Page 36 of The Battle of the Bookshops
Damn him. Roman just put his head back and laughed again, releasing her as the song came to an end and turning away in the direction of Cally, as if she were already forgotten.
Dismissed, Jules gathered herself together and tottered off, desperate to escape to the ladies’ and regain her composure.
Two hours later, Jules had drunk so much champagne her mouth was dry and sour tasting. She had had yelled conversations with several hard-drinking Irish aunts and jumped around the dance floor with several equally hard-drinking, and regrettably handsy, Irish uncles, but it was all so good-natured, Jules couldn’t take real offense. They were all thoroughly excited at being in Devon to celebrate one of their own getting hitched, and without exception, they were giving it their all. Finn’s extended family was a blast.
Citing her increasing migraine, which wasn’t a lie—especially with the disco music thumping—Jules bellowed into Freya’s ear that she thought she might make a move.
“Get Finn to take you home,” yelled Freya anxiously.
“In case I get mugged or kidnapped walking for two minutes down Portneath High Street?” queried Jules. “I think I’ll be fine.”
“What?” yelled Freya, putting her hand to her ear.
“I said—oh, never mind...” Jules told her at a normal volume, straightening and patting Freya on the shoulder.I’ll be fine,she mouthed against the din.
Freya would have none of it, though, and by the time Jules had collected her little clutch bag with her keys from her seat at the top table, Roman—not Finn—was standing by the door, ready to escort her home.
“I don’t need a minder,” she said ungratefully as they walked out into the blessed relative quiet of the marble entrance hall.
“No, butIdo,” said Roman. “That Irish woman in green, with the wig that’s coming askew, wants yet another dance with me; she’s had six goes already, and people are beginning to talk.”
Jules scoffed, but she gave up objecting to having an escort. It might be best to just get it over with.
“Ladies first,” Roman said, holding the door wide and wavingher through, into the darkness. “After all, there might be something horrible out there,” he added over his shoulder to no one in particular.
“Har, har,” Jules responded as he stepped out after her and, brooking no argument, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. Even in the hated yellow dress, Jules had to admit they made quite a sight as they walked down the high street, dodging Saturday night revelers, with Roman in his morning coat and blue silk tie, still looking immaculate.
“Got your key?” he asked as they arrived at Capelthorne’s.
“Of course,” she said, reaching into her little bag. “You can go. Unless you wantmeto escortyouhome?”
“I might go back for a bit more of a bop,” he admitted. “There are some pretty girls I’ve not danced with yet, and the bar’s not run out of Guinness, which is a minor miracle that puts the wedding at Cana to shame. That Irish lot know how to have a good time.”
“Off you pop then,” said Jules, her heart dropping inexplicably at the thought of Roman dancing with other women. Of course he was going to. And if his reputation, and Cally’s beauty, was anything to go by, when he did finally go home, he was unlikely to be alone.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just see you properly in,” said Roman, apparently determined not to be dismissed.
Jules was equally keen for him to go. She was having a bit of difficulty opening the door, and the last thing she needed was an audience. She really should remember to put a drop of oil in the lock tomorrow.
“Problem?” he said, watching as Jules turned the key again, still in vain.
“Uh-oh,” she muttered, realizing.
“What?”
“It looks like Aunt Flo has forgotten I’m out and dropped the latch.”
“Let me,” said Roman, reaching over to have a go. The key was turning but not the whole way. “You’re right, she’s double-locked it,” he murmured. “Ring the bell, maybe?”
“Oh, bless her, I suppose I’ll have to,” fretted Jules. “She’s always in bed by nine and it’s nearly midnight now. She’ll be fast asleep. And even if I wake her, the last thing I want is for her to be rushing down the stairs, groggy and disorientated. She’s already had one bad fall.”
“How about a back way in?” asked Roman.
“Hmm, maybe,” said Jules. “There are the French doors in the office. We quite often don’t remember to lock them, which isn’t really an issue because the door to the lane at the back is always locked. Any burglar would have to vault a six-foot brick wall to get in.”
“Luckily vaulting is one of my many special talents,” Roman told her. “Where is the alleyway?”
“It goes down the side of the ice-cream shop.” Jules pointed at a small, inconspicuous brick archway a few yards up the street, going through the middle of the terrace of shops. “Then it’s the peeling black-painted door in the wall, three doors along.”
