Gillian did not achieve the same level of success as historical novelists like Mariane Maclauren; however, her initial book concerning the Battle of Blore Heath attracted sightseers to Market Drayton to view the battle location.


Her latest work, a detailed history of Market Drayton, the Shropshire town she called home, launched to coincide with the two-hundredth anniversary of The Buttercross, the town’s iconic market shelter.


She signed the form handed to her by the event supervisor. His team arranged a table for her book signings and several rows of chairs under the Buttercross’s open-sided roof. The structure—little more than a set of sturdy stone pillars and a weathered slate roof—offered shelter to stallholders at the end of Cheshire Street. Today, it would shelter readers.


“Just about done now, yeah,” said Michael.


Gillian appreciated his help and felt genuinely glad her friend Elizabeth had found love with such an attractive, kind man.


“There.” Elizabeth smoothed the last corner of the tablecloth. Two crisp white layers covered the table, with a blue one arranged diagonally over the top. “Shall I put the books now?”


“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. I’ll fetch the cash tin from my car.”


Gillian was grateful for Elizabeth’s support. They’d been close friends since primary school and later at the Grove Comprehensive.


Upon her return with the tin, Michael’s ladder work was complete. He stood with Elizabeth and exchanged a quick kiss. Elizabeth smiled up at him and ran her fingers through his shoulder-length dark hair. They lingered in that newly-in-love glow, having met just six months earlier. Their wedding approached.


Gillian smiled, but a pang stirred inside her. She’d never found anyone with whom to spend a lifetime.


***


“Thank you for the piece you put in the Drayton Paper,” Gillian said to the journalist, who had just arrived.


“My pleasure, Gillian.” He shook her hand warmly. “I hope you get a good crowd. You deserve it. At least this time they’ll be coming to hear what you have to say—instead of just admiring an attractive barmaid.”


He winced the moment the words left his mouth. The headline he’d written still hung in his mind: Barmaid celebrates Buttercross Anniversary.


“Frankie! You made it!” Gillian’s face lit-up as her brother arrived.


“Course I made it. Wouldn’t let you down now, would I?” He set his guitar case down and pulled her into a hug. “Got held up on the motorway—down to a single lane before Sandbach. Like a right slow dirge all the way.”


It was wonderful to see him again. As children, they’d been inseparable. They always bounced off one another’s energy—two extroverts in constant motion.


Michael helped plug in the guitar and fitted them both with microphones. Gillian’s presentation would be punctuated by Frank’s ballads. He wrote a playful tune about Robert Clive scaling the church tower and his controversial exploits with the East India Company.


Frank—handsome, with a wiry build and a natural stage presence—drew attention wherever he went. Several single women in the audience would later tell each other how moving his music was, but few admitted the truth: they were drawn first by his looks. They adored the unkempt light hair and the kiss-curl that intentionally fell across his brow—an homage to Bill Haley, whose music influenced Frank, even if most of his admirers had never heard of the Comets.


He didn’t play rock and roll, but he commanded attention. And they loved him for it.


***

The event had been a colossal success. Every seat was taken, and twice as many people filled the street, some dancing to Frank’s music. Thankfully, the one-way stretch of Cheshire Street had been closed to traffic for Market Day, as usual. The journalist from The Advertiser recorded it all for the next edition.


Afterward, Frank helped Michael de-rig the sound system. Gillian had no books to pack up—every last copy had sold. She slipped away to sit in Frank’s car, glad for a few quiet minutes with her brother.


“You work every hour God sends,” Frank said, starting the car but not driving off. “Why don’t you settle down with someone? Have some fun, eh?”


“Who with?” Gillian sighed. “You know how many boyfriends I’ve had—hardly any. Nobody wants me. Except that idiot Jonathan. God knows what I ever saw in him, and now he won’t leave me alone.”


“All the lads I know pile into the Tern just ‘cause you’re workin’ there. You could take your pick, easy as tuning a guitar.”


“They don’t want me, Frankie. They want to stare down my top.”


“Does that bother you?”


She gave a half-shrug. “Not really. When they do that, I know exactly who they are. I just tease them along. It’s harmless.”


“You’re weird.” He said it lightly, but there was something tight in his tone. Gillian glanced at him sideways.


Frank was having trouble with his latest girlfriend. He wanted things to get serious—but the woman didn’t approve of Gillian.

Thought she was too flirtatious. Loose. The kind of woman who had “a reputation.”


Frank tried again. “Seriously though… You’ve got a solid day job. Why bother with the evenings at all?”


“I don’t need the money. It’s just—” she hesitated “—the house is so lonely. And I like being around people, especially men. I like making them laugh. And if a bit of cleavage makes their day, so what? There’s enough misery on the news. Maybe I bring them a little bit of joy.”


“Yeah, but it doesn’t stop there, does it?”


She froze. Twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “What do you mean?”


“You know what I mean.” His voice was low now, cautious. “You’re getting a bit of a reputation. People are saying... well… they’re saying you give so many blokes a good time that—”


“That I charge for it?” Her voice was sharp now. “Is that it?”


He hesitated, clearly trying not to hurt her. “I’m only saying—it’s obvious you’ve got money to burn. More than a part-time barmaid earns.”


“I’m not a barmaid, Frank. That’s just my evening job. I’m a historian. I write books, remember? And not badly either. Did you see what just happened out there today? I sold every copy. That’s how I afford my life—not by selling myself.”


***


Frank turned off the engine but didn’t move. “Lucinda’s upset, you know.”


Gillian tensed. “About what now?”


“She reckons you’ve been entertaining fellas at your place. Someone told her they saw a ‘well-dressed gentleman’ leaving late the other night.”


Gillian’s stomach flipped. “Who told her that?”


“Her brother heard it from Robbie’s brother, and he passed it on to—”


“Oh, for God’s sake. Robbie.” Gillian’s voice dripped with contempt. “That man collects gossip like some people collect beer mats. He probably thinks I’m harbouring MI5 agents now.”


“She’s not the only one who’s heard it, mind.”


“Well, then maybe I should lean into it. Let everyone think I’m sleeping with half the West Midlands. Better that than the truth coming out.”


Frank frowned. “What truth?”


Gillian looked away. Her eyes narrowed as she stared through the windscreen at the empty street. “Nothing,” she said too quickly. “It’s just… people love a scandal. Makes their own lives feel less dull.”


“You’re not denying it?”


“I’m denying that Robbie knows a damn thing, if that’s what you mean. As for a well-dressed man leaving my house?” She turned back to him with fire in her voice. “Whoever he was, it’s none of Robbie’s business. Or Lucinda’s.”


Frank exhaled slowly, conflicted.


Gillian softened slightly. “Do you trust me?”


“Yeah… I do,” he said reluctantly. “It’s just—Lucinda reckons being seen with you damages my reputation. She thinks—”


“She thinks I’m sleeping around. And now she wants you to choose between me and her.”


Silence filled the space.


Gillian gave a bitter laugh. “Well, tell her not to worry. Let them all believe what they want. As long as no one finds out the real truth, they can gossip themselves hoarse.”


Frank stared at her. “What are you hiding, Gill?”


She turned her head sharply, blinking away the heat behind her eyes. “Nothing you need to worry about.”


“Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out now.”


“I’m not shutting you out. I’m keeping you safe. From Lucinda. From Robbie. From all of it.”


“But why? Why not just tell me what’s going on?”


“Because I can’t, Frankie!” she shouted. “I’d rather the whole town think I sleep around than know the truth.”


Silence fell between them like a slammed door.


Frank turned away, jaw tight. “Maybe Lucinda’s right. Maybe I don’t really know the tune you’re playing anymore.”

Gillian drew in a shaky breath. “Then maybe you should stop pretending you care.”


She opened the door, stepped out, and slammed it so hard the whole car rocked. She didn’t look back.


Tears blurred her vision as she stumbled toward the square. A voice called out behind her.


“Gillian? Are you alright, love?”


It was Elizabeth, carrying a tote bag, clearly on her way home. Her face creased with concern.


Gillian didn’t stop. Didn’t answer.


She turned sharply. She ran. Past the staring faces. Down Cheshire Street. Down Woore Lane. She fumbling her key into the lock with trembling hands.


Inside, she collapsed against the closed door, the quiet of her home suddenly too loud.