I hurry away, as I don’t want to get into a deep conversation about his creativity or lack thereof.
He enters the living room.
‘Take a seat,’ I say, gesturing for him to sit on my sofa. I turn around my comfy chair so I’m facing Oliver.
Miranda and Frank may think this is a done deal, but I need to assess this chap myself. Last night, I wrote a list of questions in my little notebook, which I’ve retrieved from my handbag. It is now on my lap with a bookshop-branded pen.
He eyes the sofa with suspicion. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sofa this size.’
The two-seater sofa is tiny and uncomfortable. ‘It came with the flat. It was designed for a family of mice.’
He smiles and sits down, filling almost the entire sofa with his tall, athletic frame. Lenny walks in and leaps onto the arm of the sofa next to Oliver, as if they are old friends.
‘Okay, I have some questions,’ I say after glaring at my cat.
‘Fire away,’ Oliver says. ‘Did you get this grilling from her, little guy?’
I ignore his attempt at friendly banter. ‘I can see you don’t mind my cat. Do you have any pets?’
His smile fades. ‘I love cats. I had one, but she died of old age a few months ago. She was called Figgy Pudding, and she was my best friend.’
He gets a big tick as I like people who refer to their pet as their best friend.
‘Is your cat just called Lenny, or does he have a full name?’
This gets him another tick, as true cat lovers give their feline friends first, middle, and last names. ‘His full name is Leonard Frederick Wilson Spartapuss.’
Oliver nods. ‘Impressive. My cat was Figgy Pudding Bojangles.’
I find myself giving him an extra tick for giving Figgy an amazing surname.
‘Does Lenny go outside?’ Oliver asks. ‘Figgy went outside, and despite only having three legs, she was a phenomenal hunter.’
‘Three legs?’
He nods. ‘I got her from a cat rescue place ten years ago, as no one wanted her.’
I’m staring at him while my hand is frantically giving him loads of ticks for this act of kindness.
‘So Lenny? Does he go outside?’
‘Lenny is an indoor cat, although lately he’s been trying to escape.’
Oliver nods and says with an air of confidence, ‘He won’t get past me, so don’t worry.’
‘What’s your daily routine?’
He sits up straight. ‘I get up at a reasonable hour.’
That’s another tick from me.
‘I spend the rest of my day staring at a blank laptop screen,’ he continues, ‘doomscrolling on social media and watching YouTube videos about how to write books.’
Glancing up from my notepad, I cast him a quizzical look. ‘You have written many books. Why do you watch YouTube videos on how to write? Surely, once you’ve written one, you know how to do it again.’
He shakes his head. ‘My brain blocks out the trauma of writing my previous books, so when I sit down to write something new, it’s like I am starting as a new writer.’
‘Have you had writer’s block before?’
