Page 50 of Hate You to Love You

‘Except for the initials on the front cover,’ I add.

Elliot stays silent, his face pale.

‘Why would Charles be interested in one of Claudia’s old notebooks?’ I ask as Elliot flags down a taxi and we jump in.

He doesn’t answer, eyes glued to his phone. ‘Elliot? How can you be so sure that Charles has the diary?’

He sighs, now looking out the window. ‘I started working with Charles as soon as I transferred to Redhouse’s London office. When I first arrived, I was glad to have someone in my corner to show me the ropes. The workload and the pace they moved at was a lot quicker than back home. And besides all that, living in London was a little bit lonely.’

Elliot hesitates, resting his head against the window. My heart fills with sorrow when it hits me that I’ve never actually heard him talk about his life in London. It had seemed so easy for him to choose his career over me that I’d always assumed he got everything he ever dreamed of. It never occurred to me that he might have been hurting too.

‘I’ve never felt so lonely in my life,’ he confesses. ‘I would look out the window of my apartment and break down in tears because I didn’t know anyone in this city. It took me three months to even decorate that apartment, because in the back of my mind I was always looking for an exit. A reminder that this was temporary.’

But you still chose to stay.

You never reached out.

If you missed me – us – why didn’t you just say so?

I push the questions I want to ask him away.

‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘I didn’t want this move to be for nothing. If I failed at it, if I moved back, it would mean that my parents were right about me. That I was chasing a silly dream. So I made a vow that I would kill it at this job. If I did well enough, then leaving Sydney would have been for something.’

I’m frozen in place. Unsure of how to take his words in.

‘And I did kill it. I smashed the job. The executives were blown away by my commitment and the results I got for debut author campaigns. They began to give me more high-profile authors to take care of, and I built up a list of authors I was proud of. But the more recognition I got at work, the more the relationship between me and Charles changed.’

‘Was he jealous of your success?’

‘He never said those words out loud, but he made a lot of snide comments. It escalated to him trying to pick holes in my work. If something good was happening for me, he made it his mission to ruin it.’

The taxi comes to a stop at a red light.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he got hold of the notebook just to try and make a big deal out of me losing it. To ruin my relationship with Claudia. And if it gets out… I… I…’ Elliot’s voice wavers. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do.’

‘Well, as someone who is an eternal screw-up, I could probably give you some pointers,’ I tell him with a soft laugh.

Elliot drags his eyes away from the window. He turns his head in my direction, making eye contact with me for a few seconds before glancing away again. ‘You’re not a screw-up, Carlos.’

And then it hits me: after the past week of throwing cutting remarks at each other, this is the first conversation we’ve had that isn’t an argument.

The taxi comes to a stop outside our hotel. Elliot pays the driver and then throws open his door. He stops halfway out and looks back towards me.

‘Are you free tomorrow night?’ he says. ‘I have an idea of how we can unscrew this screw-up, but I’m going to need your help.’

‘You don’t want to look for the diary straight away?’ I ask.

Elliot nods, although there’s still a look of worry on his face. ‘Claudia has a few televised appearances to record. That will keep her busy. But there’s an event in the evening that Charles will be at, it might be our only shot to get it back from him. So what do you say, are you in?’

I flash him a grin. ‘I’m in.’

chapter twenty-two

It’s the next evening, and Big Ben has just chimed 6pm as Elliot and I cross Trafalgar Square. The fountain at its centre erupts with a splash of water as we pass. Dressed in eveningwear, we snake through groups of tourists that have stopped to take photos of Nelson’s Monument and hurry up the steps towards The National Gallery. The impressive columns at the entrance of the gallery stand tall and imposing, drawing my attention to the grand dome at the top of the structure. Elevated just about the square and lit up in bright spotlights, it’s a hard building to miss.

A red carpet has been placed over the front steps, and a huge banner is stretched across the facade, which advertises the London Festival of Books. The names of major authors are scattered over the banners. Claudia’s name is among the likes of David Nicholls and Jeanette Winterson, but the name that Elliot points out is Jonathan Arden, a prolific British crime procedural author who Charles is the publicist for.

‘What makes you so sure Charles will still have the notebook on him?’ I ask Elliot as we join a small line of guests.