He leans back in his chair and I desperately try to push it over using my mind. The waitress arrives and gently places our meals and a pitcher of water on the table. Dylan thanks her while I glare at him.
‘I don’t buy it.’
‘Buy what?’ he enquires, breaking his chopsticks down the middle.
‘That this was just some weird coincidence. That you just happen to take home the woman who’s been slagging off your book. I call bullshit. You planned this, didn’t you?’
‘You make a good point.’ He pincers some rice. ‘And the answer is – not entirely.’
‘What do you mean? Stop bloody eating and explain yourself.’
‘God, you’re demanding. Look, I knew Adrian had invited everyone from the Tribune so I thought there was a good chance the writer who’d been dissing my book might come. I was intrigued to find out who she was.’
‘And you didn’t know it was me?’ I grab a glass and pour myself some water. My mouth feels like it’s made of cotton wool.
‘Well, Glasgow Girl is anonymous, and you were very open about being a journalist . . . to be honest, I thought it might be your friend Kerry – I didn’t buy the whole works in finance story. She doesn’t look the type.’
Sounds plausible.
‘As for taking you home – believe it or not, I invited you because I was attracted to you. If YOU hadn’t given yourself up, I’d have been none the wiser.’
I’m not even hungry, but I find myself on autopilot, eating the chicken he’s ordered for me.
‘So why am I here, Dylan? I understand that you’re angry that the bad lady called you on your bullshit, but I stand by every word I’ve written. You should grow a thicker skin. I do hope you don’t stalk every critic.’
He takes a sip of lager, seemingly unfazed by my remarks.
‘I’m not angry. A little irked perhaps – any author is by a bad review – but not angry. I’m just curious. Your columns don’t pose any sort of threat to me. This book paid for my lifestyle. I bought that nice pen, invested in a business I happen to really enjoy and I own a lovely flat. You remember my flat, right, Cat?’
I do. I remember the smell of vanilla and the feeling of the bedroom carpet on my knees and . . . DON’T GO THERE, BRAIN. STAND DOWN, STAND DOWN. ABORT! I drink some more water, struggling to retain my fighting stance.
‘Jesus, you’re egotistical, but at least I have something interesting to write about this week. How does “self-obsessed author tricks journalist into bed” grab you?’
He’s laughing, but I get the sneaky suspicion it’s not with me.
‘That would be fun, Cat, but I was thinking something more along the lines of “Journalist is full of shit and writes full and public apology to the handsome author with outstanding hair.” You see, you broke Rule 6 and yet continue to blame my book for the fact you can’t find a proper relationship.’
My mind stops trying to maim Dylan and searches for Rule 6 in my memory banks. Nothing. Hang on – I only read up to Rule 4. Why the fuck didn’t I read the whole book before I started this?
‘But I didn’t get to Rule Six!’ I blurt out. ‘I have no idea what that is.’
‘Rule 6 – don’t sleep with him straight away,’ he replies, spearing some beef with his fork, and eats, motioning me to do the same. ‘You should try some of this beef – it’s really good.’
‘But that only applies to dating. We weren’t dating!’
‘Doesn’t matter. The whole point of your column is that you don’t break the rules. And you did. Game over.’
‘Look, what the fuck do you want from me?’
Without hesitation he replies, ‘I want to make a deal. You had a date the other night, correct?’
‘Yes, but that’s—’
‘You followed my rules?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘Good, then the deal is you continue to follow the book until the end of your column series, but you follow it properly. Do it like you mean it. And just to show that I’m not a bad sport, I will personally help you out . . . as your own “dating guru”, so to speak. You’ll get your man and I’ll get to see you publicly apologize for trashing my book.’
