Startled, my head whips around at lightning speed.
‘Dylan!’
Be still my beating loins. He has a lager in one hand and a giant grin on his smug, kissable face. I haven’t seen him in daylight before. I haven’t seen him since . . . Oh shite, now I’m back in his bedroom and he’s pulling my legs over his shoulders and I’m blushing. He’s grinning and I’m a flushed, pen-less fool holding a Moshi Monster.
‘You all right?’ he asks, knowing full well I’m more than flabbergasted to see him.
‘Yes. Fuck! You surprised me! Sorry, how are you?’ I’m strangely overjoyed to see him, but how can I get rid of him before Guy Wright turns up?
‘I’m very well. Is this a bad time?’ He smirks, looking at the little plastic figure I’m holding. ‘Are you on one of your famous dates? He’s a little on the short side.’
I throw the Moshi bastard back in my bag and compose myself. ‘No, actually I’m working. I’m waiting to interview an author, if he ever shows up.’ I take a gulp of my wine. ‘I can’t find a damn pen. It’s going so well already.’
‘I have one you can borrow.’ He reaches into his coat pocket and hands me a brushed silver pen. ‘Here you go.’
‘I can’t take this; it looks expensive. Can I pawn it afterwards . . .?’
He laughs. ‘Just give it back to me when you’ve finished your interview.’
‘Sure, OK. Thank you, you’re a lifesaver. I’d hate to look unprepared in front of this knob; I’m in his bad books as it is.’
‘Oh? Sounds intriguing. Who are you meeting?’
‘I’m meeting an author . . . oh, hang on . . .’
I spy a man in his late forties wearing a bottle-green suit entering the restaurant. He’s dressed like a wanker; it must be him.
I tuck my hair behind my ear and mutter, ‘Right, OK, I think he’s just arrived. I’ll be about an hour. Where are you sitting? I’ll come over after.’
‘I’m sitting right here.’
Dylan places his drink on the table, takes off his jacket and sits down across from me.
What the fuck?! He can’t sit there. I try and shoo him away.
‘Sorry, but, um . . . what the hell are you doing?’
He signals to the waitress that he’s ready to order. ‘Well, I’m having a meeting with the woman who has been happily shitting all over my book for the past few weeks. Oh, and some Thai beef.’
‘Very funny. Look, you have to go, this guy is—’
‘Me,’ he interrupts. ‘Oh! How rude of me.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Guy Wright, bestselling author of The Rules of Engagement. Published five years ago and translated into fifteen languages. Millions sold.’
The man in the green suit sits down at the table with the three women. I look back at Dylan, who’s still holding out his hand. I have no idea what’s happening. I. Just. Stare.
His hand retreats and he laughs. ‘Natasha said you might be a bit defensive, given my book hasn’t helped you in the old love department and you’re still convinced it’s nothing to do with you . . . Oh yes, please, can I have the Thai beef and another lager? The mute in front of me will have another glass of whatever that is and the Kung Po chicken. Just nod if that’s OK, Cat. Cat?’
I didn’t even see the waitress standing impatiently beside me – food is the last thing on my mind, but I nod to make her go away.
Neither of us speaks for about thirty seconds, but then he smiles at me and I cave first. ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were? Why all this?’
‘I’ll admit, I was tempted to tell you that night, but, well, this is much more fun. Besides, we’d just had sex – it wouldn’t have been gentlemanly.’
God, he’s smug. I want to stab him with his own pen.
‘You’re in no danger of being thought of as gentlemanly. You practically threw me out of your flat!’
‘That was just a bonus.’
