“Yup, that’s me,” I said nervously. My cover was completely blown. Had I wanted to be incognito, that was all over now.
“Oh my God, that book was everywhere. It was huge. It was all anyone spoke about. I even bought it for a friend for Christmas. She loved it!” And now he smiled at me. He smiled at me and my insides seemed to scramble about, like eggs in a frying pan. His smile grew. So did mine. And then he leaned forward and looked me straight in the eyes. My body tensed. “Although, I must say, you look nothing like your author picture.”
I felt my cheeks blush from the embarrassing memory of that awkward photo shoot. “Uh . . . yes. There was a lot of make-up and they scraped my hair back, and Photoshop, you know.”
“You’re not wearing your glasses, either,” he noted.
I shook my head. “I don’t wear glasses. My agent thought it would look better if I did wear glasses, though. Make me more intellectual, less . . . uh . . . well, I guess,less me.”
“I thought you were a brunette,” he said, eyeing my hair.
“Black and white photos. They thought it would make me look more serious, or arty, or . . . I don’t know what they were trying to do.”
He looked at me for a while before speaking again. “So, what brings a famous author to our small town?” His voice had taken on a whole new quality. Gone were those stern police-y replies and steely looks. Maybe this was my lucky day; maybe he would forget that I’d tried to climb a fence.
“You know . . . writing. I wanted to get away from it all, the hustle and bustle of Jo’burg. Find some quiet little spot to write. A change of scenery for some inspiration.” I was spurting out all those romanticized writer clichés. What people thought we writers did. Go off to country retreats and stay in log cabins and write by burning wood fires. The reality is that most of us are slumped over a dirty, messy desk that has a pot of yesterday’s half-finished yoghurt growing fungus on it. Empty coffee cups, floss (because you eat at your desk, now, too) and more highlighters and pens than common sense.
“Do you have a new book coming out soon?” he asked. His eyes seemed to have lit up a little now. Green, like malachite—that was the color of his eyes.
“I do. Indeed,” I said reticently. Just thinking about the book made me break out in a cold sweat.
“That’s exciting,” he said, looking even more relaxed.
“My deadline is in three weeks,” I blurted out, just because I needed to get that off my chest. “Right around the corner, really. No time to lose,” I said, a little more frantically this time.
“Wow! That’s soon.” He took his cap off and ran his hands through his hair. My knees seemed to quiver in response to this.
Okay—confession time: I’ve always had a thing for a man in a uniform. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s some totally anti-feminist biological predisposition we women have to being rescued. The knight, the fireman, the policeman—men in uniform, rushing in to save us. I know, I know. That’s about as unfeminist as giving a woman a Hoover for Christmas. But I wasn’t concerned with feminism as he looked at me with those eyes. That scruffy, ash-blonde hair, made messy by the cap, that perfect face, broad shoulders . . . My eyes drifted down to his feet . . .Such large shoes.
“How’s it coming?” he asked, and my throat went dry.
“Sorry . . . who’s coming?”
“The book. How’s it coming?” he asked, with a small smile.
I cleared my throat. “Good. Just doing my research,” I lied. The book wasn’t coming at all. In fact, it was probably coming as little as I was at the moment. Which was not at all, since I hadn’t been with a man in many, many, many moons.Why was I thinking about this now?Our eyes met for a split second before we both looked away quickly.Wow.I wasn’t sure if he’d felt that, but I had: a loud buzz in my ears accompanied by a sudden dizzying sensation and an instant dry mouth, as if someone had just poured that stuff you find in that little sachet in the bottom of pill jars into my mouth. I tried to run my tongue over my teeth to wet them; it felt like it stuck.
“Well—” he looked past me and at the fence—“I guess there was no harm done, here. But, please, don’t climb fences again. Even if it is just for research.” He started moving towards his car and I panicked. I didn’t want him to leave.
“Wait, what’s your name?” I called out, taken aback by the urgency in my voice.
He smiled at me again. “I’m Mike,” he said, still backing away to his car. “Mike Wooldridge.”
“Cool. Captain Policeman Mike Wooldridge,” I said. “I’m Becca Thorne.”
He stopped walking and then let out a small chuckle. “I know.” And then he was opening his car door. He stopped and looked back at me. “By the way, I expect you to drive off when I do.” He looked over at my car and then back at me. “Your last book must have done really well. Congratulations.” Clearly he was referring to the stupidly overpriced vehicle that I’d only really bought to show up acertain someone I despised. It was all rather juvenile, really. But it had always beenhisdream car, so, after what he’d done, I thought it would be a nice kick in the balls if I bought one.
“Youaregoing to drive away, aren’t you?” he asked again, when I didn’t respond.
“Of course.” I jumped, and then remembered the hole in my jeans. I shuffled sideways to my car, hands still stuck over my crotch as if I was scared something might fall out of me. “Okay. Bye.” I started opening the door and looked at him.
“Bye,” he said, but didn’t move. And neither did I. I felt glued to the spot. I couldn’t move—didn’t want to move.
“I should really get going,” he said again, still not moving.
“Me too.” I nodded at him, holding the eye contact he was making.
“I hope your book goes well,” he said.
