The Beach Holiday

by Isabelle Broom

Genres: Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When a struggling writer meets a Hollywood actor in The Hamptons, she decides to use his life as the basis for a love story - but her pursuit of success comes at a price . . .

A somebody. A nobody.
A love story waiting to be written . . .

All aspiring novelist Honor has ever wanted is to be successful. It's the only way she can impress the father who abandoned her, the boyfriend who gave up on her, and the nagging voice in her head that tells her she's not good enough.

Still, wanting to tell a story is not the same as having a story to tell, and Honor knows she needs to find a new source of inspiration.

When she's invited to spend a summer abroad in The Hamptons, Honor realises it could be the dream setting for a book, especially when a chance encounter provides her with the perfect leading man.

But blurring fact and fiction is a dangerous game, and Honor soon discovers that writing her way to success might come at the expense of her own happy ever after . . .

(P) 2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: June 22, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 384

Sample

Acknowledgements

I send my first thanks to you, reader. There are so many books out there by so many brilliant authors, and I am honoured that you chose this one. I set out to write a novel that would provide an escape from the worry that has clouded the past few years, a story with unashamed love at its heart and a good few laughs along the way. I hope it brought a smile to your face . . . and a hankering to visit The Hamptons.

To my agent Alice Lutyens, who doesn’t bat so much as an eyelash when I tell her to ‘put a rocket up my bottom’, and persists in championing me to anyone who’ll listen. You are a marvel, and I feel very lucky to have you steering the Broom ship. Thanks must also go to the incredible team at Curtis Brown – especially Flo and Liz – for helping my books travel as far around the world as their author does.

To my editor, Kimberley Atkins, for always knowing exactly how to finesse my stories and manage my bonkersness during the edit phase, and for doing it all with such joy, passion, integrity, and professionalism. Huge thanks also to my Hodder & Stoughton team – Alainna Hadjigeorgiou (for publicity), Olivia Robertshaw (for editorial), Alice Morley (for marketing), Kay Gale (for copyedit), Becky Glibbery (for yet another wanderlust-inducing cover) and Catherine, Sarah, Rich, Iman, and Lucy (for sales).

Thank you to my fellow writers, so many of whom I am fortunate enough to call friends. Special mention must go to Tasmina Perry (for selling The Hamptons to me – you were right!), Clare Mackintosh (for coming all the way to Queens in New York to buy me pizza and give me career-altering advice), Cathy Bramley and Kirsty Greenwood (for Zoom writing sessions, laughter, and Harry Styles gifs), Katie Marsh (for being my best and most steadfast cheerleader), and Cesca Major (for energy, inspiration, Coldplay tickets and general awesomeness).

To Lisa Howells, Chris Whitaker, and Tom Wood – not even Maverick could be a better wingman. I love you all from the bottom of my heart (and that salmon jug).

To my Nearest and Dearest crew – Sara-Jade, Fanny, Louise, and Claire – thank you for keeping me perpetually stocked with cheese, gin, gossip, and brilliant books.

To Gemma Courage, for coming out to New York to help me research this book – let us never forget The Machine™, birthing turnstiles, great racks, one-in-one-out, bookish chat over afternoon wine, and the magic of Bleecker Street. And to my friends, you know who you are – thank you for always supporting my writing and me.

And lastly (but not leastly), I must thank my family – every single scattered, treasured, and wonderful one of you – for your patience, love, and support.

Mum, you are my first reader, favourite co-walking plotter, biggest champion, and the most important person in my life. Thank you feels inadequate when I consider all that you do – but know that I mean it. You are the one I do it all for, and always will be.

Chapter 1

Every good story needs a strong opening. Mine was the letter box.

The clunk as the post hit the mat was punctuated by an enthusiastic yapping, as the dog that had been snoozing peacefully across my feet shot up and hurled itself from the room.

‘Dodie,’ I called, in the half-hearted tone of someone who knows they will be ignored. She was not my dog, and even if she had been, I doubted she would have paid much heed. Authority was not a trait that came naturally to me.

From the snarling sounds I could now hear drifting up the stairs, it seemed likely that whatever Dodie had discovered in the hallway was at imminent risk of destruction and so, with a sigh that seemed to come from a very long way inside, I threw back the covers and set off on a rescue mission.

‘Drop,’ I commanded a few moments later, reaching gingerly for the end of the rolled-up magazine that wasn’t obscured by brown, curly muzzle.

Dodie eyed me with disdain.

‘You can have a treat,’ I coaxed, noticing the lift in her ears as she registered the last word. She watched me back away towards the kitchen, and then I heard the soft tap of her paws against the lino as I levered open the fridge door. There was a half-empty packet of cocktail sausages inside, and I took one out and held it up so she could see.

‘Drop,’ I said again, and Dodie, all wide-eyed and wagging tail, did as she was told, accepting her reward with what I could have sworn was a smile. Either that, or she was reminding me how many teeth she had. Picking up what was left of the magazine, I placed it on the table and was in the process of filling the kettle when a key sounded in the front door.

‘Honeys, I’m home!’

Such was Dodie’s determination to greet her owner before I did, that she almost concussed herself on the pedal bin in her haste to exit the room. I smiled to myself as I listened to Jojo making a fuss of the dog, calling her by every other bizarre name she seemed to have inherited over the past two years – Mrs Dodieson, Doja Prat, Doodle Pup, Betty Doo. No wonder the poor mutt had a personality disorder.

‘Tea?’ was how I greeted her, and she nodded gratefully as she put down her bag.

‘Please. The inside of my mouth feels like the crater of a volcano that’s been dormant for a century.’

‘Right.’ I grimaced in sympathy. ‘I’m guessing there was wine involved last night, in that case?’

Jojo groaned. ‘Champagne first, and then wine – and I’m pretty sure we cracked open the gin when we got back to his place. And you know when you stay at someone’s house for the first time and feel weird about helping yourself to a glass of water?’

‘Somewhere in the dusty archives of my mind, I think there’s a vague recollection, yes,’ I told her, stirring in the milk.

‘Well, that’s what happened. I woke with such a raging thirst in the night that I seriously considered sticking my face in his fish tank.’

‘He had a fish tank in his bedroom?’

She laughed, showing even more teeth than Dodie had. I put the tea in front of her and pulled out a chair.

‘Thanks, Your Honor,’ she said, grinning as I tutted. She’d been adding the word ‘your’ to my name ever since we were teenagers, arguing that it gave me gravitas. ‘And thanks for staying over to mind this one.’ She nudged the now-snoozing Dodie with a foot. ‘I would have invited Nemo over if the silly girl didn’t get so jealous.’

‘We’re calling the man you’re dating Nemo, are we?’

Jojo shrugged. ‘It’s better than Fish Boy.’

My best friend approached dating in much the same way she did wine tasting, by trying as many different flavours as she could until she happened across one that warranted buying the bottle. As she had pointed out numerous times, it was only right that she did something to redress the balance that I, in my current state of self-imposed celibacy, had upset. My last relationship had ended over four years ago, and aside from a few ill-advised brief encounters in the pubs and bars of Cambridge, I had chosen to keep romantic entanglements of any kind at a distance.

Jojo spotted the magazine and began tearing off its cellophane wrapper. She did not mention the fact that it was part-shredded, so I could only assume Dodie’s treatment of any incoming mail must be standard practice. Despite her disturbed night and the lingering effects of alcohol, my friend had a high colour in her cheeks and her blond hair fell in neat swirls around her shoulders. The black dress I’d seen her toddle off in the previous evening was obscured by a creased blue-and-white striped shirt, the bottom of which she’d knotted together around her waist. She might have been too shy to ask her date for a glass of water, but Jojo was presumably brazen when it came to pinching his clothes. I wasn’t sure whether I admired or despaired of her. It was probably a bit of both.

‘Ooh!’ she said now, tapping a finger at whatever she was reading.

Leaning across the table, I saw that she had Idol magazine open at the reviews page and I recognised the book jacket immediately. It was the latest in my father’s series of bestsellers, each centred around a character called Benedict Stamp, a former US marine-turned rogue agent who went underground in order to catch the people who killed his wife. This original vengeance mission had consumed the narrative of the first three books, while in the twenty-one that followed, Stamp had fought battles on every continent, before heading into space to foil a plot to destroy the Moon. The books were far-fetched but well researched and Stamp himself was a likeable enough, if slightly unpredictable, hero. There was also a lot of sex in the books – a fact that had rendered me mute with discomfort the first time I’d read one, aged just twelve. His newest novel, the twenty-fifth in the series, introduced Stamp’s long-lost son, Marty, who the eponymous hero is hoping will take over the family business, such as it is. According to Idol magazine’s book reviews editor, it was a ‘gut-churning thrill ride’; they had awarded it five stars.

‘It’s a good one,’ I said loyally. ‘There’s a scene where Benedict manages to have sex while skydiving, which is quite a feat given that he’s in his fifties.’

Jojo glanced from me back to the page, momentarily confused. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s one of your dad’s, is it? I didn’t even notice; I was too busy reading this.’ She turned the magazine around so I could see the small boxout at the bottom of the page. A headline asked: Do you have a bestseller in you?, below which there were two photos, one of the New York skyline, and another of Big Ben in London. According to the copy that followed, the UK’s largest publishing house was celebrating the fact it had just opened a North American office by launching a novel-writing competition. Entrants were invited to submit a full synopsis plus first three chapters of a work in any genre, as long as the story was inspired by the locations pictured. Three runners-up would each win a session with a literary agent and editor, while one winner would be granted a fifty-thousand-pound two-book publishing deal.

‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘That is . . . wow.’

‘I know, right?’ Jojo bounced up and down in her seat. I often wondered if I had become more sedate over the years simply to act as her pacifier.

‘This competition is tailor-made for you, Honor. You have to enter.’

I peered at the small print. ‘But the deadline is the end of August,’ I said. ‘It’s almost June.’

‘Buckets of time.’ Jojo flicked a casual hand. ‘It’s only a few chapters.’

‘I don’t think that I—’ I began, but Jojo had not finished.

‘Honor,’ she went on, ‘this is a gift. I’d go so far as to say that it was a sign from the universe. What are the chances of a writing competition explicitly asking for novels inspired by both England and New York – the two places you know better than any other? Not even you can deny that it’s a brilliant opportunity.’

I could not, so I said nothing.

‘This could be the catalyst you need to finally write that novel you’ve been talking about for as long as I’ve known you.’

What Jojo did not know was that I had already started plenty of novels. The first thirty thousand words of at least ten were languishing on my laptop.

‘Thousands of people will enter this competition,’ I pointed out. ‘I don’t stand even a sliver of a chance.’

‘Don’t give me that “I’m no good” modest spiel.’ Jojo had adopted her stern voice. ‘Even if you don’t win, you’ll at least be getting your work under the noses of the right people. It’s a way into the industry, although I have never understood why you don’t just ask your dad to—’

I glared at her, and she pulled a face.

‘I know, I know – you want to make it on merit alone. I get that. Hell, I even admire it. But this, this – ’ she tapped a finger once again against the page ‘ – is your way in.’

I took a moment to imagine what it would feel like to win, to have my writing heralded as prize-worthy, to be paid real money for a story I’d created, to be able to call my father and say, ‘Look what I did. I finally made a success of myself.’

Sitting back in my chair, I reached for my mug of tea and did my best not to catch Jojo’s eye over the rim of it.

‘So?’ she demanded.

I had my excuses ready, but before I could reel them off, Jojo had rolled up the magazine and whacked me with it.

‘Oi,’ I said, rubbing the side of my head. ‘What was that for?’

‘That,’ she said grimly, ‘was me knocking some sense into you. Because you know I’m right, Honor – this is your chance. Promise me you’re not going to let it pass you by.’

It would be so easy to agree, to reassure her I would try, but it wouldn’t be honest. To enter this competition would be to risk losing it, and coming anywhere other than first place would feel like a loss to me. I had to be sure that the book I was writing was worthy of a win, and in order to do that, I would need a good idea.

A really, really good idea.

Chapter 10

Coopers Beach, I soon discovered, was the undisputed feather in Southampton’s cap.

According to Tallulah, who stored facts she’d read in magazines like rodents did nuts for winter, it was consistently voted as one of the top ten beaches in America, and as soon as we’d clambered out of the free shuttle buggy that we’d flagged down in the village and strode the few metres from car park to wooden walkway, I understood exactly why.

White sand stretched away in both directions, the east and west horizons dancing with heat, while ahead of us the Atlantic Ocean crashed its mighty waves against the shore. Terns circled overhead, their shrill cries interrupting the chatter of the gulls that hulked in shallow pools below them. Shaggy tufts of grass pushed through the pillowy range of soft dunes, behind which stood one palatial beach house after another. I put up a hand to shield my eyes as a warm gust of wind dashed across us, peppering my sun cream-coated legs with a swarm of grit. The air was deliciously salty, the roar of the sea a beckoning call; this was the world at its most poetic, and I was entranced. Lost, for the longest moment, in the undulations of nature.

‘Pretty impressive, right?’ Tallulah turned to face me, her smile, as ever, wide beneath her sunglasses. She’d done her best to tie back her wayward hair, but the errant breeze was already whipping it away from its fastening. Yelping as the skirt of her dress was lifted up almost to navel height, she clamped it back down with a laugh.

‘Impressive and windy,’ I remarked. ‘I’m very glad I wore shorts.’

Given that my own hair had reached a frustrating in-between length, I’d pulled it into two low pigtails, before tugging my faithful cap down on top. When it came to make-up, I’d done little more than apply brow and lip gel, and now wished I hadn’t bothered with the latter – it felt as if half the beach had adhered itself to my mouth.

We’d picked up a takeaway cup of coffee each from the café on the corner of South Main Street, and now carried these and our overstuffed straw bags down to the shoreline.

‘Shall we just walk until we get tired and sit down wherever we end up?’ Tallulah asked, slipping off her sandals and hooking them over a finger. I was happy to go along with this, and as we strolled, our toes leaving indentations in the wet sand, I led her successfully off the topic of my book and onto hers, asking her about her process, which craft books, if any, she used, and what her long-term ambitions were. Like me, she was a dedicated disciple of my father and his ‘rules’, which I had first heard him mention back when I was sixteen and had ditched school for the day to watch him being interviewed at an author event in London.

Asked by the panel chair to discuss how he approached a new novel, my father had confided that he was a strict plotter, and that as far as he was concerned, there were four rules you had to follow if you wanted to make it as a writer. Sitting up a fraction straighter in my seat, I’d prepared to note them down.

‘Number one,’ he said, ‘is never write for yourself. Write for the readers and for the market. If you treat writing self-indulgently, you’ll never get anywhere.’

The interviewer looked as if she might interrupt, but he’d continued talking.

‘The second thing is to make sure your characters act, don’t react – you want them to be active, not passive. Nobody cares what they might be thinking or feeling, only what they’re doing.’

I’d noted this down, even though I’d heard him say it many times before.

‘The third rule is to believe in yourself and your ideas. If you don’t think your novel is any good, chances are nobody else will either. You need to give it the hard sell – never apologise or be self-deprecating. People don’t respond to it well, trust me.’

The woman asking the questions nodded politely, urging him to continue.

‘The final one?’ he said. ‘Well, that’s simple: avoid flashbacks. In order to keep the story going, you need to stay in the now, not harp constantly back to the past. All that backstory stuff is just filler. So, stick to the now.’

I had felt triumphant as I headed back to Cambridge later that evening, aware that I’d be in trouble for sneaking off but knowing it had been worth it. Because from that moment on, I had it – the formula that would guarantee me writing success – and I’d tried my hardest to adhere to it ever since.

‘Your dad is such a pioneer,’ Tallulah said, pulling me back from my sojourn into the past. ‘Every book I’ve read about how to plot a novel goes on and on about backstory, but I think JB’s method makes far more sense. Setting a story wholly in the present lends it that urgency.’

‘Hard to do, though,’ I said, and she sighed forlornly.

‘Right? I’m so glad it’s not just me. I find it so hard to ignore what the characters are telling me, demanding that I pay attention to what they’re feeling all the time.’

I knew exactly what she meant. There was a strange kind of alchemy to writing, a blending of what was in your own subconscious with that of your chosen protagonist, but my father had long maintained that in order to tell a good story, you had to learn how to push those insistent voices from your mind.

‘He’s your mentor now, don’t forget,’ I reminded Tallulah. ‘By the time summer’s over, he’ll have taught you all his tricks.’

She smiled, but for once, it did not feel authentic. Stopping to readjust the strap of her bag, she pointed ahead to where a trio of surfers were making their way towards the water. ‘Let’s set ourselves up over there,’ she said. ‘I love watching the boarders, reminds me of the trips we used to take when I was a kid.’

‘Did you holiday here?’

‘God, no. My parents could never have afforded to bring me and my brother here. We had to settle for Nags Head in Cali.’

‘I’m sure I’ve been to a pub with that name,’ I said, and was gratified to get a laugh.

The surfers had paddled beyond the breaking waves by the time we’d rolled out our towels, set down our bags and unpeeled the greaseproof paper from around the chickpea salad wraps that Tallulah had prepared that morning. We watched them as we ate in companionable silence. One of the figures was far more skilled than his companions, the effortless contortion of his body making each manoeuvre look seamless, while the others spent more time tumbling off their boards than they did riding them. It was only when they began to ride the waves back in again that I was able to see their features more clearly, and went still as I recognised a thick, untidy beard.

‘Oh my God!’ Tallulah clutched my arm.

‘What?’

‘That guy there, he reminds me of . . . No, it can’t be him.’

‘The one who looks like one of his parents could have been a yeti?’ I asked. ‘That’s the man I met yesterday, the one who knocked me over. Tom. The stuntman,’ I added when she appeared unable to speak. ‘Do you recognise him?’

‘That’s not a stuntman,’ she murmured, her voice pinched with excitement.

‘That is Cellan Thomas.’

Chapter 11

At a loss for how else to respond, I laughed. ‘Cellan Thomas as in the famous actor? No, it really isn’t.’

Tallulah’s grip on my arm had grown tighter. ‘It is him!’ she practically squealed.

I felt like reminding her that she was thirty-five, not thirteen. This is what Tom must have meant when he told me he was often mistaken for someone famous – Cellan Thomas must be that person. When I explained this to Tallulah, however, she shook her head roughly from side to side.

‘No, no, no,’ she insisted. ‘He’s the real deal. I’m sure of it.’

The surfers had reached the shoreline, and the one woman of the group was wringing water from her long, dark-red hair. I stared at the man beside her, willing him to look over in our direction, but he was preoccupied with untangling his ankle leash. All three were in wetsuits, but as I continued to stare, the two men unzipped theirs to the waist. I saw a flash of defined muscle, a scattering of dark hair, and averted my eyes as heat flared across my cheeks.

‘Go and say hi,’ urged Tallulah.

‘I don’t want to interrupt his conversation,’ I said, rather lamely.

Tallulah made a tutting sound. ‘He won’t mind. If he really is the guy who crashed into you yesterday, then he at least owes you the time of day.’

‘He definitely is that guy,’ I corrected firmly.

‘Well, then.’ She gave me her most winning smile. ‘Think of it as book research.’

I’d wanted to see him again for this precise reason, to ask him for some insider knowledge about what being a stuntman entailed, but now that I was confronted with him, it felt like an odd request.

‘If you don’t go over there, then I will,’ Tallulah threatened happily, starting to raise a hand. ‘I could simply wave him over here and––’

‘Stop!’ I grabbed her hand and yanked it down. ‘I’ll go over, just give me a second.’

Tallulah considered me. ‘Teeth,’ she instructed, and I opened my mouth into a rictus grin. ‘Good, all clear, no spinach. Now eyes. Yep, all clear. No mascara gloop.’

‘I’m not wearing any mascara,’ I said, wishing now that I’d put some on.

‘You need to lose the hat,’ she said, knocking it off my head. ‘And pull these out,’ she added, tugging the toggles free so my hair fell loose around my shoulders. I glanced back towards the surfers.

‘They’re leaving,’ I said. ‘Oh well.’

Tallulah gave me a not-very-gentle shove.

‘Oi!’

‘Now get,’ she ordered, as a cowboy might to his dog.

I stood up, conscious that I would have to run if I wanted to catch up with him, and set off across the sand. It was soft underfoot, the going slow despite my attempts to hurry, and I staggered as the sand shifted away beneath me. When the group was only a few metres ahead, I called out, ‘Excuse me,’ and saw three sets of shoulders tense. The woman stopped and turned to face me, the two men continuing on without her.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, the politeness of her enquiry marred by the icy tone in which she delivered it.

‘I just––’ I began, craning my neck to look past her. ‘I wanted to talk to Tom.’

‘Tom?’ She looked at me blankly.

‘Yes, Tom. I met him yesterday. I gave him a lift home – Great Plains Road. I know him,’ I persisted, as she folded her arms across her chest.

‘Tom!’ I called, then shouted it again, more loudly this time.

Both men stopped, and then at last, he turned. It was impossible to miss the change in his expression when he realised that I was not, as he’d presumably feared, a crazed fan.

‘Honor,’ he said, as if testing out the word.

‘Yes,’ I said, and waved at him quite unnecessarily.

Passing his surfboard to the man next to him, who stared at me in confusion, he made his way over, running a hand through his wet hair as he did so. There were droplets of water in his beard, and he was wearing sunglasses again, although this pair were the wraparound style, with blue mirrored lenses.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘How’s the knee?’

‘Sand-encrusted,’ I said, and he glanced down with a grimace. ‘How are the balls?’

He laughed, and I noticed his female friend’s eyes widen in shock.

‘Oh, they’re fine,’ he assured me. ‘Thank you for asking.’

‘My friend over there,’ I said, pointing towards Tallulah, ‘seems to think you’re a famous actor, so I guess it really must be true what you told me about being mistaken for someone else.’

He lowered his chin, taking a step backwards. ‘Who does she think I am?’

‘Cellan Thomas. You know, the actor. But you’re not him, are you?’

The woman cleared her throat. ‘We should get going,’ she said. ‘You’ve got that . . . thing, remember? And Gunnar will––’

‘It’s OK,’ he said, folding and unfolding his arms.

Tallulah was on her feet and heading over to join us. I could smell the orange blossom scent of her perfume in the air and wondered if she’d doused herself in it before seeking out an introduction.

‘Hey,’ she said, as she drew closer. ‘I’m Tallulah.’

‘You’re the one who recognised me?’

The smile she offered him was coy in the extreme. ‘Guilty as charged.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘Are you saying that you’re not a stuntman, then?’

‘Not exactly.’ He looked from me to Tallulah, and then at the ground. ‘I do my own stunts sometimes, but it’s more jumping off a chair than out of a plane.’

I understood what he was telling me, but my brain would not allow the facts to gain any purchase. This man, standing in front of me, with what looked like a spot on his forehead and a large frond of seaweed stuck to his leg, could not be Cellan Thomas, Oscar-winning movie star. I had sworn at this man, had flashed my ugliest bra at him, had asked after his balls. All of a sudden, I felt very faint.

‘Oh,’ I managed. ‘I see.’

I could not look at him, at Cellan. It was as if he had changed into a completely different person in the past few seconds, and I no longer knew what to say, or how I would find the courage to speak even if I did. I thought about the way I’d pulled his T-shirt up towards my mouth and wiped blood all over it, how I’d callously ridiculed his beard, which the poor man must have grown in an attempt to remain incognito. In a rush, details of the Idol magazine story about him came back to me, and I recalled what he’d said the previous day about sobriety.

‘Honor, are you all right?’

It was Cellan who’d asked the question, and I tried my best to smile.

‘I feel stupid,’ I said. ‘I should have recognised you.’

‘And ruin this weird surprise?’ he joked. ‘I shouldn’t have lied to you. I’m sorry about that.’

‘It’s OK,’ I told him. ‘At least the whole seven-hundred dollars for a bike thing makes more sense now.’

He laughed. ‘True. Although before you get any ideas, that offer was a one-time thing and has now expired.’

‘Dammit!’

‘This is my friend Cherry, by the way,’ he said, gesturing to the woman in the wetsuit. ‘And that’s Colton over there.’

The third surfer, whose hands were occupied with twisting his dreadlocks up in a topknot, nodded in our direction.

‘Honor is the kind soul who came to my rescue yesterday,’ Cellan explained.

Cherry offered me a watery smile. ‘And you just happened to be here at the beach?’ she said archly. ‘That was lucky.’

‘It was my idea to come down here today.’ Tallulah’s tone, by contrast, was pure honey. ‘Not Honor’s.’

‘We should let you all get on,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I just wanted to say hello, and now I’ve said it, so . . .’

Cellan removed his sunglasses; his eyes looked different today, closer to amber than hazel.

‘What are you both doing this evening?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ Tallulah enthused. ‘We’re completely free. No plans.’

‘That’s not strictly true,’ I told her, then, turning back towards Cellan. ‘My father’s arriving in a few hours and––’

‘Her father is Jeffrey Butler,’ interrupted Tallulah. ‘The writer.’

‘The Benedict Stamp guy?’ asked Cherry, noticeably perking up as Tallulah nodded. ‘Cool.’

‘We were thinking of doing a cookout later on,’ Cellan explained. ‘Nothing fancy, just a few friends and some grilled shrimp. You should come, bring your dad as well.’

‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

‘You heard the man,’ answered Tallulah firmly. ‘He’s sure.’

Cellan shrugged.

Any moment now, I would wake up from this most bizarre dream. Because there was no possible way this could be real. This sort of thing did n. . .