Page 26 of From Now On

‘Billie.’ Duke can feel he is screaming from the rawness in his throat but there’s a funny whooshing sound in his ears and he can’t quite hear. ‘Billie!’

Aunt Violet half drags him to the car, the frigid February air, along with his tears, stinging his throat. She bundles him in the back. He scrambles to get out.

‘Duke.’ Aunt Violet speaks sternly. ‘You’re only going to distress the dog if she sees you like this. You love her, don’t you?’

Duke loves her so much he feels his heart will burst. ‘Yes,’ he whispers.

‘Then don’t upset her. Get back in the car.’

Duke does as he is told.

Nina throws herself on the backseat next to him, her eyes wet, lips trembling.

Aunt Violet pulls away. Duke twists around in his seat. Pippa is at her window, wiping tears from her cheeks with her sleeve, Billie next to her, paws on the sill, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, a confused expression in her eyes.

Come back. Come back. Come back.

Duke watches as she grows smaller, as they travel away from the dog he has loved since she was a puppy and the only home they have both ever known.

He releases a howl of anguish – the howl of the wounded animal that he is.

Finally, wrenchingly, he begins to cry.

Chapter Twelve

Charlie

Charlie had begun his career as an intern thirteen years ago. At the end of his interview he’d been asked if he had any questions and he’d leaned forward and earnestly asked,

‘What’s the greatest attribute I need to succeed in publishing?’

‘The capacity to drink huge volumes of alcohol,’ came the reply with a laugh.

That wasn’t strictly true, of course; he needed patience, a rational head, a confidence to tackle awkward conversations. Ironic, really, when he has spent much of his life shying away from awkward conversations but still he has called Nina and Duke twice a week. Still he hasn’t told them that at the end of this month he’s moving to New York.

In business he needs to know when a deal is good and when to walk away.

He tries to apply the same logic to his private life, but it doesn’t sit right with him. Moving to the other side of the world.

He’s a coward.

He takes another glug of sparkling water wishing it were champagne, and scans the room. This book launch isn’t for one of the authors he represents but for a Young Adult novel Sasha has edited.It’s been nominated for a literary award, the writer – a debut – touted as the next best thing. He watches her now, the broad grin that stretches across her face, oblivious to the fact that next month there will likely be another ‘next big thing’ and her career could end up solely comprising of this one book. He flicks through a copy. It’s almost all dialogue and there’s no punctuation, making it difficult to figure out who is speaking.

‘Brave’ is the cover quote provided by the ‘next big thing’ from a couple of years ago who he does represent and he knows that behind the scenes she’s frozen with fear, unable to complete her second book, scared it will never live up to the first.

A hush falls across the room as Sasha taps the microphone and begins her speech, explaining why she immediately fell in love with the story the second she read it. Sasha is passionate about books but more level-headed about everything else, including him. Theirs was a gradual coming together, their paths crossing at events, stilted small talk turning to lingering at the bar at the end of the night, swapping phone numbers, dreams. Realizing they wanted the same things.

It isn’t that Charlie feels she doesn’t love him but he sees the way her eyes light up when she talks about stories, she feels the way he does about words, and he feels… it’s silly to say jealous but theirs was never a ‘I knew the second we laid eyes on each other’ story, but that doesn’t mean they can’t have their happily ever after, does it? They want the same things. Their five-year plan meticulously drawn.

Charlie gently pats his pocket, feels the ring box he still carries with him. Tonight isn’t the right time, despite the champagne she is drinking and the canapés and the table he has booked them later at Sasha’s favourite Italian restaurant.

He’ll propose in New York. Perhaps on top of the Empire State Building. Somewhere memorable and photogenic. Sasha loves to Instagram.

Charlie wanders around the room. In the corner there is a table covered by a crisp, white cloth, stacked with proof copies of books for people to take. Charlie thinks of Duke with his studious round glasses that magnify the sorrow in his eyes; he might like one. Before he can pick up a copy his phone vibrates.

Duke.

His heart sinks as he reads the text, his brother’s distress dripping from his words. Momentarily he begins to compose a reply –Billie is having a great time with Pippa!– but it sounds fake and patronizing and everything he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t know who he wants to be. He switches off his phone, drops it into his pocket and plucks a glass of orange juice from the tray of a passing waiter.

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