Page 58 of Famous Last Words

Polly giggles, too, though in the way kids do when they don’t quite get the joke but want to.

‘Who’s the target readership? People with books all over their bed?’ Libby asks.

‘Yes. Exactly,’ Cam says, suddenly remembering that she was the exact same at university, studying English. Libby had arrived to visit, and said, ‘Er, why are you sharing a bed with D. H. Lawrence?’

Libby grabs the butter from the fridge. ‘Crusts off?’ she says to Polly. She looks at Cam. ‘It’s good you’re going out again,’ she says, her tone warm and genuine – for Libby – but Cam finds it threatening, like walking too close to an open fire.

Libby is of the view that Cam ought to have moved on. It began as advicefor Cam’s own goodbut has segued into generalized tension if Cam doesn’t appear to be living quite normally, or is maudlin sometimes on anniversaries, or has let friendships slip (all true).

‘Well, it’s a client,’ Cam says. ‘But I appreciate the sentiment: your sad sister, finally getting out.’

‘No …’ Libby says, though she doesn’t seem to mean it.

Cam studies Libby closely. Is she being slightly tentative about her body, her stomach? She watches her. Yes, she is. It’s almost like she’s injured … and is guarding herself. Cam inhales, saying nothing, only hoping.

Suddenly, Cam wants to stay here. Find out where Libby’s at. Sit in loungewear and catch up. ‘God, I wish I didn’t have to go,’ she says.

Libby throws her a quick look. ‘No. We just said! It’s good for you to go.’

Cam shrugs, irritated. She can see the humanity in what Libby wants for her, but Cam was always introverted. Now more so, but it’s hardly like she used to go raving.

‘Use the babysitter,’ Libby says, finishing buttering the toast.

‘You’re not a babysitter,’ Cam says, and Libby’s dimples appear either side of her mouth. A small smile.

‘Libby, do you share a bed with Uncle Si?’ Polly says, from nowhere.

‘Polly, that’s very personal,’ Cam says.

‘It’s fine,’ Libby says with a laugh. ‘Yes, we do. A big bed.’

Cam’s body is tensed. Is this some sort of father chat rearing its head again? Or nothing? She glances at her sister, but her face is impassive, relaxed. It’s fine, she tells herself. The decision you have made not to tell Polly the full truth yet is fine: it’s better for her.

‘Every night?’ Polly presses.

‘Every night,’ Libby says, arranging the toast on to two plates. ‘Though less if he snores. Shall we have this in bed, then brush teeth?’ Her tone is bombastic, but she throws Cam a look. Just that, an interested look, but there’s curiosity in it, too.

Cam is standing next to a bookcase full of leather tomes and an editor from Simon & Schuster. Nearby is aMailjournalist, which she’s glad for: hopefully they will review Cam’s client’s book.

They’re in Goldsboro Books, one of the oldest bookshops in Britain, hidden up an ancient Victorian street, the buildings out front higgledy-piggledy, clustered like people gathered shoulder to shoulder in the cold. Outside, it’s finally raining, tassels of water coming down from the awning. Umbrellas litter the floor by the front door, some opened up to dry, others together like bunches of flowers, glistening wet.

Cam is surprised to see Adam over the other side of the room – she didn’t know he was coming – and she touches his arm as he passes her. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here!’

‘Oh yeah – just for a bit,’ he says. He looks well, tanned: finishing a book suits him. ‘How’s things?’

‘Well – very good, obviously,’ Cam says. ‘Thank you for your book,’ she says.

Just as he is about to respond, somebody comes over, interrupts them. A fan, a reader, wanting Adam’s signature, and Cam feels a bloom of pride run across her chest.

She turns back to the editor and sees a couple standing in the back, arms slung around each other. She thinks of Charlie. She ought to text him. She should have brought him here tonight, a plus one. Something deep in Cam cannot bring herself to do this sort of thing regularly. Her mind hardened, seven years ago, around a Luke-shaped wound, never to be the same again. Everyone who has been badly hurt or betrayed must surely have this wound. A deep, reticular network of nerves and impulses within them that says,Don’t get too close.Don’t rely on anybody.

This editor has never acquired anything from Cam, mostlydeals in non-fiction, but Cam has always liked her: she is a huge bookworm, always has a paperback she’s reading for pleasure in her handbag. For an industry that runs on books, there aren’t too many true, big-hearted readers like Adrienne, who once told her she readDark Placesby Gillian Flynn while in labour. Cam hasn’t seen her in years, and hasn’t spoken to her since before Luke.

Later, Adrienne says, after small talk about the relentless sun and now flash floods, ‘Look, I wanted to say …’ She puts her Prosecco down on a bookshelf. Her tone is muted, her voice low, as the buzz of the launch carries on around them.

Cam braces herself. Unlike the school run, with new friends who post-date her husband’s act, Luke is much more of an open secret in publishing. One that she dodges and weaves, and that people are mostly too polite to reference directly.

She meets Cam’s eyes. ‘I knew your husband, a little.’

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