Page 50 of An Enchanted Moment on Ever After Street
‘It’s therapeutic.’ He shows me where to aim the first swing. ‘I’m sorry about today. You didn’t deserve that.’
‘It had a good effect too.’ I swing the axe, hit the wrong part of the bench and the only thing that crumbles is the leg that was broken anyway. As I try again, I tell him about the extra ticket orders and tags on the pay-it-forward board and then about the little girl who used one of his tags. ‘You made her day. She was so happy because of you. And her mum will be overjoyed when she opens her gift tomorrow.’
‘Nothing to do with me. That board is there because of you. Maybe this publicity will be good for the book festival too. No matter which way you look at it, alotof people have now heard about Bookishly Ever After who hadn’t previously heard about it. And not everyone will be cynical enough to take that article at face value.’
‘Yeah, and maybe it will give my complainer something else to complain about.’ Thinking about the complainer who started all of this while embedding an axe into woodissurprisingly therapeutic and I hit the bench again, enjoying the thrill when the wood splinters. ‘Someone has already taken umbrage with me about the garden, they’re going toadorethe insinuation that I’m running a literary brothel.’
‘I’d go to a literary brothel. I’d pay good money to be set up with books I might enjoy.’ He can obviously see how much I’m enjoying taking my frustration out on the bench, and points out another area to hit and then stands well clear, and his laugh makes me feel better than I have all day. ‘I mean, if actual brothels promise a night you’ll never forget, the same could be said of curling up in bed with a good book. I’ve heard of people who push books on others being called book pimps.Thatwould fit right in with a literary brothel.’
It makes me think of that email conversation with U.N.Known the other night about reading in bed. They have alarmingly similar senses of humour. ‘I thought you didn’t read.’
‘I seem to be doing a lot of things I don’t normally do lately.’ He grunts like he wishes he hadn’t said that. ‘Seriously, Marnie. No one’s going to complain about you. They’ll have to get through me first.’
‘Thank you.’ It makes me feel oddly protected, like Darcy is a good person to have on my side. The warm and fuzzy feelings last for all of 3.5 seconds before the worries of the day come crawling back and I swing the axe into the bench again. ‘I’velost U.N.Known though. He’s never going to come to the festival now. I have no idea how the “anonymous source” found that part out.No oneknew that he’d said he’d come.’
‘I thought he said he’d think about it.’
‘Yeah, he… Wait, when did I tell you that? I didn’t think I’d told anyone that.’
‘I dunno.’ He shrugs. ‘Couple of weeks back?’
Did I? It’s easy to talk to Darcy, but do I spill my guts so much that I can’t even remember all I’ve said now?
I’m sure I didn’t tell him that though, and it makes the needles of doubt prickle again, but I don’t want to believe them. Maybe Darcy did have the opportunity to take those photos in the shop, but there’s no way this was his doing. Darcy is honest and blunt to a fault when he wants to be. If he was somehow trying to help and the journalist who wrote the article has taken his words and twisted them, he’d admit that. He wouldn’t pretend it wasn’t him. And even though I must’ve told Darcy about U.N.Known over the last few weeks, the published fact that he was definitely coming to the festival is an outright lie.Thatis something I never told a soul because he never said it. It’s something that would only have been done with the intention of trying to make my bookshop look bad, and that’s not something Darcy would do.
‘I tried so hard with him, and someone else has taken that away,’ I say with a sigh.
‘U.N.Known isn’t the only thing that will make Bookishly Ever After a success.’ He comes over and repositions the axe in my hands, his fingers lingering over mine on the handle for a delicious few seconds longer than strictly necessary.
I let the comfort of his words and his touch wash over me. ‘It wasn’t just about that. I think he’s lonely. I wanted him to know that people love him. His work is timeless and whatever has happened in his life between then and now, he did an amazingthing that still brings joy to so many people. He deserves to know that. It wasn’t about telling the world who he is, I couldn’t care less who he is, it was about showing him how important that book is to so many people.’
‘You think he’s forgotten?’
‘I think he’s a bit like you. Hiding away from the world, not realising how special he is and how much he matters to people.’
‘I’m nothing like that.’ After a particularly strong bench hit, shards of wood go flying across the garden and Darcy goes to pick them up before Mrs Potts finds them by getting them embedded in her paws. ‘Besides, you have no idea who U.N.Known is. He could live a wild and fulfilling life. He could not want to write any more because his life is so preposterously full and exciting in other ways.’
‘I don’t think so. He sounds sad and lonely.’
‘You can tell that from one-sentence emails?’
‘They’re not always— How do you know they’re often one sentence?’
‘Youtoldme.’ He sounds annoyed by my lack of understanding. ‘Ages ago, when you first got in touch with him.’
‘Oh, right.’ Did I? I didn’t think I’d ever said much about U.N.Known to Darcy, given his dislike forOnce Upon Another Time. ‘His emails sound dull and lifeless. He makes jokes but they sound half-hearted. I thought it might help him to understand how many people still love his book and how A Tale As Old As Time wouldn’t exist without it.’
It’s a thankfully warm autumnal evening where the air smells of a distant bonfire and brown leaves are floating down from the trees and everything has that crisp feeling of starting over. I’m panting for breath and half the old bench is in pieces on the ground while the other half is leaning on two legs, waiting to be put out of its misery. It’s surprisingly cathartic. I swipe my arm across my forehead and find myself smiling for no reason, otherthan knowing my mum would be laughing at this scene if she could see us now. She’d love the new bench. She’d love how the garden looks. She’dloveDarcy.
I hold the axe out to him. ‘This is fun. You try.’
‘I’ve chopped up my feelings many times. You enjoy.’
‘Go on.’ I push the axe further towards him. ‘If I can say goodbye to this bench, you can say goodbye to… whatever it is that makes you think you need that disguise.’
He looks at me. ‘It’s not about the disguise. I have scars, you know that. Scars make people ask questions, and I don’t want to be asked questions.’
‘People wouldn’t… No one is that insensitive.’
