Page 38 of Slow Burn Summer

“Is this going where I hope it’s going?”

“If you’re hoping he was my first crush—well, my first kiss, actually—then yes! I couldn’t believe it, I’d never have recognized him if we hadn’t been stuck opposite each other for an hour on the train. It was so bizarre.”

Glynn clapped his hands. “You do know the entire nation needs this meet-cute to be the beginning of your own real-life love story, right?”

She laughed, giddy with relief to have made it to the radio station and salvaged the situation. “How funny would that be? They do say you never forget your first love. We said we’d catch up over coffee, so watch this space.”

“I’ll buy my hat!”

Glynn’s good humor was balm to Kate’s tattered nerves, and when he smoothly steered the conversation on to the book, she ignored all of her color-coded notes and spoke for a few off-the-cuff minutes about the story. It was over before she had time to worry whether she’d said the wrong thing, and she couldn’t recollect a word of the conversation afterward, but she’d done it. Placing her mobile down on her abandoned notes, she dropped her head into her hands and pressed her fingers into her eye sockets. Oh good God. She’d talked about lager and first kisses and fireman’s poles. On balance, Fiona would probably have preferred it if she hadn’t turned up at all.

19

It was a mark ofhow stressful the morning had been that Kate trudged up the stairs to her flat, locked the door and crawled straight into bed. She didn’t want food or wine or conversation, just the oblivion of sleep, preferably dreamless. The sun had slipped behind the building by the time she roused again, curling herself into a grumbling ball under the quilt when she remembered the series of unfortunate events. Why was she always like this? It would never happen to Jojo Moyes, she thought, remembering the book recommendation from the guy in the supermarket. She’d followed many of her favorite authors on social media to get an insight into the kind of life she needed to attempt to emulate as Kate Darrowby, and from what she could see, none of them lived the haphazard, pressure-cooker kind of existence she did. She really needed to get her shit together.

Mug of tea in hand, she fired up her laptop, hesitating to open her emails in case Fiona’s name loomed large and furious. Turning to social media instead, she squinted at the number of new followers she’d gained since she’d last looked. Did these things glitch? Not if the bombardment of posts and messages was anything to go by. She was inundated with empathy and sympathy from people who couldn’t get enough of that morning’s drama, new followers who’d ordered the book on the strength ofshared clips of the interview, because if her book was half as entertaining as she was, they wanted in.

A message alert from Rachel in PR slid across the top of her screen.

Kate! I’m so sorry I wasn’t around to help you this morning, but I’m also kind of #NotSorry, because no run-of-the-mill interview could ever have created this much coverage! Well done, you! I can’t believe you bumped into your first love on the train too, how fabulously random, you couldn’t make this stuff up! Excellent for promo purposes! Speak tomorrow, R x

Kate stared at the message, putting her mug down slowly. Yes, Rachel, you could make this stuff up, actually. She hadn’t had time to think through the bigger picture when she’d thrown Kate Darrowby’s first crush anecdote into the mix that morning. The soccer guys on the train had been well up for going along with the subterfuge, amused to be part of a story on national radio. Should she tell the publishing team it wasn’t true? Her first instinct wasyes, absolutely,but then…what would they think of her? Sure, the whole job was based on fabrication, but the lines were being fed to her and now she’d veered off script. Was that allowed? She really didn’t want to tell them that she’d outright lied, it made her feel shoddy and about seven years old. Would it shake H’s faith in her? And then, of course, there was Charlie. However much he’d urged her to walk in Kate Darrowby’s shoes, he probably hadn’t been suggesting she invent star-crossed meetings with ex-loves.

Prue was next up on the message chain, letting her know the“Darrowby effect” had sent the ebook rocketing up the online charts. Kate clicked over to check, doing a double take at the way it had bobbed up the numbers like a champagne cork fired from a shaken bottle. It seemed there really was no such thing as bad publicity.

She closed her laptop, rattled by the whole thing. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she slumped into the corner of the sofa, feeling blue without being able to put her finger on exactly why. The fiasco of the morning had taken its emotional toll, but it was more than that. IfThe Power of Lovewere truly her own book, she wouldn’t have felt the need to pepper the truth with an attention-grabbing lie, and all of those reassuring messages would probably have lifted her flagging spirits. As it was, though, they added to her ominous sense of unease. A copy of the book lay on the coffee table, and she picked it up and folded her arms around it, trying to summon her inner guardian angel, when her mobile buzzed yet again.

Free for a quick video call?

Speaking of guardian angels. Charlie.

That’d be really good actually, thanks.

Within seconds, her phone was buzzing again with his incoming call. Pushing her hair behind her ears and pinching color into her cheeks, she clicked “Join.”

“Hey,” he said, his face filling her screen. He was at the desk in his sunlit hotel suite, making her wish she could climb into the phone screen to escape.

“Hey, you,” she said, flat. “How’s L.A.?”

“Manic, but I’m on the home run now. I fly back this evening.So…” The pause on the line was definitely more than the usual long-distance lag. “It sounded like you had a stressful morning.”

“You heard it, then,” she sighed.

“I did. You okay?”

She was grateful he wasn’t making light of it, and she curled deeper into the corner of the sofa, miserable enough for a rogue tear to slide down her cheek.

“Hey, don’t cry, there’s no need. Everyone over at the publishing house is thrilled,” he said, concern thickening his voice.

“I’m all right really,” she said, swiping it away. “Rachel and Prue have both been in touch about their plans to maximize on what happened, but I just feel like such an idiot, Charlie. I’d planned everything so carefully, and then it all went out the window in a sea of soccer shirts and joggers.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said. “You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”

“The book deserves better,” she said.

“The book is damn lucky to have you,” he countered right back. “And look at it this way…at least you didn’t join the fun run.”

“There’s that.” She half laughed despite herself. “No need for ice baths or blisters.”

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