Page 5 of Romantic Hero
I think about Ethan, down on one knee, an open ring box held aloft. Cassidy, peering down at him, caught between her love for this man and her fear of how powerless that love sometimes makes her feel. The pair of them stuck in the final chapter of book four for ever and ever. I can’t leave them in limbo like that. I’ve been desperate to give Cassidy and Ethan their happy ending since the very first moment they arrived fully formed in my head on that strange sad morning four years ago.
It was 20 August, Josie’s birthday, and not even a week after her funeral. I’d gotten in the bathtub to sob amidst the comfort of lavender-scented bubbles when suddenly a woman called Cassidy Oakley popped into my head, bright and bold in crisp HD. She was around twenty-five, blonde, rosy-cheeked and driving; zipping past a wooden town sign that saidWelcome to Bedlam Creek, Texas, which struck me as odd considering I’d never even visited America, let alone Texas. But there she was, like a movie in my mind, on her way to the funeral of her cowboy father, Big Chip Oakley, nervous to encounter her evil cowboy half-brother, River Oakley, but longing to see Oakley Ranch – the place she grew up – for the first time in almost ten years. I’d read about authors who’d experienced inspiration this way – the sudden arrival of characters fully formed and ready to go. Was that what had happened to me, in the bath, mid-breakdown?
The curiosity, the distraction of this vision, felt like ablessed relief, especially since the only thing I’d felt since Josie died two weeks earlier was profound unrelenting sorrow with a side of bone-aching guilt. I remember my tears subsiding as I pictured this self-possessed, determined-looking blonde in her red convertible, singing along so passionately to Kate Bush that she almost didn’t see the handsome doctor crossing the dusty road on his bicycle. That man was Ethan Calhoun and he was not impressed. I was immediately hooked. What did Cassidy need? How did the handsome clever man in the road factor into it? And what would happen to the famous Oakley Ranch now that Chip Oakley had died? Would Cassidy get a chance to move back home to the place she loved so much? Or would her womanising, villainous brother River thwart her like he always had?
Josie had always encouraged me to do something with my writerly ambitions, to stop skirting around my own desires. She used to say, ‘Give it some oomph, Gertie!’ – her way of telling me to show the world what I was truly capable of. So I took Cassidy’s sudden arrival on this particular day as a sign that perhaps I should give writing a whole book a try. Here were the characters and the location, served on a platter. At the very least it would be a distraction from the unbearable way I was feeling … Cassidy, Ethan and the ragtag residents of Bedlam Creek, Texas have been keeping this romance-obsessed Brit company ever since.
At least, theydid.
I think of Bridget’s increasingly frantic emails. The messages I get from readers telling me how desperate they arefor the final book. How long they’ve waited for Cassidy Oakley to get everything she ever wanted, for Ethan Calhoun to finally complete his surgical residency, for River Oakley to get his comeuppance at last. I think of how much I miss these people that have been living in my head for so long. My heart longs for them.
‘I mean, you certainly look desperate,’ Mrs Casablancas says now. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ I lie. ‘And you’re right. Iamdesperate. But I’m not sure a ceremony—’
‘Gertie, if it wasn’t for the creative manifestation ceremony I performed for myself, you would not be wearing the glorious hat you have atop your head right now. The hat wouldn’t even exist! I’m sorry, but you have to get out of this spiral. I cannot bear the wailing. Not for even one more night. Seriously, what have you got to lose?’
Mrs Casablancas heaves up her plastic box of hats and heads for the door. I scooch ahead of her to open it. The last thing I want to do tonight is some mad ceremony with my next-door neighbour. I had firm plans for the evening – more Tucci cocktails, more meaty takeaway and crying with my face smooshed into a pillow, rather than freely in the bathtub. But I can’t say no to Mrs Casablancas – not only because it wouldn’t be very polite, but also because she’s the only person I’ve got these days.
You’ve still got Mum and Dad, a vague voice chimes in the back of my head. I push it away like I always do.
‘Fine.’ I throw my hands up in surrender. ‘Let’s do it.You’re right. It’s a sorry state of affairs when a person literally has nothing to lose.’
‘Good girl. Squish! Come to me!’ Mrs Casablancas commands Squish, who has been hiding by the bookcase, chewing the pair of Henry’s slippers I may or may not have pressed longingly to my heart in the most pitiful moments of last night.
Squish ignores her.
‘Squish! Reuben sandwich!’ she tries. In response, Squish immediately drops the slipper and darts over to Mrs Casablancas, sitting neatly at her side. She lowers her voice to me. ‘I’m not even having a Reuben sandwich today, I’m having pea soup, but he doesn’t know that because he’s a dog.’ She winks. ‘Eight p.m. sharp. On the roof terrace. Bring your novels. I will drop off your kaftan beforehand.’
‘Kaftan? Wait, what?’
‘Trust me,’ she answers, sauntering back to her own flat without a backward glance, a sandwich-hopeful Squish scampering closely behind. ‘Your creative juices will be overflowing in no time at all.’
CHAPTER FIVE
I spend an unhealthy portion of the afternoon munching on dill pickles, scrolling through old photographs of me and Henry on my phone and trying, for the millionth time, to figure out exactly when Henry’s feelings changed. It was only two months ago that he whisked me out on a picnic, fed me macarons and serenaded me with his guitar. And now, if he even answers my texts, it’s a polite one-worder or a thumbs-up emoji. I throw my phone down on the bed with a huff and glance at the clock on my oven display. It’s 7.50 p.m. Unsolicited manifestation ceremony time.
I grab a full stack of Bedlam Creek books as Mrs Casablancas requested, climb the hall stairs and step out onto the expansive communal terrace that overlooks the rooftops of Bloomsbury and, in the distance, the smudged silver city skyline. I breathe in the freshness of the grassed area and the rich, earthy scent of the small herb garden Mrs Casablancas planted up here last spring. Looking up at the dusky lilac sky, I see the moon, as round and white as a plate. My shoulders soften a touch. I love a full moon.
‘You look perfect,’ Mrs Casablancas declares, her head popping up from the skylight entrance to the roof like a meerkat. She clambers up the steps, dragging a little suitcasebehind her, resplendent in a red kaftan of her own. ‘Periwinkle is your exact perfect colour. I have a real eye for deciphering people’s exact perfect colour. You should wear kaftans more often, Gertie. So chic with that elfin face of yours.’
Ah yes. The kaftan. As promised/threatened, Mrs Casablancas dropped it off a few hours ago, warning that it was a non-negotiable part of the event and then scurrying back off to her own apartment without another word. It’s actually incredibly comfortable – a voluminous periwinkle linen dress with flowy bell sleeves that makes me look like someone who, well, does manifestation ceremonies on the reg.
‘Why the kaftans?’ I ask, as Mrs Casablancas opens her suitcase. ‘I mean, I like it, but … why?’
‘Dressing the part is a sign of respect to those we ask for help.’
‘And who exactly are we asking for help?’
‘Oh, there are lots of theories and possibilities! The universe, the ether, God, the magnificent creative goddesses of ancient times, Lady Diana up in Heaven, Buddha …’ Mrs Casablancas pulls a large forest-green paisley blanket out of the suitcase and flaps it out onto the modest square of grass. She pats the blanket. ‘Sit down here. Do you have a preference on who we ask to assist us?’
I shake my head. ‘I get the feeling I should follow your lead …’
Mrs Casablancas nods. ‘Good idea. Shall we ask them all? Surely that will increase our chances of receiving the help we need.’
‘Like throwing spaghetti at the wall? Okay.’
Mrs Casablancas proceeds to pull three chunky pillar candles out of the case like some sort of celestial Mary Poppins. She then takes out a pad of lined A4 paper, two blue biro pens and … is that a tiara?
