Page 12 of Romantic Hero
‘No, no – that’s not—’
‘Ma’am,’ River cuts in gruffly, bending his knees slightly so that he’s not towering over Mrs Casablancas quite so much. ‘Do you know how far we are from Bedlam Creek?’
‘Is that in the suburbs?’ Mrs Casablancas’ nose wrinkles at the mere thought. ‘Piccadilly Line, maybe?’
‘Pickled dill?’ River murmurs to himself, trying to work it out.
‘Everything’s fine here,’ I reassure Mrs Casablancas, although I’m not entirely sure that it is. I’m not entirely sure of anything right now. ‘Thank you for checking on me! And thank you again for last night. I’m feeling more creative already!’ I lie. ‘Anyway, bye for now!’
‘Has anyone ever suggested you should wear a hat?’ Mrs Casablancas muses, ignoring my polite ‘please leave’ cues and eyeing River with an unhurried appreciation. ‘I’m in the business of heads, and in my expert opinion your particular head would lookremarkablein a bowler hat. It’s just the right shape. I could make you one, bespoke? With some bedazzlingmaybe? I think you’d suit a sequin. Something olive green to match your eyes. I could do you a deal, if you like? Four percent discount if you place an order today?’
River looks completely bewildered, once again rubbing his eyes, as if hoping he’ll wake up from a trippy dream. I suspect he will not be ordering a bespokeMillinery by House of Casablancashat anytime soon.
‘Okay! Bye, Mrs Casablancas. Thank you. Bye!’
Apologetically closing the door on her, I turn to River and blow the air out of my cheeks.
Mrs Casablancas canseeRiver … Which means, either she is trapped in the dream/psych ward with me, or …
No.
It can’t be.
It’s simply not possible.
‘I … I think we need to talk,’ I say, pushing my glasses up my nose and indicating that River should come and join me at the kitchen table.
‘I don’t think so, crazy lady.’ River grabs his cowhide bag from the side of the sofa, picks up his harmonica and throws it in amongst the jeans. He zips up the bag decisively. ‘I’m not staying here with you any longer than I have to, and if you won’t help me figure out where the hell I am, then I will bid you a good day.’ He picks up his Stetson from the coffee table, drops it back on his head, and tips it lightly in my direction. ‘Wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but we both know that’d be a tall tale, and River Oakley ain’t a liar.’
And then, without a backwards glance, he leaves my flat, slamming the door so hard that my entire apartment shakes.
I stare after him for a moment, jaw dangling open.
What was that? What on God’s green earth was …that?
With trembling hands, I grab my phone from the mantlepiece and scroll onto BBC News to double-check the date and the year, to try to anchor myself somehow.
Yep. It’s right there. 20 August 2025. I am here. Right now. On 20 August at 11 a.m. I quickly text Bridget.
Hi! Did you by any chance send an actor to my house?
The reply comes back immediately.
There you are! Is all okay? No actors from me. You need one? Would it help?
No, all good. Will call soon.
How is the writing?
Will send something v soon!! Am writing right now!
CAN’T WAIT TO READ! NO PRESSURE OBVS!!
I swipe off the screen with a grimace and head over to the bathroom cabinet, where I take a thermometer and shove it under my tongue. Maybe I have a fever? Maybe I’m gettingsome terrible infection and it’s spread to my brain. I stare at myself in the mirror. I do look flushed …
The door knocker bangsagain, making me jumpagainand I vow there and then to get myself a doorbell – something nice and soothing, flute-y, like ‘Spa Music Track 1’.
‘Coming, Mrs Casablancas,’ I yell, before she can start calling through the keyhole again. But when I open the door, it’s not Mrs Casablancas standing there. It’s a shirtless River and his bag of jeans.
