continued to stare at me. Red jumper, Bart Simpson undies, nana socks and a man bun. It was like a Fashion Wheel gone very, very wrong.
‘We’re a digital marketing agency, work with social media influencers mostly,’ I said, trying desperately to start a conversation. ‘Pair them up with brands, help them develop their content, that sort of thing.’
Nothing.
‘And what do you do?’ I asked in an encouraging tone of voice I usually reserved for actual children.
‘I’m writing a book,’ he replied with great reluctance.
‘Ooh, that’s exciting!’ I exclaimed. He was a writer! Maybe there was something we could do with that.
‘About a politician.’
‘Oh.’
‘In the eighteenth century.’
‘Christ.’
‘He’s a fascinating chap, actually.’ For the first time, something sparkled in Dr Page’s eyes as he scanned across the assorted books, filled with bookmarks, that covered his desk. ‘George Nugent-Temple-Grenville, the first Marquess of Buckingham. He was foreign secretary for four days in 1783. It’s a hell of a story.’
‘Sounds like it,’ I said, feigning as much enthusiasm as possible. ‘And what brought you to The Ginnel? Was he from around here?’
‘Grenville?’ he pushed his fist into his lower back as he spoke and squinted up towards the splinter of street light that snuck in from the window. ‘His father was prime minister, so he certainly spent some of his youth in London, but he was educated at Eton and then Oxford, of course.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I agreed readily. Who wasn’t educated at Eton and Oxford? Apart from everyone I’d personally ever met. ‘Then what brought you to this particular office?’
He pushed his glasses up his nose.
‘The man who showed me round promised me it would be quiet,’ he replied. ‘And that I wouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘Oh really?’ I replied innocently. ‘My aunt wrote a book.’ I picked up one of the hardbacks from his desk which he promptly pulled from my hands, only to put it right back where it came from. ‘But she worked from home. It wasn’t the same as yours, mind, more of a Fifty Shades of Grey type thing. Really wish she hadn’t given me a copy for Christmas.’
‘I can’t write at home, the last time was a disaster, too many distractions. Plus I’m preparing a lecture on Grenville for a PhD research symposium at my old university and I needed more space,’ he said, finally giving up and taking a seat behind his desk. In his pants. ‘We only have one bedroom and my books take up too much room. My girlfriend doesn’t like the clutter. Or me talking to myself all night.’
He had a girlfriend? Knock me down with a red stripy sock.
‘Then this isn’t your first book?’ I asked, wondering what she made of the man bun–Simpsons undies combo. It really would be quite the specialized fetish. ‘You’re already a published author?’
Dr Page half nodded, half shook his head and, if I wasn’t mistaken, he was blushing.
‘I self-published,’ he replied, pulling a heavy hardback book with a beige jacket from the shelf behind him and holding it up so I could see the cover: Lord Lieutenants of Ireland 1171–1922. ‘It hasn’t exactly been a blockbuster bestseller.’
‘I don’t know, I think it looks fascinating,’ I lied. ‘My grandad was from Dublin, on my dad’s side. I bet he would have loved this.’
‘Probably not,’ Dr Page replied. ‘The role was usually seen as a stepping stone to a more prominent position in British government, or a sort of punishment. And the Irish mostly detested whoever was in power as the people appointed to the position tended to abuse their role to control parliament. In 1777, when Lord Buckinghamshire was lord lieutenant, he promoted five viscounts to earls, seven barons to viscounts and then created eighteen new barons, all in one day.’
‘I used to love Viscounts,’ I sighed. ‘The little chocolate biscuits, not the members of the aristocracy.’
Dr Page slowly placed the book down on his desk and picked up his glasses, unfolding them carefully and sliding them onto his face.
‘You still haven’t told me your name,’ I reminded him.
With a very heavy sigh, he turned back to face me, pushing his glasses up his nose.
‘Samuel. Dr Samuel Page,’ he said.
Samuel. Sam. Sammy Boy. Doctor Sam. Hmm. I’d need to work on that.
‘Do you go by Sam or Samuel?’ I asked. ‘I’ll add you on Facebook.’
‘Samuel. And I don’t use Facebook,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘I don’t use any of that, it’s too distracting. Who cares what some random person they went to secondary school with is eating for lunch? No one, not really.’
I heard myself actually gasp out loud.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking …’ I peered around him at the airbed on the floor. The blankets were all upset and, given his ensemble, I was almost certain he’d been sleeping when I walked in. ‘But why is there a bed in here?’
‘Because, ah, as a writer …’ Samuel replied, eyes shifting from side to side as he spoke. ‘Sometimes, for me, as a writer, it’s easier for me, as a writer, to think like this.’
I sucked in my bottom lip and nodded slowly.
‘In your office?’ I asked. ‘In your pants?’
He nodded, clutching at the edge of his jumper.
‘On an air mattress?’
Another nod.
‘Right,’ I said, folding my arms in front of me. ‘I thought maybe you were working late and it was easier than going home.’
‘That would have made a lot more sense, wouldn’t it?’ he said with a low moan. ‘This is what she’s talking about, I make things too difficult.’
‘She?’
‘My girlfriend,’ Samuel clarified. ‘Ex-girlfriend now, I suppose.’
‘Oh,’ I replied, sucking the air in through my teeth. ‘Bugger.’
‘Yes, quite,’ he said.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said.
I couldn’t say I was entirely surprised. He folded his arms and stared at me.
‘Can you go now please?’ he said bluntly. ‘There’s no fire as you can see and no one is breaking in, other than you.’
‘I
