Page 101 of Book People

He’s dressed in some kind of floppy white shirt and tight trousers, with a scarf that I think is supposed to be a cravat. It’s not so much a concerted attempt at period costume as a half-hearted, casual nod in the direction of something that might, if you squint hard, be period costume.

He looks ridiculous, and I tell him so.

Unbothered, he produces a lacy white handkerchief from somewhere and flourishes it at me. ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel, at your service.’

That doesn’t deserve a reply, so I don’t give him one. I go back to restlessly scanning the room instead.

‘Did you tell her?’ Dan asks, not picking up on the ‘Fuck off’ I’m putting out.

‘Tell who what?’

‘Don’t be dense,’ he says, exasperated. ‘Kate. Did you tell Kate you have feelings for her?’

‘No,’ I snap. ‘Can we have this discussion later?’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I turn to him yet again. ‘She told me she’s in love with me.’

‘She did? Oh, mate, that’s fantastic!’ Dan looks delighted at first, but then he picks up on my expression. ‘That’s not fantastic?’

‘No.’ I bite the word out. ‘I don’t want anyone to love me, Daniel. I never did. Especially when I can’t love them back.’

‘What absolute bullshit.’ He looks annoyed now. ‘You’re an idiot, Bas. You’ve got this amazing woman in love with you and you told her what? That you didn’t want her?’

‘That’s the problem,’ I force out through gritted teeth. ‘Sheisamazing. And I am not. And I can’t give her what she wants, and I never will.’ I pick up my scotch, drain the contents, slap it back down.

Dan stares at me like I’m a fool. ‘Sebastian, I knew you were a stupid bastard, but I didn’t think you werethatstupid.’

He’s going to give me some kind of psychoanalysing lecture, I just know it, and I’m not in the mood. I’m not in the mood for this wretched party either, especially if Miss Jones isn’t here. Not that I want her to be here.

Christ. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

I don’t give Dan a reply. I turn and thread my way through the crowds to the exit, then head out of the pub, stalking down the high street, back to Blackwood Books and home.

I should stay and thank people. Raise a glass to next year’s festival and say a few words. But I’ve got no stomach for it, not tonight.

Things feel . . . grey. Dismal. And I wish I could tell myself I don’t know why I feel this way, but I do. I know.

It’s her and what I said to her. It’s her and the hurt that flashed across her face when I told her I couldn’t love her, the lie I told her.

It’s the feeling I’m missing something vital to my wellbeing and that, without it, I’m slowly dying.

There’s no other choice, though, not for me.

I survived well enough before her. I can survive well enough after her.

I stop outside Blackwood Books and I tell myself I won’t turn and look at Portable Magic as I unlock my own door. And I’m strong. I don’t, which is excellent. That’s the first step out of this hell I’ve made for myself.

I open the door and walk into the shop.

And come to a sudden stop.

Someone is standing near the counter, doing exactly what I was strong enoughnotto do, which is stare at the bookshop across the road.

Someone tall, in a ratty black coat. His hair is grey and swept back from his forehead, and he glances at me as I enter.

For a minute I’m rooted to the spot with shock.

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