Notorious
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Synopsis
'New Zealand's Queen of Royal Romance' Women's Day
*Loosely based on one of history's greatest unsolved mysteries - the Princes in the Tower - and the royal enigma that was Richard III*
__________
EVERYONE WANTS TO BE FAMOUS
Everyone has heard of the Snows. Belle, world-famous singer of Woodville fame. Her husband Teddy, acclaimed actor by day, notorious party animal by night. Their children: Emma, Pearl, Crystal, Elfred and River.
EVERYONE EXCEPT EMMA SNOW
Emma Snow wants three things in the world: to become a writer, own a cat, and never think about Rowan Bosworth again. Darkly handsome with a tragic past, Emma should know better than to be in love with him. She's never sure whether he actually likes her, or if she's just a pawn in one of the twisted games he likes to play.
EMMA SNOW WANTS TO BE EXCEPTIONAL
One Valentine's Day, a terrible event occurs which rips the Snow family apart. Determined to uncover the truth, Emma is forced to delve into the dark underbelly of her celebrity family - and once and for all decide whether to think with her heart or her head . .
When you're surrounded by rumours, it's difficult to see the truth . . .
___________________
Believe the rumours - EVERYONE is talking about Olivia Hayfield's NOTORIOUS!
'Rich people behaving badly' Booklist
'Ingenious and addictive' Francesca Hornak
'A delicious read' Renee Rosen
'Hayfield has channelled the best of Jilly Cooper into a novel that's an ingenious adaption of history' The Listener
'A clever whodunnit with a bonus love story that'll have you hooked' Women's Day
'Racy historical fiction ... I whooped when it arrived' The Spinoff
Release date: March 29, 2022
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Print pages: 115000
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Notorious
Olivia Hayfield
I am always that girl. The sister of the lost boys.
She saw it in people’s eyes, before they slid away from hers. Poor thing. How awful, the not knowing. After all this time.
Her gaze drifted out of the newsroom window, settling on the towers of York Minster soaring into a leaden sky. The sun, up there somewhere, had only just risen. Emma was first at her desk again, having woken before dawn, her mind churning, needing the distraction of work.
Where are you?
The sound of the lift descending broke her concentration. The moment was gone, her brothers’ sweet faces slipping from her grasp, the echo of their laughter smothered by the hum of the elevator.
Sighing, she reached for her coffee, and noticed her neglected fingernails – different lengths, a couple of them chipped; and she’d been gnawing at the side of her left thumb again. She was losing control of her body, like she seemed to be losing control of her mind.
Her mother wouldn’t be impressed. In spite of what she’d been through these past two years, Belladonna Snow, ethereal lead singer of Woodville, had perfectly maintained, witchy nails, which she used to great effect as she performed: twisting her hands, twirling them above her head, running her long fingers through her waterfall of fair curls.
Emma smiled sadly. We all have our ways of coping with grief.
To look at Belle, you’d think she floated through life making things happen by casting spells. But behind that beautiful, flaky, Bohemian façade was a remarkably resilient woman who’d carried on in the face of unthinkable pain.
While Emma immersed herself in her writing, Belle had channelled her despair into her last album, Missing. The nation had cried along to the haunting lyrics – ‘I dream I find you, then your little hands slip from mine’ – still unable to come to terms with the disappearance of those two beloved little boys, to grasp the tragedy that had befallen Britain’s favourite show-business family.
When our family of seven became a family of six, and then four.
Emma rubbed her temples, feeling the effects of the interrupted sleep, the stress of the past weeks; the growing realisation that everything she’d discovered might be pointing to that very conclusion she’d subconsciously set out to disprove.
Think. Think.
Her vision blurred as she tried to free her mind, let it follow that elusive scent. She could sense the truth – there, in her subconscious, hovering just beyond her grasp. Like a note too high to hear, a colour on the edge of the spectrum.
The lift clunked to a halt. Henry was probably in it. Normally he was first to arrive; this week’s burst of early-birdery was out of character for Emma. But then she wasn’t usually gnawing her fingers with anxiety, either.
She put her coffee down. She shouldn’t be caffeinating herself, tired or not. The last thing she needed was additional jitters.
Not wanting Henry to find her staring into space, she opened the Daily Telegraph, the rustle of the newspaper disturbing the still air of the empty office.
PARALYMPICS IN PICTURES
THE BATTLE FOR HEATHROW
She found what she’d been looking for, a few pages in:
2012 – THE YEAR OUR WEATHER TURNED DANGEROUS
It was under their own reporter’s byline, but they’d credited her: Emma Snow, of the Yorkshire Chronicle … Now all she needed was for Telegraph readers to make the connection between their gas-guzzling four-wheel drives and the fact that Britain’s weather this year had been a new level of terrible. Driest spring, wettest April, floods, more floods …
The double doors to the newsroom swung open, making her jump. Yes, Henry. Editor of the Yorkshire Chronicle, and Emma’s fiancé.
‘You beat me to it again,’ he called, striding towards her desk, which was on the opposite side of the newsroom to his own private office. EDITOR was picked out in gold lettering on his door, a relic from this venerable old newspaper’s past. The building was heritage listed, like most in York’s ancient town centre, and had been beautifully renovated, retaining the exposed stone walls and timber beams. Emma loved the place, loved the job. It was just her personal life causing the sleeplessness.
Still distracted, Emma found herself viewing Henry as if from a distance, as if assessing a stranger. That friendly, open face; that blue-eyed gaze, apt to skewer you, giving the impression he found your views deeply fascinating, even if they were only comments on the weather. It was the secret of his success. People opened up to him, and before they knew it were sharing their best-kept secrets, which his gaze implied he’d take to the grave.
Do I really know this man?
*
‘He’s adorable – such a Bingley,’ Emma’s sister Crystal, a Jane Austen fan, had said, when Emma had first taken Henry home three years ago. ‘I didn’t think it possible a man could be that good-looking and so nice.’
Emma had to admit the comparison with Mr Darcy’s winsome friend was spot on.
‘Also rich,’ Belle had murmured.
‘He must have a dark side,’ said Pearl, the youngest of the three sisters.
‘He’s perhaps a little bland,’ their mother had remarked, crushingly.
Emma was used to the Snow women passing judgement on absolutely everything in her life. The concept of privacy was beyond them.
‘No dark side that I’ve come across,’ Emma had replied. ‘Which is a surprise, considering his mother.’
Henry’s niceness, together with an uncanny nose for a story, was another secret of his success. His skill as an extractor of truths had seen his star quickly rise on the far side of the Pennines, where he’d started on the Lancaster Post, before his mother, the formidable Lady Madeline Beauregard, had bought the failing Yorkshire Chronicle, injected a vast amount of capital to bring the technology and premises up to date, then presented it on a golden platter to her only child. Just as well he was such an affable, likeable man, otherwise his staff, mostly headhunted from successful news organisations, would have loathed him on principle.
Reaching Emma’s desk, Henry leaned down to kiss her. He smelt of the fresh, damp, autumn air beyond the window. She noticed the faded yellow-green remnants of bruising on his cheek, the result of a recent horse-riding accident.
Apparently.
Rowan. His dark image flashed into her head, usurping her ponderings on Henry. Where was he? It was two weeks since she’d seen him, and all her texts and messages remained unanswered.
Emma bit back an impulse to voice her suspicions. That Henry’s bruise and Rowan’s recent disappearance were connected. The office wasn’t the place. She’d tackle him tonight.
‘Yes, I woke up early again,’ she said, thoughtfully tracing the discolouration with her fingertips. She met his eye. ‘Almost gone.’
He frowned, and straightened. ‘You’re not sleeping again? This investigation … ’ His eyes swept over the piles of paper on her desk. ‘You need a break. I was thinking, maybe we should take some time off.’
No way. Not at the moment.
When she didn’t reply, he reached out, stroked her cheek. ‘We could do with a holiday. The staff can manage for a week. How about we slope off to a Greek island? Reckon it’d do you the world of good.’
I couldn’t handle it, being so far away … not knowing where Rowan is, his state of mind.
‘Hm, it would be nice, but I don’t want to lose momentum on the story, now I’m finally getting somewhere.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re too … bogged down. It’s tough on you, with it being personal. Santorini’s lovely in September.’
‘I’ll take a look at my workload.’
‘I’m your editor. I’ll genie-fy it away.’ He smiled his charming smile.
She smiled back. ‘Maybe. Well, I’d better … ’
‘I’ll leave you to it. Google Santorini. You’ll love it.’
She swivelled her chair, tapped the computer space bar. But she wouldn’t be googling Santorini.
The last thing Emma needed was more time alone with Henry. No matter what her feelings were – and at the moment, conflicted didn’t even begin to cover it – what she needed was space. The chance to think.
Time to herself. As she logged on, she reflected that this had been her challenge for as long as she could remember. Growing up, all she’d wanted was time off from her noisy, chaotic, and above all, famous family, and the hangers-on who surrounded them. To be left alone with her books and her writing. But space and anonymity had been elusive.
Emma had hated growing up in public – an acting legend for a father, a rock star for a mother; five blonde-haired, blue-eyed children, like an English version of the Von Trapp family. One Christmas, they’d actually performed ‘So Long, Farewell’ on a Noel Edmonds BBC Christmas Special.
But of course, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, that rowdy, loving family had been shattered forever, its three adorable males spirited away.
She clicked on the opinion piece she needed to finish this morning, on whether the Yorkshire Dales were suffering irreparable damage beneath the boots of a record number of walkers. The cursor blinked on her heading: Loved to Death?
Rowan’s voice in her head: Seriously, Ems? Cliché!
She sighed, her gaze once again drifting out of the window. No matter how hard she tried to lock him out, Rowan was always there.
An hour later, Emma had written only two paragraphs. Henry was right. It was too much, trying to manage her usual features and forge ahead with the investigative piece on her brothers’ disappearance.
And now, Rowan’s, too.
Focus!
She typed: How many is too many? While tourism stakeholders rub their hands in glee, fragile ecosystems are suffering.
Her desk phone rang. She was never going to meet today’s deadline.
It was Henry. ‘Emma, can you come through?’ There was something in his voice.
‘What is it?’
‘Just come through – and close the door behind you.’
Henry was an open-door man.
She looked across the office, and saw him perched on the edge of his desk, waiting for her. He wasn’t looking her way.
Oh god, he’s going to kill the investigation. He’s actually going to kill it.
And for all the wrong reasons.
As she made her way over to his office, Emma was aware of a chill creeping along her veins. No way am I giving up. Not now.
‘Emma,’ he said, as she shut the door. ‘Sit down.’ Frowning, he raked his fingers through his red-blonde hair.
‘What’s going on?’ she said, not sitting down. If she was going to fight her corner, she’d rather be standing.
‘You saw the papers this morning?’
Oh. She let out a breath. He was going to congratulate her on being picked up by the Telegraph.
‘You mean the Telegraph?’
‘The body found in Leicester. Under a car park.’
‘Body?’ she said, stupidly. What did this have to do with anything? Unless …
‘Emma … ’
She sucked in a breath, suddenly petrified by the look on his face.
Oh please god, no. Not Rowan.
Thirteen years earlierMiddleham, Yorkshire
Necks were discreetly craned as Belladonna Snow ushered her three daughters into the front row of Middleham College’s ancient, lofty hall.
A whisper from the row behind: ‘Mum, it’s Belle Snow!’
‘Shh! And don’t stare,’ hissed the mother.
At the age of eleven, Emma was used to the glances, the whispers, whenever the Snow family ventured out in public. Which was rarely, as one parent or the other was usually on location, or touring, or starring in a West End run.
So tonight was special. Her father, Oscar-winning actor Teddy Snow, was returning to his alma mater to guest star in this year’s school play, a modern retelling of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The hall was packed, every last seat taken, parents crowding in at the back. The air was heavy with anticipation (and expensive scents – a Middleham education didn’t come cheap). Acting royalty was in the house.
As they took their seats, Emma’s sister Crystal, two years her junior, flicked back her long blonde hair, wriggled in her seat and sighed. ‘Honestly, it’s like being a Windsor.’ Then she gazed around, a gracious smile on her face.
‘Eyes forward, Crystal,’ said Belle, quietly but firmly, shrugging off her crushed-velvet jacket. She glanced to the side of the hall, and magically a boy in school uniform (optional – Middleham was as liberal as it was expensive) appeared in front of her. ‘Can I take your coat for you, Mrs Snow?’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘Gosh, thanks!’ Reverentially, he laid the jacket across his arm. ‘Can I bring it back to you after?’
‘That would be sweet of you.’
‘What’s a Windsor?’ asked Pearl, sitting between Belle and Crystal. At seven, she was the youngest in the Snow party.
‘That’s the Queen’s surname,’ said Emma. ‘So all her children are Windsors too.’
‘Oh,’ said Pearl, vaguely. ‘I didn’t know they had names like us. Queen Windsor.’
‘No—’ began Crystal.
‘We’ll explain later, darling,’ said Belle. ‘Settle down now.’
On Emma’s left, her father’s manager, Neville Warwick, chuckled. Teddy had invited Uncle Neville (not a real uncle; he was Emma’s godfather) to tonight’s performance.
‘You’re in for a treat like you won’t believe,’ her father had said when they’d popped into his dressing room earlier. He scooped up Pearl and sat her on his knee.
Teddy was prone to exaggerate, as Emma well knew. He was a larger-than-life figure himself, with his resonant, booming voice, his broad shoulders, his handsome, instantly recognisable face.
‘Seriously, Teddy?’ Neville had replied, bushy eyebrows raised. ‘You drag me hundreds of miles to the wilds of – where the actual fuck are we? – Yorkshire, for an am dram? A school dram? I fear your famously green eyes may be somewhat clouded by sentimentality. But still, an evening in the company of floppy-haired schoolboys … I suppose one can’t complain.’ He raised his eyebrows again, in an entirely different way.
‘Stop it, you old ham,’ said Teddy. ‘Just you wait. And don’t swear in front of my girls.’
‘Are we to be treated to Teddy’s Bottom?’ asked Neville, winking at Pearl.
The girls giggled.
‘No, I’m playing Oberon,’ he said. ‘But tonight you won’t be bothering about me.’ He smiled mysteriously.
‘What a divine scent,’ said Belle. She held back her cascade of hair in one hand as she leaned forward, sniffing delicately at a vase of white roses on Teddy’s dressing table.
‘From the cast and crew,’ said Teddy. ‘One of whom is going to blow your socks off, my love. But I’ll say no more for now.’
Emma didn’t really care whether or not this play was worthy of her father’s hype. She was just thrilled her family was enjoying a night out together, like normal people.
The lights dimmed and the noise in the hall died down. Middleham’s tweed-suited headmaster appeared on stage and welcomed everyone. ‘This play might not be what you’re expecting, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘This is A Midsummer Night’s Dream like you’ve never seen it before. I have a strong hunch Shakespeare would have approved. And so, without further ado … ’
The headmaster was right. And so was Teddy. The production was sensational. Mystical, magical, funky, the language updated to appeal to the teens in the house, while retaining its Shakespearean core. Thanks to Teddy’s involvement, no doubt, the acting was exuberant.
The audience was spellbound. There was no shuffling in seats, no coughing, no whispering or fidgeting.
Emma was riveted by the lyrical dialogue. As a bookworm with writerly pretensions, she appreciated a well-turned phrase, a clever juxtaposition of words.
She’d seen her father perform in various Shakespeare plays, and while she enjoyed them, it was always difficult to follow what was going on, in spite of the summaries he gave her. Shakespeare was hard. This was different. There was no need to concentrate, the words swept Emma along – their rhythm, their poetry, the emotion they conveyed. She found herself holding her breath.
The play concluded with Cobweb and Moss performing one of Woodville’s best-loved songs, ‘Dreams’, in the moonlit green-wood, dry ice swirling around the faeries’ bare feet.
As the curtain fell, the hall was silent for a moment, the air humming with emotion. Belle and Teddy were always talking about that connection with the audience, about moving them, transporting them. Emma now understood – this was what they meant.
Then, the hall erupted into a standing ovation.
‘Well well, Belle,’ said Neville, looking over the girls’ heads to their mother. ‘I’ll eat my feathered cap. A few tweaks and that play’s going straight to the West End. His Majesty’s, perhaps. Produced by yours truly.’
‘Incredible!’ called Belle over the rowdy applause. ‘Did you enjoy it, darlings?’ she asked the girls.
‘Mummy, it was amazing!’ said Crystal. ‘I’m going to be an actress when I grow up.’
‘And I’m going to be the cobwebby fairy!’ said Pearl.
The cast returned to the stage, led by Teddy, who was whipping the audience up, applauding the young actors as they hugged each other.
Finally, after three curtain calls, the commotion died down to the occasional hoot and whistle, and the actors left the stage. Then Teddy reappeared, and the cheering started up again. After an elaborate bow, he held up his hand for silence.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys. From your response, I’d guess that you’ve been as astonished by this production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream as I was when I first read the script.’
More cheers.
‘I must confess, when Mr Zwemmer approached me to perform in the school play … ’ he beamed across at the headmaster, ‘I was, shall we say, hesitant.’ He pulled a face. There was a ripple of laughter.
‘But then I read the script.’ He paused for effect, letting his glance fall on random members of the audience. ‘And I can say in all honesty, it was up there with the first time I read Shakespeare’s original version.’
There were gasps. Such praise, from Britain’s most revered stage actor.
‘So it’s high time I introduced you to the genius behind this play – a young man whose name I predict will one day be up there with the likes of Miller, Stoppard, Wilde … ’
Emma didn’t know the names, but Belle said ‘wow’ under her breath, so they must have been good.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Teddy, looking into the wings. ‘Allow me the enormous pleasure and privilege of introducing you to … Mr Rowan Bosworth.’
As the applause started again, a boy walked onto the stage, his head lowered, staring at the floor. He came to stand next to Teddy. In the front row, Emma had a good view of this genius her father was so clearly smitten with.
Apart from his pale face, everything about him was dark – curly black hair tumbling to his shoulders, coal-dark eyes; black T-shirt, black jeans and boots. Black … bracelets?
As he finally looked up, flicking his hair out of his eyes, she saw … the boy was beautiful. She could hardly tear her eleven-year-old eyes from his arresting face.
But … Emma’s gaze dropped to his shoulders, one of which seemed a little higher than the other. And when she looked some more, it wasn’t the way he was standing, it was just how he was. Kind of … a bit lopsided. Some of it was an illusion created by the boy’s obvious shyness. He looked awkward, embarrassed, as if he’d rather be somewhere else; as if he were turning slightly away from the audience. He probably hated being in the spotlight because of his … whatever it was.
‘Well, I’ll be … ’ said Neville.
Then Teddy put his arm around the boy and gave him a squeeze, and with her father’s big hand splayed across his shoulder, his – Rowan’s – face finally broke into a smile, and he straightened, holding his head high as he took strength from Teddy’s encouragement.
In spite of the difference in their ages, Emma felt an immediate affinity with this unusual boy, whose natural response to attention was, it seemed, much the same as hers. She found herself willing him to look at her as she cheered and clapped. Those words that had touched her so deeply – they’d been written by him.
Teddy spoke in Rowan’s ear, and looked down at his family. Rowan’s glance fell on Belle (of course), who gave him a sweet smile and a wave. He smiled shyly back, then his gaze moved on to Crystal, Pearl, and stopped on Emma. She felt herself blush. Oh – did she have a crush? Her friends at school were always discussing their crushes (mostly the boys in Take That), but the only grown-up man she’d ever found appealing was Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, and he wasn’t real.
But Mr Darcy was dark, very handsome, and quite mysterious, too.
Rowan smiled at her, and Emma quietly gasped. Then Teddy pointed out Neville, and the moment was gone.
As the pair left the stage and the audience rose to leave, Crystal said, ‘Can we go and see Daddy again? And meet his new friend?’
‘No, girls, it’s way past your bedtime,’ said Belle firmly. ‘We have a long drive back to Grandma and Grandpa’s, and I need to get back in case Elfred wakes up.’ The latest addition to the Snow family – a boy, finally! – was six months old.
They were staying at Sandal Manor, Teddy’s parents’ ancient country house an hour or so from the school.
‘Please, Mummy,’ said Emma, quietly. ‘I’d really like to … I want to tell … Rowan how much I loved his play.’
Belle stopped as the boy from earlier came rushing up with her jacket. ‘Thank you so much, that’s lovely of you,’ she said, taking the pen and exercise book he was also holding out, signing her loopy signature.
‘Why don’t you take Crystal and Pearl home,’ said Neville, ‘and Teddy and I will follow on with Emma?’
‘Hm. Okay,’ said Belle. ‘But careful how you go with that boy. I know that look.’ She raised her eyebrows at Neville.
‘Belle, sweetheart. When one is an impresario, one cannot pass over a talent such as has been presented to us tonight. It would be criminal to let it go ignored, un-nurtured. And if I don’t snaffle him, someone else will.’
‘You know what I’m saying,’ Belle answered, giving him a dark look. ‘Keep it professional.’
‘Whatever can she mean?’ Neville said, winking at Emma.
Emma had no idea, though having recently started at Elsyng Girls’ School, where she shared a common room with older girls, she’d begun to look at her parents in a new light. ‘Do you know what an open marriage is?’ a Year Ten had asked her. ‘Cos my mum says your parents do that.’
Rumours about her parents were many and constant, and Emma usually managed to ignore them. But now she was approaching puberty, and learning about all those adult … things, she found herself watching her parents with interest.
An open marriage was probably one where the husband and wife told each other everything. Teddy and Belle loved each other very much, everyone knew that. Theirs was a great British love story. Teddy was from a rich, noble family – his parents, Grandma and Grandpa Snow, were a Sir and a Lady! – and he’d married a girl from the local village, which they hadn’t approved of at all. But now, of course, they loved Belle, probably because she’d given them so many grandchildren.
But that same mean girl who’d told her about the open marriage had also said something very rude about Emma’s father and his leading ladies. Well, if you’re an actor, you have to kiss other women, of course. It made Emma feel horrible inside, seeing him do that in films, but Belle just laughed about it and said there would have been loads of people on the set watching, and a director shouting things like ‘put your hand there’ and ‘turn this way a bit’, so it wouldn’t have been at all romantic. And anyway, her parents had just had another baby so obviously they still loved each other in that way, so why would her dad want anyone else? Especially when Belle was one of the most beautiful women in Britain – the papers were always saying so.
Uncle Neville and Emma made their way to the dressing room, which was actually the headmaster’s study with a special mirror with lights around it, and a dressing screen, brought in for Teddy. A large gold star had been stuck on the door.
Neville knocked and entered, and she followed him in. Teddy was seated in front of the mirror removing his stage make-up; he’d already changed out of his fairy king outfit into a long white robe.
The boy, Rowan, was sitting on the edge of the headmaster’s desk, drinking a can of cola. On his middle finger Emma noticed a chunky silver ring with a boar’s head.
She found herself staring again. She noticed how his black eyebrows turned up slightly at the inner corners. It made him look sad.
‘Ah!’ said Teddy. ‘Rowan – meet my manager, Neville Warwick. And my daughter Emerald, who prefers to be an Emma.’
Neville shook Rowan’s hand, pumping it up and down. ‘Marvellous, marvellous. We need to have a talk, dear boy. How much longer have you at school?’
Emma wanted to talk to Rowan too, to tell him how much she’d loved his clever play. But Neville and Teddy were sucking up all the air, all the space, taking over. As usual. She sat down on the leather sofa and watched, instead.
‘This is my last year,’ said Rowan. He spoke softly, with a Yorkshire accent.
‘And then?’ said Teddy.
‘Uni, if I get in.’ Rowan didn’t look at the men. Instead, he watched his finger as it traced the gold edging on the leather-topped desk. His long hair fell forward, hiding his expression.
‘Which one? And to study what?’ said Neville.
Without looking up, Rowan shrugged, and Emma noticed his uneven shoulders again. ‘Don’t know and don’t know.’
‘Don’t bombard him with questions,’ Teddy said. ‘You’ll scare him off.’
Emma had a strong sense the boy was already looking to escape. The two men could be quite overwhelming.
She cleared her throat, and he glanced over. ‘Your play was fantastic,’ she said, in a voice that came out a lot smaller than she’d intended – although any voice tended to sound small if it followed her father’s. ‘I want to be a writer too. I think it’s amazing that you wrote a Shakespeare play I could understand.’ She felt herself blushing again.
She saw the interest spark in his eyes. He hopped down from the desk and came over, sitting down beside her. ‘Yeah, Shakespeare’s awesome, but it can be a real pain at first. Takes ages to understand it. Don’t give up. Watch some movies, start with the easy ones, like Twelfth Night and As You Like It. Save the biggies, like Hamlet and Richard the Third, for later.’
‘Oh yes, I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
He smiled, and it transformed his face, from dark to light.
‘Rowan,’ said Neville. ‘We need to talk, dear boy. Obviously you should do English or drama at university, and I would very much like to take you under my wing. You can write alongside your studies; Teddy and I will open doors for you – beautiful, gilded, West End ones. Do you have other scripts, treatments, as well as what we witnessed this evening?’
‘No,’ said Rowan. The light had faded. He wasn’t looking thrilled at the prospect of working with Neville. Emma wondered why that was. ‘Just poems,’ he said, head down again, picking at a thread on his jeans. ‘I’m focusing on my A levels now.’
‘Of course,’ said Neville. ‘Perhaps we should speak to your parents about how we might sponsor your studies and lock in optioning rights on your work.’
Emma felt Rowan go still beside her. He didn’t reply. The silence lengthened.
‘Are they here tonight?’ said Neville.
More silence, then, ‘Nope.’ He started picking at his jeans again. Then he suddenly stood up. ‘I’m going now. But thank you for being in my play, Teddy. It was … ’ he took a breath. ‘I’ll never forget it.’
‘And there will be many more!’ announced Neville. ‘Come, be our wunderkind, our protégé. Together we’ll conquer the West End with your Midsummer Night’s Dream and then onward to theatrical legendry.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Rowan. He looked down at Emma and said, ‘Keep writing, girl.’ Then he headed to the door, yanked it open and left, not shutting it behind him.
‘Rather rude?’ said Neville. ‘We just offered him a stellar career on a plate and he walked out.’
‘You blew it,’ said Teddy. ‘Neville, you have to tread carefully with Rowan. He’s a tricky one. There are issues, obviously.’
‘Is there something wrong with his back, Daddy?’ said Emma.
‘Yes, sweetheart. He’s got scoliosis. It’s when the spine doesn’t grow quite straight. Rowan’s isn’t too noticeable, but it would have been hard for him standing there under the spotlight tonight.’
‘Does it hurt?’ said Emma.
‘Not that he’s ever said. But he’s quite sensitive about it; it’s probably why he’s so shy. This school – it’s meant to be inclusive and whatnot, but bullying happens. My guess is it happens to him. Teenagers can be brutal.’
‘I know,’ said Emma, thinking of the comments the girls at school had made about Belle and Teddy. God, your mum’s clothes! Move on from the seventies, why doesn’t she?
‘Poor beautiful boy,’ said Neville.
Yes, poor R
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