For Rye by Gavin Gardiner (best books to read for teens txt) 📕

Renata, and in that moment she was sure she saw a tear in his eye. ‘Go,’ he growled at Sandie. ‘Pack your things. You’re going home tonight.’

Quentin turned back to yell at the technician, his words exploding like a blown fire hydrant as he demanded to know why he hadn’t been informed of Sandie’s arrival.

Renata watched Quentin in disbelief before feeling something slip into her hand. ‘My card,’ Sandie whispered. ‘Give me a shout about that part.’

‘It’s my charity work,’ Quentin said, slipping into the blazer. ‘She was meant to be taking care of it all while I was away, but she can be so stubborn.’ He looked wistfully across the airfield towards Sandie’s trailer. ‘Gets that from me, I guess.’ Renata, still shocked, looked at the ground. ‘I have a warehouse full of junk – or rather, Quentin C. Rye movie memorabilia – that I’m planning on auctioning off for some children’s hospice thing. She was meant to be dealing with it.’ He tapped his cigarette. ‘Think I was too harsh?’

‘It’s not my place to judge,’ Renata said. There was a crash as a pair of technicians dropped a lighting bracket near them. ‘Is there somewhere private we could talk?’

He scowled at the technicians. ‘Leave us,’ he snapped. The men stumbled away.

‘Quentin,’ she said tentatively, ‘are you all right?’

Cigarette smoke rose from his mouth as he let out a long sigh. ‘Sorry, Ren. Been a long week. Everything’s still, well…weighing heavy, y’know? Everything that’s happened because of me.’

‘I told you, Quentin,’ she said, ‘stop blaming yourself. It’s okay.’

‘You hungry?’ He flicked his sleeve to check his watch. ‘Let me make sure Sandie’s all right, then we can have that talk…over lunch?’

She scanned the ensuing chaos around them. Fresh cargo was unloaded from two trucks on the west side, while a group by the control tower continued erecting a sprawling white marquee. The disused airfield was gradually transforming into a fully functioning Hollywood production site.

‘I think you have enough on,’ said Renata.

‘You know, Ren, I’m not just here to make a film. I’m working on a new novel.’ Quentin patted his blazer. ‘That notebook you keep seeing me with has its entire outline…’ He stepped closer. ‘…and guess where I think I’ve left it?’

He smiled. She looked to the ground.

‘That charming clock tower of yours. Let me see to my daughter then I’ll pack us some sandwiches. We can see if my notebook’s up there and have that chat, too.’

‘My father,’ she said, rubbing her wrist, ‘the vicar’s watching him. I should really—’

‘Then go home,’ Quentin cut in. ‘Get Thomas fed and watered and I’ll meet you later. Say seven at the tower?’

She nodded hesitantly.

‘Well then,’ he said, ‘dinner it is.’

Her climb was more restrained this time. Two nights prior, each stone stair had burst with memories of her childhood sanctuary. Now, anxiousness slowed her steps. As she’d edged through the early twilight of the cemetery, a faint light had been visible through the tower’s tall window beneath its clock face.

Quentin was waiting.

Now, as she neared the peak of her ascent, she saw candlelight illuminating the top of the stairwell. She froze before the open door, staring into the room.

He was sitting on one of the small steps by the window in front of the larger of the two overturned crates, which was now draped in a folded white tablecloth. Upon the impromptu dining table lay a covered serving dish, silver cutlery, napkins, gleaming champagne flutes, and a glowing candlestick. The candle was one of many; the perimeter of the room was lined with rows of tiny flames, soaking the walls in a warm glow. Renata stepped inside. Her childhood refuge had always been synonymous with the bitter cold, which passed freely through the glassless window built into the stone. Tonight, the combined strength of the candles affected a gentle warmth against her cheeks. He stood to pull out the smaller crate as she approached the makeshift dining table, offering her the seat like a waiter.

‘Quentin, I… You didn’t have to—’

‘Ren,’ he said, reaching into his blazer and pulling out the notebook, ‘please.’

‘You found it? I’m so glad.’

‘Never lost it,’ he said, grinning.

Tapping his foot, he opened the notebook and began scribbling. Through those horn-rimmed frames she once again saw that glimmer in his eyes. As he slipped the notebook back into his pocket, she understood the glimmer was indeed the spark of creativity, never resting nor relenting. The passion that infused his note-taking confirmed that for all she had against the genre in which he worked, she couldn’t deny his devotion to his art.

‘Is madam ready for the main course?’ He lifted the serving dish lid to reveal two bowls of tomato and rice soup.

Renata smiled.

10

She could hardly believe the man was getting paid to write this stuff.

The ring binder given to her by Quentin was crammed with tattered fragments of lazily-constructed script, as well as the occasional excerpt of the novel on which the upcoming movie was to be based. She was shocked at the quality of the dialogue she’d been given to work on, marvelling at it having come from a professional at all. Her primary complaint was how little it said with so much; screeds of words, only a few of which carried any real meaning. She’d learnt from her mother’s collection, before she’d even taken up writing, that to convey any kind of reality-based emotion in dialogue you had to strip it back to its core parts. If you could trim it like a rose, you may be left with something pure and miraculous: a character that spoke off the page.

She had no experience in scriptwriting. That her credentials in anything other than dumbed-down romantic fiction were so lacking didn’t seem to bother Quentin, just as Renata wasn’t bothered to be working