vulnerable. Why don’t you put him in a home?’ He listened a bit longer and then said gloomily, ‘Thursday. At two.’ He ended the call and shook his head. All the happiness had gone out of him and he looked weary and troubled.
If you’re going through a bad time and you’re with someone who is happy, it makes you feel ten times worse. Conversely, if you’re going through a bad time and you’re with someone who is also struggling, things start to look a lot brighter.
‘Dog trouble?’ I asked.
He looked at me blankly. ‘What?’ His eyes were grey and distant. Then he saw where I was coming from, and said, ‘No. It’s my stepmother, actually.’
I’d been trying to work out where the embroidery scissors came into it, and it made more sense now. A warm and friendly feeling came over me, the sort you get when you see a man on his own with a baby. I hadn’t realised you could get the same effect with stepmothers, but there we are – my mission as a writer is to observe and report; something I learned from my journalism days.
‘She bit someone? I couldn’t help hearing.’
‘She’s been going to that bar for years,’ he said bitterly. ‘Now social services have got involved. You know what that means.’
‘Yes, I do,’ I said. Our two problems were very different, but who had the worse one? He had a feral relative and I had a whole novel to write. Just at that moment, a yellow birch leaf dropped into my wine glass. It didn’t exactly tip the scales but I did start feeling got at.
Jack Buchanan watched me fish it out. ‘Can I get you another one?’ he asked as I flicked it under the table.
‘Thanks!’ But like a warning vision I saw the whole week speeding by. ‘Better not, though. I’ve got to write a book. Well, an outline. I know Stephen King did all his best work while he was drinking but it doesn’t really work for me – it comes out gibberish, or sentimental.’
‘You write books? Who are you?’
‘Lana Green,’ I said.
‘Ah …’ he responded. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s all right. You’re not my target market.’
‘So what’s your book going to be about?’ he asked.
‘It’s got to be a romantic novel. Love, and it goes wrong, they get back together, happy ending.’
He laughed. ‘Well, that seems easy enough.’
‘Yeah, it’s not.’
‘Subdivide it into where, why, what and how.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘No, I suppose it isn’t,’ he reflected. ‘Otherwise everybody would be doing it.’
‘Don’t get me started on that,’ I said, ‘because it seems as if everybody is doing it. Comedians write children’s books, models write romances, chat-show hosts write drama – it’s really annoying. How would they like it if I started doing stand-up, or hosted a chat show, or got famous for my boob jobs? People should stick to one occupation per person. On principle, I don’t buy any fiction written by people who are famous in other fields.’
Jack Buchanan laughed; it suited him. He had a face that was made for happiness. ‘My stepmother does a bit of writing.’
Incredible. ‘See what I mean?’ I looked at my watch. Half the day had gone already and I had work to do. ‘I’d better go. I’ve got to find myself a hero.’
‘And I’ve got to go back and do some firefighting.’
That was interesting. ‘You’re a firefighter?’
‘Metaphorically speaking. I have an IT company. Tell you what, you can write about me, if you like,’ he said helpfully.
I grinned. ‘No offence, but you’re not hero material.’
‘Why’s that?’ He looked hurt.
‘Sorry.’ As usual I wished I’d kept my thoughts to myself. ‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that. You seem perfectly nice and …’ I couldn’t point out that he was also scruffy and worked in IT and was worried about his stepmother, so I took another approach. ‘Are you fearless? And incurably romantic? Are you self-assured to the point of arrogance?’
Jack Buchanan rubbed his jaw and thought about it. ‘No. Not really.’
‘Mmm. Worth a shot, though. And I appreciate the offer,’ I added, and finished my drink. ‘Good luck with your stepmother.’ I stood and picked up the Tesco bag. It was heavier than I remembered, but my head was clear.
‘Hey, Lana?’
As I turned back, he shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at me. In the shadow of his hand his eyes were a cool, clear grey. I couldn’t read the expression in them.
‘So, that’s what makes a good husband, is it?’ he asked. ‘Being fearless and stuff?’
I hadn’t thought of it like that before. ‘Probably not, except in books.’ The Tesco bag was surprisingly heavy as I cradled it in my arms. ‘A hero and a husband are entirely different things.’
If we could edit our own lives, there are plenty of things in mine that I would delete and rewrite, but looking back, the way I said goodbye to Mark is the main one I would change. It was more than a year since we’d first met up while I was travelling. We’d been living together for almost four amazing months and for me, our relationship was still exciting and new. But the day he was due to leave for his assignment in the Bahamas I was part of a panel of authors at the British Library, so we said our farewells at the flat. His blond hair was still wet from the shower and he kissed me long and hard and as I looked into his brown eyes I was thinking, I really have to go now. Mark never closed his eyes when we kissed and I kept mine open too because the kiss was deeper that way. It was a kiss to remember him by.
But my mind was more on the time than the kiss, because I was nervous and I didn’t want to be late for the panel. I loosened the hug but he was still holding me tight.
‘I wish you were coming with me,’ he said into my hair.
‘Yes.’ I should have said me too, but that would have been hypocritical. I’d chosen to stay behind because I had Love Crazy to promote and the book meant everything to me. Being a novelist had been a lifelong dream since the age of six when I’d self-published a slightly derivative story on coloured paper, which my mother had immediately ruined by correcting the mistakes in black felt-tip.
We had one final kiss before I hurriedly left the flat, but at the door something made me turn back. I told him reassuringly,
