I’m barely listening to him. All I can think is, Goddammit, if he’d tried, I would have let him kiss me. I need to snap out of this.
‘Thanks. Shall we take our glasses through to the living room?’ My suggestion is met with a nod and he follows me out. He takes a look around as I turn on some of my music, keeping the volume at a respectable level.
‘What colour is that wall? Turquoise?’
‘Teal.’
‘Nice . . . and so is this couch. I always wanted a corner one, but it’d look odd in my living room.’
As he sits down, he spots his book on the coffee table. ‘Glad to see you haven’t binned it then.’
‘How could I?’ I reply. ‘You’d have me fired. Or shot.’
‘Still think it’s bullshit?’
‘Does it matter?’
He pauses for a moment. ‘Probably not.’
I lift the book and look at its glossy black cover with his pseudonym in gold lettering. ‘Why didn’t you use your real name?’
‘I could ask you the same question, Glasgow Girl.’
I smile. ‘It’s just easier. Some of the stuff I write could embarrass people who are close to me.’
He runs his hand through his hair and leans forward. ‘Sometimes I wish I’d never written it. Don’t get me wrong – I stand by my book – but I guess I just didn’t want to be known forever as that guy who writes about dating. I wanted to save my real name for my serious writing.’
Fucking hell, we’re actually having a genuine conversation. I offer him more wine, but he covers his glass. ‘I’m driving, remember.’
I pour the rest of the bottle into my glass. ‘So, what happened?’
‘In a nutshell, I never got round to writing another book. Turns out that being financially secure killed my creativity.’
‘But you have the Filmhouse now. That must be interesting.’
‘Oh, that was purely an investment. I’m never there. Adrian handles everything. Although I do insist we run a horror night every month. We’re showing Carrie and The Shining as a double bill in a couple of weeks.’
‘No way! I love Stephen King. I’ll totally come to that.’
‘You like King? Bullshit.’
I point to the entire row of Stephen King novels in my bookcase. ‘Huge fan.’
He shakes his head. ‘You continue to surprise me. Don’t pretty, quirky girls like chick-lit and rom-coms?’
‘Jesus, stop pigeonholing me!’
‘Sorry, force of habit.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘Are you looking forward to Wednesday?’
‘I think so.’ I swirl the wine around in my glass before finishing the remainder in one gulp. ‘If he’s coming here he’ll be hoping to have sex, won’t he?’
‘Cat, men go to the supermarket hoping they’ll have sex. It’s what we do.’
‘And I definitely can’t?’
‘Well, you can of course, but you’d be breaking the rules. I think we’ve established this.’
Damn him. Now I’m back in his flat, watching him strip. I drag my thoughts back to Tom.
