Chapter 10
The man standing in the hallway does not look like the polished Oliver James I saw in his author photo. His wavy brown hair is a little longer, and a thick stubble coats his chin. His T-shirt is crumpled, and his jeans look well-worn.
And yet, annoyingly, he’s still handsome.
Those dark eyes, the colour of strong coffee, make the word trouble flash up in capital letters inside my mind, and his boyish smile throws me off guard.
‘You must be Nelly,’ he says. His voice is smooth and polished, reminiscent of a male narrator on my audiobook app.
Oh, God, I can feel a tiny flicker of something inside my chest. Stamp that out right away, Nelly!
This man tricks his readers into believing love is a good thing.
Heartbreak would be inevitable with a man as handsome as Oliver.
Someone as handsome as Oliver probably has a girlfriend – or even several – on his arm.
I hold Lenny tighter. ‘Nice to meet you.’
He smiles at Lenny in my arms. ‘Who is this little guy?’
‘Lenny.’ To my annoyance, Lenny starts to purr and stretches out a silver paw.
Oliver chuckles and gently shakes it. ‘Nice to meet you, little guy.’
‘Lenny,’ I correct him. Lenny will be horrified to be called that. Oliver chuckles, and I look down to see Lenny lovingly rubbing his head against Oliver’s hand.
Lenny, you are a traitor, and I will have words with you later. Now I need to let Oliver into the flat without touching him. This will be interesting, as my hallway is relatively small.
I step into my flat, set Lenny down, pull the door as far as it will go, and press myself against the wall so that our arms cannot touch. ‘Come in. This is the hallway. It connects… things.’
Oliver casts me an odd look and steps inside. ‘Hallways tend to do that.’
Ignoring his witty comment, I point him in the direction of the living room.
‘Wow – this is cosy,’ he gushes, looking around my living room with my chair in front of the small sash window, the tiniest sofa in the world behind it, the old fireplace, and the many shelves of books along the sloping wall.
‘This would once have been the servants’ quarters of this great house. I like it.’
A smile breaks out across my face. Apart from me, he’s the first person to have acknowledged that about my flat.
He points to my chair by the window. ‘That’s a great spot to sit.’ I watch him walk over and gaze out of the window. ‘Can we have a rota on who gets to sit there?’
I can feel my smile fading. ‘No.’ My answer is firm and clear.
This makes him smile and turn back to me. ‘Are you into accepting bribes?’
I shake my head. ‘No. That’s my seat.’
‘I can give you a signed copy of my latest book?’
Forcing out a polite, tight-lipped smile, I say, ‘I’m not a fan of romance novels so your bribes won’t work with me.’
‘You haven’t read my books?’ He seems shocked.
I shake my head. ‘The covers are pink – that’s all I know.’
His dazzling smile reappears. ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he sighs. ‘I find fangirls hard to live with.’
He’s not getting a smile out of me for that playful comment.
Leading him to the kitchen, I ensure there’s a safe buffer zone between us. I am slightly ahead, opening random cupboards like an anxious estate agent. ‘This is the kitchen. Fridge. Sink. Oven.’
He gives me a nod of approval. I hope he’s considered my minimalist approach to work surfaces and my neatly organised cupboards.
I point him towards the bathroom door whilst standing far back. ‘Open the door.’
‘After you,’ he says with a grin.
Shaking my head, I gesture for him to go first. He pokes his head inside. ‘Tidy – I like it,’ he says.
While he’s surveying the bathroom, I open the door to Eva’s old room. ‘Here you are. I know it doesn’t look big, but it has a double bed, a desk and a wardrobe.’
‘Maybe this beautiful room will help me to start writing again,’ he says, striding in, running his fingers over the desk, and gazing out of the window. ‘Is that our garden down below?’
‘It’s a private communal garden shared by all the houses in the crescent.’
He nods. ‘Do you use it much?’
I shake my head and refrain from telling him that I actively avoid human contact when I’m not working. ‘Miranda said you had writer’s block.’
He carries on looking out of the window. ‘Yeah, it’s been a while.’
I hurry away, as I don’t want to get into a deep conversation about his creativity or lack thereof.
He enters the living room.
‘Take a seat,’ I say, gesturing for him to sit on my sofa. I turn around my comfy chair so I’m facing Oliver.
Miranda and Frank may think this is a done deal, but I need to assess this chap myself. Last night, I wrote a list of questions in my little notebook, which I’ve retrieved from my handbag. It is now on my lap with a bookshop-branded pen.
He eyes the sofa with suspicion. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sofa this size.’
The two-seater sofa is tiny and uncomfortable. ‘It came with the flat. It was designed for a family of mice.’
He smiles and sits down, filling almost the entire sofa with his tall, athletic frame. Lenny walks in and leaps onto the arm of the sofa next to Oliver, as if they are old friends.
‘Okay, I have some questions,’ I say after glaring at my cat.
‘Fire away,’ Oliver says. ‘Did you get this grilling from her, little guy?’
I ignore his attempt at friendly banter. ‘I can see you don’t mind my cat. Do you have any pets?’
His smile fades. ‘I love cats. I had one, but she died of old age a few months ago. She was called Figgy Pudding, and she was my best friend.’
He gets a big tick as I like people who refer to their pet as their best friend.
‘Is your cat just called Lenny, or does he have a full name?’
This gets him another tick, as true cat lovers give their feline friends first, middle, and last names. ‘His full name is Leonard Frederick Wilson Spartapuss.’
Oliver nods. ‘Impressive. My cat was Figgy Pudding Bojangles.’
I find myself giving him an extra tick for giving Figgy an amazing surname.
‘Does Lenny go outside?’ Oliver asks. ‘Figgy went outside, and despite only having three legs, she was a phenomenal hunter.’
‘Three legs?’
He nods. ‘I got her from a cat rescue place ten years ago, as no one wanted her.’
I’m staring at him while my hand is frantically giving him loads of ticks for this act of kindness.
‘So Lenny? Does he go outside?’
‘Lenny is an indoor cat, although lately he’s been trying to escape.’
Oliver nods and says with an air of confidence, ‘He won’t get past me, so don’t worry.’
‘What’s your daily routine?’
He sits up straight. ‘I get up at a reasonable hour.’
That’s another tick from me.
‘I spend the rest of my day staring at a blank laptop screen,’ he continues, ‘doomscrolling on social media and watching YouTube videos about how to write books.’
Glancing up from my notepad, I cast him a quizzical look. ‘You have written many books. Why do you watch YouTube videos on how to write? Surely, once you’ve written one, you know how to do it again.’
He shakes his head. ‘My brain blocks out the trauma of writing my previous books, so when I sit down to write something new, it’s like I am starting as a new writer.’
‘Have you had writer’s block before?’
‘Nope.’
‘What do you like to do on an evening?’
‘Well, as I’ve just moved back to this part of the world, I’ve been catching up with my mate, Jamie, a lot. He’s just bought a flat in town, which he’s renovating. We also like a game of pool.’
Hearing about his friend and their love of playing pool earns him another tick in my book. This could be an advantage for me. We wouldn’t have to interact much, as I work during the day, and he would go out in the evening.
‘You’ve lived here before?’
He nods. ‘I grew up in Bristol. My mates and I used to come here for a night out. I moved to London after university, and then Dad moved to Cornwall.’
He smiles at Lenny and scratches him under the chin.
‘Why have you moved back here?’ I ask.
He pauses and the light dims in his face. ‘The London life wasn’t for me any more.’
There’s more to that answer, but he doesn’t elaborate. I make a mental note and move on to the next question. ‘How neat or messy are you?’
He runs a hand through his wavy hair. ‘I’m mostly a tidy guy.’
‘Mostly?’
I observe a mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Nobody’s perfect.’ He grins, which makes my heartbeat accelerate. I find myself scribbling down the words, Watch his dangerous smile, Nelly.
I look down at the next question. ‘What would you say are your annoying habits?’
He crosses his legs. ‘I’ve been told I talk in my sleep.’
‘Well, if you don’t talk too loudly, I’ll be happy. Any other bad habits?’
‘I used to annoy people when I read my draft novels out loud, but as I’m not writing…’ His eyes survey my living room. They linger on the painting above the fireplace. ‘That’s intense.’
I turn to look up at Frida Kahlo’s painting, The Wounded Deer. To me, there is something comforting about witnessing someone else endure my levels of romantic bad luck and be pierced by arrows. I appreciate how, despite all her heartbreak, she still stares ahead like I do.
‘It’s comforting,’ I murmur.
When I turn back, he’s casting me an odd expression. I ignore him, continuing with my interview questions. ‘What would you say are your good habits?’
‘Hugs,’ he says, with an air of confidence. ‘I have been told I give the best hugs.’
Every part of me flinches. ‘You can keep those to yourself.’
An awkward silence descends upon the room. I flick my eyes to my notes.
He speaks first. ‘You’re not a fan of hugs then?’
‘No,’ I say, keeping my focus on my notes. Another peculiar silence follows.
I stare at the next question. This is an awkward one. ‘Are you single or…’
He interrupts me. ‘I’m single, and before you ask – no, I am not dating. What about you?’
‘Single.’
‘Are you dating?’
‘No,’ I scoff and then regret it, as the less he knows about me, the better.
‘Terrible – isn’t it?’ he says lightly. ‘All of it. Dating. Romance. Love. I think we have all been lied to.’
‘Hang on – you’re a bestselling romance author. You write about love.’
He shrugs and looks at my Frida Kahlo painting. ‘Doesn’t mean I believe in it.’
His answer makes me suspicious. Romance authors like Oliver James are experts in delusion. They spend their lives writing books that fool readers into thinking love conquers all. While he’s stroking Lenny, I scribble the following.
He writes romance, but he doesn’t believe in love – yet he makes a living selling it. Is this emotional manipulation? Is Oliver James a modern Mr Rochester but with better hair and a publishing contract?
I circle my Rochester observation several times.
‘Are you writing good things about me?’ he asks.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I ignore his question and fire off several random questions. He raises his eyebrows at my question about whether he puts milk or hot water in first when making a cup of tea.
‘Tell me about yourself, Nelly,’ he asks.
What can I tell him about myself?
A simple question that should be easy to answer. Except it’s not. I flick my attention to my notebook and realise I’m holding my pen like it’s a weapon. Stabbing the page I’m on, I say, ‘There’s not much to tell.’
‘Come on. There’s always something. Do you like working in the bookshop?’
‘It’s good.’ Words about avoiding the romance section jostle around on my tongue.
He’s waiting for me to say more.
‘What do you do for fun?’
I blink. ‘Fun?’
‘Yes, like hobbies or interests.’
His eyes search my face. I don’t want to say that my social life is non-existent; that I don’t do spontaneous coffee dates, drinks after work, or sports; that Miranda, my toxic boss, is my only friend – and the thought of that makes me want to cry. My curse has turned me into a burden to others.
‘I like going to visit my aunt who lives by the sea,’ is what I settle on. Could I sound any more like a servant girl from the 1800s?
He gives me a polite nod. ‘Are there any flat rules?’
I grip my notebook with both hands and get ready to tell Oliver the most essential rule. ‘No touching. This includes hugs, handshakes, shoulder taps, high fives, accidental brushes, toe taps, knee knocks, and reassuring back rubs.’
Oliver is stroking his chin, like he’s considering each one. ‘I understand the rule, but I think you are missing out on my comforting back rubs.’
‘This chair is mine,’ I say slowly and clearly, like I am talking to a small child. ‘No debate, negotiation, or literary inspiration.’
He lets out a sigh. ‘That’s a tough one.’
I point to Lenny, who is gazing adoringly at him. ‘Lenny chooses who he loves. Do not try to win him over.’
Oliver strokes his soft back. ‘No secret cuddles for you, little guy.’
I watch my cat behave like Oliver’s biggest fan. Lenny needs to get his priorities right.
I recall what Miranda said about Oliver wandering around my flat in just a pair of boxer shorts. I need to stamp this sort of behaviour out from the start. ‘No nakedness in the flat or cooking breakfast in just your underwear.’
He blinks and stares at me. ‘I would never—’
‘Clothes must be worn at all times.’
I watch him flick his floppy fringe, and I notice a mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘I agree with you about not cooking breakfast in my underwear, but does that mean I can cook lunch and tea in my boxers?’
‘That is not funny, Oliver.’
Leaning back slightly, he studies me with a crooked smile. ‘So, did I pass the interview?’
Glancing down at my notes gives me a shock. My page is a sea of ticks. That’s unsettling.
‘You didn’t completely fail,’ I say, trying to sound indifferent.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘I didn’t say yes,’ I mutter, but it’s too late. Lenny lets out a purr of approval and climbs on Oliver’s lap.
‘Lenny says yes,’ Oliver says with a wry smile.
‘Fine,’ I say, rising to my feet. ‘But if you sit in my chair you’re out.’
He grins. ‘Message received.’
As I walk towards the kitchen, I hear him mutter to Lenny, ‘Is she always this fun?’