swayed over to the pop-up bookshop. That was the thing about Ivy – she navigated the cramped festival like there was no one around. People moved for her, smiling as they did so, and she thanked every one of them with genuine enthusiasm. He supposed that if they were looking at her, they weren’t looking at him and his trousers that felt like they might catch flight if a gust of wind came through. Quinn couldn’t see through all the people, but when those nearest to them parted, he could see Noah. Despite the other authors signing away, Noah had the biggest line. At the corner of the room stood Deb and June, who both looked like they were arguing over a signed tea cosy.
‘Well, Deb, you knowIbought you that after all.’
‘No, this belonged to my grandmother.’
‘No, no, I remember buying it from Hay market.’
‘Well, explain this bloodstain then!’
Ivy dragged Quinn away before anyone could question why a tea cosy had blood on it.
Quinn took a deep breath as he took in the crowd. He craved the sanctuary of his bookshop. A row of shelves on all sides of the tent were full of people reading blurbs, adding things to their baskets, and talking. Despite the cold weather outside, the chill didn’t reach the tent. Electric heaters glowed Santa Claus red, and the same fairy lights from outside twinkled here in the tent, too. Christmas music played over the speaker, but it didn’t feel gaudy. Instead, it added to the cosy atmosphere; warmth radiated from every passer-by.
‘They’re saying a white Christmas, you know,’ Ivy said.
‘That’ll be surprising.’
‘Will it?’
Quinn didn’t answer. Anxiety twisted in his stomach, his legs feeling like that time he overexerted himself on a treadmill without eating and then never went back.
Maybe that was because of the cut-off blood supply.
‘What are you going to say to him when you meet him?’
‘Nothing, Ivy.’
‘Nothing? Saysomething.’
Quinn was more than happy to say nothing at all. He didn’t have to have a conversation with Noah Sage because staring at him for too long would turn him to stone. Not because he was Medusa or anything. His hair was too perfect to be compared to hissing snakes, but Noah’s looks were enough to petrify him.
He struggled to speak his mind at the best of times. Telling Noah how much he loved his books and wanted to know everything he could about him was not an option.
‘Come on, there he is.’
They joined the back of the queue, miles away from Noah. The pile of Noah Sage books on the nearby round table was dwindling. Quinn recognised other authors who were about to finish their signings early or were twiddling their thumbs, waiting for any last stragglers.
Quinn watched Noah as they got closer, and closer, and too close, no, this was too close. He was all smiles, ever the professional. His teeth were perfect: straight and a Hollywood white done by professionals and not with whitening strips ordered from Amazon like Quinn tried once. He bared a dazzling grin for photographs, asked every person about their day, signed with accuracy and speed, and wished them farewell.
Quinn’s heart started beating faster as they got closer. He realised he didn’t have any books with him. What would he ask Noah to sign? He thought about the blood-covered tea cosy and wondered if it was too late to go back and ask if he could borrow it.
His throat tightened. Was his tongue swelling?
‘Your throat chakra’s blocked,’ Ivy said.
‘My throat is very wide. Thank you very much.’
Ivy held her own copies, the covers crumpled at the edges, well read. She chatted away, telling him about something he couldn’t focus on. With every step they took, it was like he couldn’t remember how to walk. What if Noah asked about his accident? How would he explain it was champagne? That, yes, he was an adult, and yes, he had full control of when and how he peed. That no, he didn’t sit there and release. Would he even be able to say one word, with that thumping heart of his, the dry throat and mouth, the shakes that made him question why he was getting so flustered over a man he only knew by name?
You’re being silly. You’re star-struck.
Yes, that was it. Star-struck. This was one of the most famous authors of the moment. That’s all this was: overwhelming feelings of complete disbelief that he was in the presence of someone with so much media attention and exposure.
This must be what groupies feel like when they first meet their favourite rock star. Only the groupies end up joining the band on tour, and they get up to many devious and fascinating deeds, and then rush to the clinic for antibiotics two weeks later. This would simply be a ‘hello, I didn’t wet myself,’ and that would be that. If he could even string a sentence together.
