‘It is,’ Max agrees, placing a steaming mug in front of me before going back to get his own. ‘Obviously you must be wondering what I have to say to you.’
I nod.
‘I love Jake,’ he says. ‘Obviously I do; he’s my brother. But he’s anamazingbrother.’
I nod again.
‘So really…’ Max looks down and at his coffee and then raises his eyes and looks directly into mine. ‘Really I asked you to come here so that I could ask you in person if you could talk to him. Listen to him. He’s a good person.’
‘I…’ I stop as soon as I’ve begun. I have no idea what my answer to that should be.
‘Think about it,’ Max says. Then he pauses, before apparently taking pity on me. ‘Anyway. Romance writing. What got you into it?’
And then we spend quite a long time talking about my career and, highly unusually, I find myself smiling and not even trying to change the subject.
I think in parallel to our conversation. I wonder why Max didn’t push me more to speak to Jake. Perhaps he’s just too nice. Or maybe he’s going to have a final go when I leave. Maybe he’s lulling me into a false sense of security now. No, I don’t think he’d act cynically; I think he really is very nice.
Well, whatever his reason for not pushing hard and just casually chatting, I’m enjoying it. He seems like a great person.
‘Do you write at all?’ I ask out of interest, rather than my usual get-the-conversation-off-me ploy. ‘What would be your preferred genre if you wrote a book?’
‘I actually do. Thriller. And…’ He leans forward, so I do too. ‘I’ve just submitted a manuscript to ten agents.’
‘Oh my goodness.Max. That’s so exciting.’ And then I end up telling him about my own thrillers, including my pen name. I rarely tell anyone, but I instinctively trust him.
We continue talking for another hour, until I say with genuine reluctance that I should go.
‘I’ve really enjoyed meeting you,’ Max tells me as we say goodbye.
‘Me too,’ I say as we share a hug. ‘You have to let me know how it goes with the agents. Iloveyour premise.’
‘Talk to Jake and listen to him,’ Max calls after me as I walk down the path towards the pavement. His final little push; fair enough.
I don’t want to make promises I might not keep, so I say, ‘I’ll think about it,’ as I wave goodbye.
Maybe Ishouldtalk to Jake, I muse as I walk down the road. Can it really hurt? It isn’t like I’m not dreaming about him and thinking about him far too often.
I didn’t give him a chance to explain himself and maybe I should have done. Okay, Ishouldhave done. Everyone should always – within reason – at least be allowed to explain.
I’ll message him tomorrow.
Actually, maybe this evening. Before I go to bed or I’ll just dream about himagain, which always causes me to wake up feeling a bit miserable.
I visualise Max sayingSpeak to him.
Fine. I’ll just text him now.
I stop, take my phone out of my bag, send the message, and then turn the sound off and put it at the bottom of my bag so that I won’t be waiting for his possible reply.
I refuse to allow myself to look at my phone during the long bus journey home, and read my Kindle the whole way.
Then, before I get home, I shop for the ingredients for a lasagne I’m planning on making for Maud. I’ll make a batch this evening and then freeze it in portions. I pop in to see her on my way into the house – still without having allowed myself to checkmy phone – and am easily persuaded to stay for a cup of tea with her. She has some new shoes to try on, and then I try them on too (our feet are the same size and I’m always easily persuaded into joining in with the trying-on), and then we spend a good fifteen pleasurable minutes debating which are the nicest. (Maud goes for a silvery woven pair of ballerina pumps. I resist temptation and tell her I’m not taking any of the others; I already have far too many pairs due to a serious lack of willpower on these occasions.)
Eventually, I’m home and it’s time to look at my phone.
It turns out that Jake replied to my text about three minutes after I sent it, saying yes he would like to meet. Oops. I now realise that in having felt that it was too huge to check whether or not he’d replied I’ve inadvertently aired him all day, having been the one to initiate the conversation.
I message straight back:
