Page 47 of Under Your Spell

‘I’m sure they were only trying to protect you. I know from Serena’s job what the big record labels can be like; they were probably thinking you wouldn’t be able to come and then you’d feel awful.’

‘I would have made it work,’ he says, his voice low. ‘I’d have been there to say goodbye. I’d do anything for my family.’

‘I’m sure they know that,’ I say, matching his tone.

‘Excuse me,’ a nervous voice says from behind us. Theo and I both turn and there’s a woman standing there. She’s in her twenties and she looks as if she’s about to pass out, pale and shaking.

‘Are you,’ she starts, barely above a whisper. She closes her mouth, then opens it. Tries again. ‘Sorry, but are you Theo Eliott?’

I freeze. It’s not like we aren’t allowed to leave the house or anything, but the plan is very much to keep Theo’s exposure to people as low as possible. Serena had a long talk with me about security risks if the paparazzi and his fans found out where he was staying. It’s not like Granny Mac’s house is exactly Fort Knox.

But Theo is relaxed, smiling. ‘No, sorry,’ he says, slipping effortlessly into a Californian drawl that I don’t recognize. ‘I get that all the time, and my wife thinks it’s hilarious.’

Here he picks up my hand and gives it a little squeeze.

My mouth opens and it takes a second for any words to come out, for me to realize he’s using me as normal-person camouflage. I think it’s because the word wife has short-circuited my brain. ‘Yeah, he wishes,’ I manage to croak in the end.

Behind his glasses I know exactly how Theo’s eyes are sparkling. ‘Don’t I just? That Theo Eliott is one good-looking guy.’

The woman slumps in disappointment. ‘Yeah, I thought it couldn’t be him. I mean, what would he be doing here, right?’

‘He’s probably off doing goat yoga and drinking kombucha somewhere,’ I agree.

The woman laughs. ‘Yeah. Well, sorry to bother you,’ she says with a shy smile, her eyes sliding back to Theo for another look before turning and running back to her friends who are watching us with interest.

We keep our backs to them, walking away.

‘I feel bad,’ I say. ‘She was so excited.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ Theo agrees. ‘I don’t want to disappoint people, but sometimes it’s more important to protect my little corner of normality, and the other people who are there with me. It took me a long time to get my head around that, that I wasn’t obliged to give every piece of myself away. Boundaries and everything.’

Something warms in my chest. It’s the sort of thing I have never, ever heard Ripp Harris say. I can’t even imagine him thinking it, worrying about boundaries or wanting to protect me, and I’m his actual daughter.

In fact, I don’t need to imagine it, do I? I’ve been there with Ripp, begging him to save me from the storm around him, and he didn’t do a thing. Didn’t even understand there was a problem. My stomach clenches at the memory.

‘I’ve never done goat yoga by the way,’ Theo says.

I roll my eyes. ‘Tell it to the bottles of organic kombucha fermenting in our kitchen cupboard.’

‘I’m not saying I’m against the idea,’ he muses. ‘Those baby goats are pretty cute.’

I laugh, a big, sunshiny laugh, and we carry on walking. I think about the seashell in my pocket and how I’ll put it on my bedside table when we get home. And as my hand stays wrapped in Theo’s all the way up the beach, I tell myself it’s just part of the charade. It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing at all.

Chapter Nineteen

I’m sitting at the dining table, staring at my laptop in something approaching despair a couple of days later, when Theo sticks his head around the door.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asks, casting a glance at my computer.

‘Of course not,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m trying to work on this stupid academic book and getting nowhere. Do you want me to get out of your way?’ I start gathering the pages of notes that I have spread across the table.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Theo says, moving into the room. ‘I like you being here. If I wanted to be alone, I’d have stayed in my room.’

‘Okay,’ I say warily, because I’ve noticed the guitar he’s holding in one hand. It’s the first time I’ve seen any sign that he’s working on his music since we arrived.

He strolls in and sits down on the sofa, pulling a small notebook out of his pocket, which he drops down beside him, his feet up on the coffee table.

He’s wearing loose grey jogging bottoms and his hair is damp like he’s just got out the shower.