The Lovebirds

‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey,’ Octavia nodded. ‘I approve of your approach. Thank you, Abby, you’re a doll.’

Chapter Three (#u89356b35-4fad-5ab7-85d6-5f2fc5dad2e5)

A cuckoo’s call is instantly recognizable. It’s friendly and familiar, and makes you think of hazy summer mornings and the glittering mere. But cuckoos have a darker side; they lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, then when the cuckoo chicks are born, they push out the other chicks and are brought up by their new, oblivious foster parents.

— Note from Abby’s notebook.

On Thursday evening, with the rain pounding against the window and Raffle lying contentedly on her feet, Abby undid the Amazon package, the perforated cardboard making a satisfying noise as she pulled it open. After leaving the library she had given in and ordered Jack’s latest novel, The Fractured Path. The story Octavia had relayed had left her unsettled, and in the absence of having Jack to talk to, she thought one of his books would be the next best thing.

She took out the glossy hardback and spent a long time staring at the dark, brooding cover, and at his name, raised in blue lettering on the front. Then she read the acknowledgements, recognizing one name from Octavia’s information-dump – his agent, Leo Ravensberg. As far as she could decipher, there was no mention of a significant other, and the tone of his thank-yous spoke of the humour that she’d seen glimmers of first-hand: dry, self-deprecating but undeniably warm.

As she turned to the prologue and read the graphic description of a body being uncovered in a London alleyway after the thawing of days-old snow, she wondered if he used darkness and irritability as a cover: something he could hide behind to stop people getting too close. Only now the barriers were beginning to recede, and Abby found she couldn’t wait to see what Jack was keeping behind them.

He picked her and Raffle up on Friday morning in his Range Rover, and drove them to a smart, cream-walled pub called the Queen’s Head. It was a few miles away, down twisting, hedge-lined roads, bare winter fields beyond.

The pub was almost deserted mid-morning, but the fire was lit, and Abby picked a table close to it, Raffle barking his appreciation before settling at her feet while Jack went to the bar to order their coffees. He returned with the drinks and a packet of three posh ginger biscuits that he opened on the table between them. He was wearing a black, round-neck jumper, dark jeans and smart tan boots. The fabric of his jumper looked impossibly soft, and Abby had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it.