a writer in need of a hero. I’m the dark-haired guy in the orange sweatshirt. I put that in Rush-Hour Crush. Don’t you read the Metro?’
‘What do you want?’ I asked, too disappointed to make an effort, watching dogs snuffle past my line of vision.
For some reason my lack of interest and gloomy tones didn’t put him off.
‘I emailed you on your author’s website but when you didn’t reply I called your agent because she was in the acknowledgements. Listen. I’ve been paragliding.’
‘So?’
‘So, if you’re still looking for a hero, I’m reapplying for the role.’
‘I don’t want—’
‘I’ve never done anything like that in my life. I’ve never felt so alive! Or,’ he added soberly, ‘so close to death. Look on YouTube if you don’t believe me.’
‘I do believe you.’ I just don’t care.
‘Well look at it anyway. By the way, just want to reassure you I haven’t suddenly grown boobs – that’s a water balloon down my shirt.’
It was like being licked by a labrador. ‘Jack, I’m not—’
‘Yes, I know, you’re going to say that going paragliding once is not enough.’
‘Actually that’s not what I was going to say.’
‘Good! Let’s pick a date. I’ll try my best to be aloof. What are you doing on Saturday?’
There is nothing worse than a person who is trying to engage you in conversation when you don’t feel like talking. Just at that moment I would have given anything for aloofness. It’s what gave Mark an air of superiority.
Women think that the one quality they want in a man is someone they can talk with. Bad mistake. Nowhere in the whole history of romantic fiction has a woman fallen in love with a talker. Talking is what girl friends are for. My advice is, always go for a man you fancy the pants off, it’s as simple as that.
However – what was there to lose? He might even buy me lunch and I’d get a free meal out of it.
‘All right,’ I sighed. ‘I’ll bring my notebook.’
‘Great! Twelve o’clock at the Edinboro Castle,’ he declared. Then he added in an undertone, ‘How did that sound?’
I smiled despite myself. ‘Decisive and masterful,’ I said.
Some people never forget a face. I’m not one of them. I couldn’t remember what Jack Buchanan looked like, other than the general impression of a person who’d just got out of bed. But when I got off the bus in Delancey Street he was leaning against the white gatepost of the Edinboro Castle. He was wearing a lime-green jacket, his dark hair ruffling in the breeze.
‘Hey!’ he said, taking his hands out of his pockets.
‘Yeah, hey!’
‘You came!’ He grinned at me.
I was surprised that he thought I wouldn’t. It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do or any other invitations, but there’s nothing quite as satisfying as exceeding someone’s expectations.
‘How is your new book coming along?’ he asked.
‘Basically … not well. To get creative, you need to be ill or bored.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Andrew Motion drinks Lemsip when he’s writing. It’s to fool his mind into believing he’s got a cold.’ Just behind Jack I could see the menus pinned to the gateposts in gilt frames. I have a lot of faith in a menu in a gilt frame. ‘Are we going in?’
‘Well, what I thought was, we could walk to the Hub Sports Pavilion, have a coffee and then go to the boating lake and hire a boat. I’ll row.’
I fancied a glass of wine and something to eat in the pub, but I had to give him credit for coming up with a plan.
‘Or,’ he said, ‘we could hire a pedalo, but that doesn’t seem the kind of thing a hero would do, right?’
I thought it over as we turned the corner and walked past the flower shop through the scent of lilies. A train rumbled beneath us.
‘True. A hero would have a jet ski.’
He laughed. ‘Yes. I read your book.’
‘You did? I can’t believe you bought it!’
‘Well … I didn’t exactly buy it. My stepmother took it from the library. But it has given me a rough idea of what you’re looking for in a hero.’
The suspense was killing me. ‘So what did you think of it?’ I asked casually.
‘Time-consuming,’ he said. ‘Not the book – I mean, love in general.’
I looked at him curiously. ‘You’ve never been in love, have you?’
‘Me? No. All that uncertainty, does she love me or not, and then the misunderstandings and other complications … I thought you got the title perfectly: Love Crazy – I like the way you identified it as a kind of insanity that makes people behave completely out of character. I’m more of a logical thinker. I like things to be straightforward.’
‘You got all that from my book?’
‘Nah. Mostly from life. My parents broke up when I was young.’
‘Yeah? Mine too.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Eighteen. You?’
‘Eight. It killed my mother.’
Mine, too, I almost said but then I looked up and his face was expressionless, as if he didn’t want his thoughts to show, so I held back my comment in case he meant it literally.
Of course, when I asked him what he thought of the book, what I actually wanted to know was whether he’d enjoyed it. Writers are strangely needy that way. Last year I went to the Radio Four book club and sat next to a woman named Minna Howard, who was also a writer (it was research, in case we were ever asked to do it ourselves), and the highly acclaimed guest author David Mitchell responded to her praise with such warmth and delight that I was convinced he was her ex-lover. Turned out she’d never seen him before in her life. He was just deeply grateful for her kind words.
We crossed at the lights and stepped into bright sunlight at Gloucester Gate. The sky was a pale, frigid blue. Attached to the railings was a plaque showing St Pancras being attacked by pumas. We crossed at the stone grotto drinking fountains where Matilda the bronze milkmaid posed with her bucket and he asked: ‘So, what happened to Marco Ferrari?’
I blushed. Well this was uncomfortable. When I’d written Love Crazy I’d assumed Mark and I would be together forever so I’d never imagined this situation arising – going out with a guy who knew all about my past.
I’ve always been obsessed with telling the truth and, although I see it as a positive character trait, other people don’t necessarily see it as a good thing. But I’ve stuck with it because it’s become my way of rebelling. No one can argue with the truth.
The way I looked at it, this meant that I was also going to have to explain that Mark had dumped me and it was way too soon to disillusion him – I always prefer people to get disillusioned with me in their own good time.
However, the habit of a lifetime is hard to break.