‘I used to annoy people when I read my draft novels out loud, but as I’m not writing…’ His eyes survey my living room. They linger on the painting above the fireplace. ‘That’s intense.’
I turn to look up at Frida Kahlo’s painting,The Wounded Deer. To me, there is something comforting about witnessing someone else endure my levels of romantic bad luck and be pierced by arrows. I appreciate how, despite all her heartbreak, she still stares ahead like I do.
‘It’s comforting,’ I murmur.
When I turn back, he’s casting me an odd expression. I ignore him, continuing with my interview questions. ‘What would you say are your good habits?’
‘Hugs,’ he says, with an air of confidence. ‘I have been told I give the best hugs.’
Every part of me flinches. ‘You can keep those to yourself.’
An awkward silence descends upon the room. I flick my eyes to my notes.
He speaks first. ‘You’re not a fan of hugs then?’
‘No,’ I say, keeping my focus on my notes. Another peculiar silence follows.
I stare at the next question. This is an awkward one. ‘Are you single or…’
He interrupts me. ‘I’m single, and before you ask – no, I am not dating. What about you?’
‘Single.’
‘Are you dating?’
‘No,’ I scoff and then regret it, as the less he knows about me, the better.
‘Terrible – isn’t it?’ he says lightly. ‘All of it. Dating. Romance. Love. I think we have all been lied to.’
‘Hang on – you’re a bestselling romance author. You write about love.’
He shrugs and looks at my Frida Kahlo painting. ‘Doesn’t mean I believe in it.’
His answer makes me suspicious. Romance authors like Oliver James are experts in delusion. They spend their lives writing books that fool readers into thinking love conquers all. While he’s stroking Lenny, I scribble the following.
He writes romance, but he doesn’t believe in love – yet he makes a living selling it. Is this emotional manipulation? Is Oliver James a modern Mr Rochester but with better hair and a publishing contract?
I circle my Rochester observation several times.
‘Are you writing good things about me?’ he asks.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I ignore his question and fire off several random questions. He raises his eyebrows at my question about whether he puts milk or hot water in first when making a cup of tea.
‘Tell me about yourself, Nelly,’ he asks.
What can I tell him about myself?
A simple question that should be easy to answer. Except it’s not. I flick my attention to my notebook and realise I’m holding my pen like it’s a weapon. Stabbing the page I’m on, I say, ‘There’s not much to tell.’
‘Come on. There’s always something. Do you like working in the bookshop?’
‘It’s good.’ Words about avoiding the romance section jostle around on my tongue.
He’s waiting for me to say more.
‘What do you do for fun?’
I blink. ‘Fun?’
