‘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?’
‘Yes, like hobbies or interests.’
His eyes search my face. I don’t want to say that my social life is non-existent; that I don’t do spontaneous coffee dates, drinks after work, or sports; that Miranda, my toxic boss, is my only friend – and the thought of that makes me want to cry. My curse has turned me into a burden to others.
‘I like going to visit my aunt who lives by the sea,’ is what I settle on. Could I sound any more like a servant girl from the 1800s?
He gives me a polite nod. ‘Are there any flat rules?’
I grip my notebook with both hands and get ready to tell Oliver the most essential rule. ‘No touching. This includes hugs, handshakes, shoulder taps, high fives, accidental brushes, toe taps, knee knocks, and reassuring back rubs.’
Oliver is stroking his chin, like he’s considering each one. ‘I understand the rule, but I think you are missing out on my comforting back rubs.’
‘This chair is mine,’ I say slowly and clearly, like I am talking to a small child. ‘No debate, negotiation, or literary inspiration.’
He lets out a sigh. ‘That’s a tough one.’
I point to Lenny, who is gazing adoringly at him. ‘Lenny chooses who he loves. Do not try to win him over.’
Oliver strokes his soft back. ‘No secret cuddles for you, little guy.’
I watch my cat behave like Oliver’s biggest fan. Lenny needs to get his priorities right.
I recall what Miranda said about Oliver wandering around my flat in just a pair of boxer shorts. I need to stamp this sort of behaviour out from the start. ‘No nakedness in the flat or cooking breakfast in just your underwear.’
He blinks and stares at me. ‘I would never?—’
‘Clothes must be worn at all times.’
