Chapter Seven #2
Suddenly Theo had the answer to what kind of romance she wrote, and he couldn’t stop the rush of heat that crawled up the sides of his neck and settled in his cheeks. Hearing her construct this elaborate story about strangers was like watching a master painter splash paint expertly across a canvas.
“… who, naturally, would be called something like… Zac. Bryson. Something that sounds foreign and exciting to her.” Olivia huffed.
Theo frowned. “That’s it? She just never loved him. That’s not a happy ending.”
Olivia let out a small cynical laugh. “Yeah, well I’ve learned that not every love story has a happy ending.”
The comment pulled at something in his chest and made him sit back in his chair and consider her once more.
If someone could make up such elaborate storylines for complete strangers in the span of five minutes, then he had no idea why she had failed to think up a leading man.
So, why did she have writer’s block? Why couldn’t she conjure up one of those stories and write something as captivating as this one she had just elaborately told? Happy ending or not.
“You don’t seem to be lacking creativity. So, humour me. Why do you need my help?” Theo found himself asking.
Olivia pulled the sleeves of her cardigan down past her wrists and gazed into her half empty coffee cup. She rubbed the circular stain the mug had left on the wooden table with her cardigan. Theo passed her a semi-crumpled napkin and silently waited for her answer.
She muttered a small “thank you” and wiped up the spilled caffeine.
She sighed, finally. “Honestly? I’ve written the burly Mafia king; I’ve written the best friend’s brother.
I’ve written about her enemy realising that he loved her all along.
If it’s published, sitting on a shelf in a bookstore, then I’ve done it, and so has everyone else.
I’m looking for something different. Something that bridges the line between a fictional boyfriend and real-life ‘this is the type of man I want’. ”
“You want to write about a man who could be real?”
“I don’t want to conceptualise all the fluffy stuff anymore.
Those men are not realistic. It’s not logical—” Olivia stopped, looking out into the sparkling lights of the London Street through the wall of windows to their side.
“Sometimes fantasising about fictitious men is great and all, but not everyone meets a hot fisherman on a trip to the coast and falls madly in love… or suddenly gets a second chance with their first love.” She looked down for a moment, a wash of sadness filtering across her face and disappearing again before he could register.
He had seen the stories that his ex, Annika, had read.
Smutty romance books about a brother’s best friend.
He used to listen as she commented on which tropes she liked better than others.
Theo grew up surrounded by women, their reading preferences a clear thrill compared to the more boring books men read.
These romance stories, the ones his sister had piled up in her living room, and the ones he used to buy his ex for her birthday were plain dirty. Hot. Steamy. Spicy. Filth.
Some of the language used in those books reminded him of the scandalous Mills & Boon romance books his mother had read in the late nineties and early two thousands.
“I want to write a character who exhibits both fantasy and reality. A leading man that meets the bare minimum of showing respect for a woman. Who opens doors and kisses them goodbye and hello. And says, ‘I love you’, without being afraid of coming across as too emotional. The problem is, I just don’t believe they exist anymore, so how do I write him? ”
Theo wanted that for her. Oh, how he wanted to wield a pen himself and write the part for her, but if he did, he knew it wouldn’t be as good as it would be coming from her.
Polishing off their coffees happened faster than Theo would have liked.
He walked her home across the busy streets of London, and onto the Elizabeth Line, and all the way until she was safely inside the battered navy-blue door of her apartment building.
He was miles from his own home, which was a forty-five-minute tube journey in the other direction, but he didn’t care.
Tucking his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he walked to the station in the light drizzly rain.
His mind was clearer now. He had a better picture of what the next two months would look like with Oliva in it.
He also knew that he needed to get her out of his head for a while.
The way she flipped her hair over her shoulder and revealed her long slender neck to him.
The way she puckered her lips around the rim of the steaming mug, taking elegant sips of her drink, and every now and then licking a stray drop that threatened to run down the porcelain.
He needed a cold shower. A beer out of the fridge, and the football final.
In that exact order.
Theo wanted her to write that man, and even more, he wanted to prove he existed.
That there were men out there that were faithful to their partners, and loyal, and kind.
That men, real men, weren’t afraid of declaring their love so freely.
Not when it came to the right person. Making his way down the bustling street, thoughts swirling in his mind, he came to the realisation that Olivia knew what she wanted in her leading man.
Now, his only mission was to try and help her find him.