it was like having a winning lottery ticket in my hand.
I’d known this was going to happen!
It was preordained and I was generous in my happiness, gloating over my good fortune, smiling at people as they passed me. It felt like the glory of life had suddenly been revealed to me! I walked up Kite Hill and the grass was greener, the sky bluer, the passers-by more glamorous than they’d ever been before. I was seeing everything with new eyes.
I leant against a tree, feeling the cold bark through my jacket, filled with gratitude at my good fortune. I thought of Mark’s Trek bike fondly. What amazing good luck it was that I hadn’t sold it! I realised at that moment that I’d misunderstood my motivation. I hadn’t kept it because it was his; I’d kept it for him.
I dialled the number. The phone rang, once, twice; my heart was thundering and then:
‘Jack Buchanan.’
What the? Who?
What kind of trick was this?
My glittering bauble of happiness shattered into bits, irrevocably broken.
I squashed my bag against my face and screamed into it. It had all been a delusion. I was such an idiot. The worst thing about losing an imaginary future is that the lights go out and you stare into the blackness and you can’t see anything there. There’s no destination. It is a bleak and frightening feeling. Time heals, they say, without adding that it moves in a slow and arduous way, like sludge, and the only way to time-travel is to sleep.
‘Hello? Hello?’
‘It’s Lana Green,’ I said, unable to hide my frustration. ‘My agent said you were trying to get hold of me.’
‘Yes! I don’t know if you remember me – I met you at the Edinboro Castle. You’re a writer in need of a hero. I’m the dark-haired guy in the orange sweatshirt. I put that in Rush-Hour Crush. Don’t you read the Metro?’
‘What do you want?’ I asked, too disappointed to make an effort, watching dogs snuffle past my line of vision.
For some reason my lack of interest and gloomy tones didn’t put him off.
‘I emailed you on your author’s website but when you didn’t reply I called your agent because she was in the acknowledgements. Listen. I’ve been paragliding.’
‘So?’
‘So, if you’re still looking for a hero, I’m reapplying for the role.’
‘I don’t want—’
‘I’ve never done anything like that in my life. I’ve never felt so alive! Or,’ he added soberly, ‘so close to death. Look on YouTube if you don’t believe me.’
‘I do believe you.’ I just don’t care.
‘Well look at it anyway. By the way, just want to reassure you I haven’t suddenly grown boobs – that’s a water balloon down my shirt.’
It was like being licked by a labrador. ‘Jack, I’m not—’
‘Yes, I know, you’re going to say that going paragliding once is not enough.’
‘Actually that’s not what I was going to say.’
‘Good! Let’s pick a date. I’ll try my best to be aloof. What are you doing on Saturday?’
There is nothing worse than a person who is trying to engage you in conversation when you don’t feel like talking. Just at that moment I would have given anything for aloofness. It’s what gave Mark an air of superiority.
Women think that the one quality they want in a man is someone they can talk with. Bad mistake. Nowhere in the whole history of romantic fiction has a woman fallen in love with a talker. Talking is what girl friends are for. My advice is, always go for a man you fancy the pants off, it’s as simple as that.
However – what was there to lose? He might even buy me lunch and I’d get a free meal out of it.
‘All right,’ I sighed. ‘I’ll bring my notebook.’
‘Great! Twelve o’clock at the Edinboro Castle,’ he declared. Then he added in an undertone, ‘How did that sound?’
I smiled despite myself. ‘Decisive and masterful,’ I said.
Some people never forget a face. I’m not one of them. I couldn’t remember what Jack Buchanan looked like, other than the general impression of a person who’d just got out of bed. But when I got off the bus in Delancey Street he was leaning against the white gatepost of the Edinboro Castle. He was wearing a lime-green jacket, his dark hair ruffling in the breeze.
‘Hey!’ he said, taking his hands out of his pockets.
‘Yeah, hey!’
‘You came!’ He grinned at me.
I was surprised that he thought I wouldn’t. It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do or any other invitations, but there’s nothing quite as satisfying as exceeding someone’s expectations.
‘How is your new book coming along?’ he asked.
‘Basically … not well. To get creative, you need to be ill or bored.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Andrew Motion drinks Lemsip when he’s writing. It’s to fool his mind into believing he’s got a cold.’ Just behind Jack I could see the menus pinned to the gateposts in gilt frames. I have a lot of faith in a menu in a gilt frame. ‘Are we going in?’
‘Well, what I thought was, we could walk to the Hub Sports Pavilion, have a coffee and then go to the boating lake and hire a boat. I’ll row.’
I fancied a glass of wine and something to eat in the pub, but I had to give him credit for coming up with a plan.
‘Or,’ he said, ‘we could hire a pedalo, but that doesn’t seem the kind of thing a hero would do, right?’
I thought it over as we turned the corner and walked past the flower shop through the scent of lilies. A train rumbled beneath us.
‘True. A hero would have a jet ski.’
He
