‘Fair enough, I’ll try not to pick a murderer this time,’ she says – which kind of makes it sound like she didn’t try that hard last time. ‘Just, come on, give me one last shot? I’m bored.’
‘Well, if you’re bored,’ I reply, unable to hide my sarcasm.
‘One more shot,’ she says, setting her drink down like she means business. ‘But this time we’ll do things differently. Tell me exactly what you’re looking for in a man and I’ll actually listen.’
I open my mouth, then close it again. What do I want?
I write romance, so I’m forever dreaming up romantic leads – those guys always seem great. Perhaps I should request my own leading man. I should dream big and, well, if JJ can’t deliver then even better, to be honest.
‘I want a novel-worthy man,’ I tell her.
‘You had one earlier,’ she jokes. ‘Unless you had a specific genre in mind?’
I drum my finger against my chin as though I’m pondering it.
‘Hmm… maybe romance?’ I offer up.
‘Someone from one of those “Dating My Doctor” kinda books?’ she says with a wiggle of her eyebrows. I thought she was going for a Mills & Boon vibe, but her eyebrows are giving nothing but spice.
I’ve written male leads. I’ve spent years crafting fictional men, giving them flaws and charm and devastating jawlines. I can tell you exactly what my heroines want. But me?
‘Someone who feels like he’s been ripped from the pages of a romcom,’ I specify. ‘A walking, talking trope of a man.’
She glares at me.
‘You’re being unrealistic on purpose.’
‘I am not,’ I protest. ‘I just want someone really special. Someone who, if this were a movie, would walk in slow motion while eighties music plays. Someone with a sexy job, like a fireman or a soldier, wouldn’t go amiss though.’
‘How about a single dad or a billionaire?’ she asks – now it’s her turn to be sarcastic.
‘If you can find me a billionaire…’ I say with a smile and a shrug.
‘Right, well, I’m not sure where I’ll find a cowboy in London at short notice, but thanks for your input,’ she tells me. ‘But I can’t promise slow motion or eighties music or romantic gestures or kissing in the rain.’
‘To be honest, I’d be delighted if you could find me someone I like who is capable of texting back or not threatening to choke me,’ I say.
‘He didn’t want to choke you, he wanted to choke Britney,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Totally different girl.’
‘I just want someone… worth the effort,’ I tell her, my words suddenly feeling much heavier.
‘You want a romance worth writing about,’ she replies.
‘Is that sooo much to ask?’ I reply in a silly voice. ‘Or do I have unrealistic expectations?’
‘I think you have expectations generally,’ she replies. ‘I recommend ditching those. Otherwise, the men outside the books – the real ones who will actually shag you – will seem… underwhelming.’
‘I only want a good plot twist,’ I say. ‘A leading man. No side characters. No red herrings. Just a nice, predictable romance.’
‘Then stop picking them,’ she insists.
‘I’m not picking them,’ I remind her. ‘You’re picking them.’
‘Semantics,’ she says with a bat of her hand. ‘You were doing a shit job before I got involved.’
She leans back, stretching her legs out under the table, inadvertently booting me with her big shoe. God, I wonder what she’s powering up for.
‘Okay. You want someone big, cinematic, tropey. Prince Charming crossed with a sexy cowboy, maybe with an accent. Tall, good hair, wounded past, secret soft spot. Essentially a walking cliché whom you will then try very hard not to fall for because you’re stubborn and you don’t like being told what to do. Does that sound like the elevator pitch to how this is going to go?’ she asks, her smile verging on smug.
