‘Do we have any final questions from the audience, before we wrap things up?’ Orla blinks into the bright lights, squinting at her audience from the small stage. She points to a woman at the back, who stands up nervously.
‘What do you do to combat writers’ block?’ she calls out, and Orla smiles encouragingly towards her guest.
Sam and I are watching an in-person live recording of Orla’s podcast at a bookshop. She’s just finished interviewing a well-known author of racy romance novels, talking with frankness and joy about the revival of smut and women’s pleasure in literature. There are about seventy of us here in the audience, and I have to admit it’s been a really interesting and fun evening. And we got to hear about rimming, which is always a bonus.
‘Everyone handles writers’ block differently,’ the author replies, leaning towards the captive room. ‘Personally, I like to do something really removed from the writing process.So, I’ll, like, watch a horror movie or something! Take my brain as far away as possible from the latest rimming scene I’m trying to get down on the page.’
Everyone laughs, enjoying the feeling of shock.
Orla leans into her microphone. ‘Personally, I don’t like horror films, I have Facebook showing me “memories” from 2009 every goddamned day. That’s more terror than anyone should ever have to endure.’
The audience laughs even harder, and Sam and I join in. God, she’s charming.
Orla professionally wraps things up, thanking her guest and everyone who came along. ‘We’ll be sitting at the table over there at the back,’ she tells the audience, ‘so come get your book signed by those of us who’ve written one’—she grins pointedly at the writer—‘or just to say hello and get a photo for the ’gram.’
Sam and I exchange a look. Here we go, it’s happening. This is our chance to speak to her, one-on-one, face-to-face. At last.
We’re really doing this.
We join the queue of adoring fans snaking their way around the bookshop. ‘That was so much fun,’ Sam whispers as we wait.
‘I know,’ I moan. ‘I was hoping she’d be terrible but she’s a fucking delight. No wonder Justin is so happy. And she’s even prettier in real life. No fair!’
‘Sorry, babe,’ she murmurs sympathetically.
My heart pounds in my chest as we near the front of the queue. I feel adrenalised and scared and buzzy and ashamed.I feelalive. But it’s not until we’re suddenly next in the line, about to stand in front of this woman I’ve obsessed over for weeks now, that I realise the problem.
What if she recognises me?
Holy shit, of course she will! She would’ve looked me up just like I looked her up. What the hell was I thinking? I glance in a panic over at Sam, but she’s already excitedly edging forward. I wonder if I should make a run for it. I picture Orla watching me with bafflement as I suddenly flee from her presence and out of the building. Would that be weird? And what if someone else recognises me as Tiramisu Girl and films me being mad again?
Either way, it’s too late. The queue moves me forward and I turn to face the music, waiting frozen, for Orla to look up from the table and make the connection.
‘Hiya!’ she says with warmth, her Irish accent coming through clearly, as we make eye contact. ‘Thanks for coming along. What’s your name?’
I stare at her and Sam clears her throat, throwing out a hand to shake. ‘I’m Sam, this is, er…’ She freezes, too, and I decide to go with the truth. After all, if Orla recognises me and I’ve used a fake name, that makes me way creepier, right?
‘Liv,’ I whisper, and her smile gets wider.
‘As in Olivia?’ She leans closer. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but that’s my real first name.’
‘It’s a good name.’ I swallow, still waiting for the click of recognition. It doesn’t come.
‘Have you had a nice evening?’ She asks cheerfully,clearly used to starstruck fans incapable of much in the way of speech.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I say meekly. ‘You are… funny.’
‘That’s so kind,’ she says warmly, and I really, really hate how nice she is.
‘Do you have any, er, relationship advice?’ Sam blurts, apparently doing as badly with all this as me.
‘Relationship advice?’ She looks a bit surprised, then composes herself. ‘Well, to be honest, I’ve only just started dating someone new, so I’m not sure I’m in the best position to be doling out how-tos!’ She looks between us. ‘Are you two single?’ We both nod and she smiles. ‘Enjoy it. I was single for years before I met Justin – that’s the new lad’s name – and I loved it. I think you truly have to be happy on your own before you can be happy with someone else. Don’t you reckon?’
We both nod silently. ‘Do you, er…’ Am I really going to ask her this? ‘… do you wash his underwear for him?’
She blinks with shock at my question. ‘Do I…?’ She looks baffled, then laughs hard. ‘No, we don’t live together and I don’t wash any of his things! He’s a forty-two-year-old man, of course I don’t!’
I join in, laughing robotically, though I am mortified beyond belief. Sam starts laughing, too. I can hear her laugh is genuine.
