Chapter 5
‘I’m obsessing over the meet-cute – I must have rewritten it a hundred times – trying to strike that fine balance of giving readers what they want, but not doing something that’s been done a thousand times.
Like, I don’t know, a caffeine-induced collision in a coffee shop.
So, something different, but similar, something… ’
Yeah, okay, you’ve got me. I promised JJ that I wouldn’t talk about my book and here I am, talking about my book, but the man sitting opposite me, the man JJ has set me up with, is Pete, aka bestselling crime writer Peter Flack.
I have a seasoned author in front of me – how am I supposed to not pick his brains?
Especially when so far all I’ve done is blabber on about being a writer myself, and seemingly show him that I can’t even finish a sentence.
‘Caffeine-induced collision?’ he asks with a vague sort of chuckle.
Pete has that academic vibe, the kind that lets you know he’s a novelist before he tells you.
It’s the round-rimmed glasses, the scruffy-chic outfit, the little beard (I don’t know how else to describe it – it truly is a little beard) and the way he’s pounding the red wine.
He’s as cliché as what I’m about to describe.
‘Like…’ I start, instantly cursing myself for using a filler word like ‘like’ when I’m trying to come across like I know what I’m talking about. My God, I need to stop saying like.
‘Like…’
For fuck’s sake, another one.
‘She’s in a coffee shop, she’s running late,’ I finally manage to get out – words, in the right order, as I intended them.
What a novel idea. ‘And she’s rushing around, she grabs her drink, except it’s not her drink, it’s his drink; he’s got her drink.
She has to chase him down but he’s got his headphones on.
He can’t hear her, so she goes to grab his arm just as he realises he doesn’t have the right order, so he turns around, they crash into each other, coffee goes everywhere… That sort of thing.’
‘And that’s an example of what’s good or bad?’ he checks.
Shit. Truly, I don’t know now. I was going to say it’s an example of cliché storytelling, but that actually sounds kind of great. I’d definitely read a book that started like that. One hundred per cent.
‘I guess it depends how it’s done,’ I say, just in case I ever decide to come back to it. I wouldn’t want to seem like a hypocrite as well as a cliché.
‘Hmm,’ he says, rubbing his little beard thoughtfully.
Honestly, I usually love a beard, but his semi-goatee, soul patch – little beard, I’m just going to keep calling it that – is a bit of an ick for me.
Or maybe I’m judging him harshly because he doesn’t seem impressed by my genre of choice.
‘Serious’ writers never are. God forbid anyone would want to write something a bit funny and a bit silly to help people forget about the bleakness of life.
‘So, in essence, your story tells the tale of a young woman who – in an attempt to make the ex she is still in love with jealous – pretends to be with someone else?’ he checks.
‘In essence,’ I reply.
I don’t know, there’s something in his tone.
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it lets me know that he isn’t impressed without him actually having to say it.
Knowing what a serious writer he is, I’m overthinking every carefully constructed sentence he utters. It’s like even his words have subtext.
‘Could she not simply be honest with the man? Tell him how she feels?’ he enquires.
I narrow my eyes at him.
‘Well, yeah, she could, but it would be a pretty short book,’ I say with a gentle laugh. ‘What if Frodo never set off on his quest to destroy the ring?’
‘You’re comparing your work to Tolkien?’ he checks – his tone almost offended on Tolkien’s behalf. ‘Have you read all of the books?’
‘I’ve watched all of the movies,’ I reply – honestly, I think I’m just trying to annoy him now.
He’s not impressed by me at all – if anything, he’s the opposite – and he hates the Soho bar we’re in.
He hates Soho generally. When he explained why, my takeaway was that it was too fun and vibrant.
The reason he hates it is the reason I love it.
Pete swirls his wine like a supervillain planning his next move.
‘You’re happy with your hook then?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, really happy with the set-up,’ I reply.
‘Hmm,’ he says.
Is there a worse sound to hear in this situation than ‘hmm’? It’s a sound that means I think this is shit but I’m not going to tell you why.
‘Hmm as in, “Wow, what a fascinating, layered concept!” or hmm as in, “Delete your entire manuscript”?’ I ask, semi-jokily.
‘It’s just a tad… predictable, don’t you think? I already know how the book is going to end,’ he replies.
Ah. There it is. The same reason everyone gives for looking down their noses at romcoms.
I snap the little wooden sword that was holding my drink garnish, to quietly let out my frustration. I don’t need to feel annoyed, or let him get under my skin, I just need to tell him why he’s wrong. I’m sure he’ll take that reeeeally well.
‘Romcoms are supposed to be predictable, Pete,’ I inform him, trying to keep the sass from my tone.
‘That’s the whole point! You go into it wanting a happy ending and that’s what you get.
Readers want to see two people falling in love and the twists and turns that get them there – but you do have to get them there.
Readers would feel short-changed if they didn’t.
It’s fundamentally about the journey, you know, like Lord of the Rings. ’
Yeah, I’m definitely trying to piss him off now.
I can’t help myself. I have this strong sense of – what do they call it?
Justice sensitivity? I can’t let things go, I can’t let people be rude, I want everyone to have consequences for their actions so they learn their lesson and become better people.
Usually, it manifests as writing bad Trustpilot reviews, rather than prodding bestselling authors with a metaphorical stick.
‘This is why I prefer crime and thrillers. If the reader can guess the ending, you’ve failed. That’s when they feel short-changed. They want twists. Shock. Upended expectations. The last thing they want is to know where a story is going.’
‘Because the point of a thriller is to thrill and the point of a romance is to romance,’ I add.
A waitress arrives with two more drinks. Another glass of wine for him and a gin cocktail for me. My drink is bright pink and super sweet. His is serious, classic. Bitter, if you ask me.
‘Thank you,’ I say, deciding to pace myself but immediately failing by taking a healthy sip. Anything to get through the night.
He takes an even bigger gulp, almost as though we’re in competition.
It’s strange. Pete is objectively attractive, and yet I can’t bring myself to feel any kind of attraction to him. Should someone being a bit of a bell prevent you from finding them attractive? Because it works like a charm for me. Nothing puts me off a man like his personality.
‘Sooo,’ I start, desperate to steer the conversation away from my predictable plot and on to something he’d rather talk about. ‘What about you? Can you share what you’re working on, or do you keep everything under wraps until it’s public knowledge?’
Sometimes, if you give people the opportunity to talk about themselves, that’s when they shine.
‘I suppose I can tell you – it’s not like you can copy it,’ he replies.
Sometimes not, I guess.
‘It’s the first book in a new series but the difference this time is that I’m writing it from the POV of the murderer,’ he explains. ‘I’m still developing the idea, but I think readers are going to love it.’
‘Oh wow,’ I reply. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever read a book from the perspective of the villain…’
‘American Psycho?’ he offers up. ‘Let me guess – you’ve seen the movie.’
I smile sweetly.
‘So, who is your murderer killing?’ I ask.
He rubs his chin – drawing my attention to that little beard again – as he ponders for a moment.
‘Women,’ he replies proudly.
Of course he is.
‘He’s a crime writer,’ he continues. ‘So he uses his expertise to murder women and get away with it. Genius, right?’
‘Just women?’ I check.
He looks at me like I’m ‘one of those’ – whatever one of those is. Essentially, someone who thinks women’s lives are equal to men’s. Silly girlish nonsense, I know.
‘Yeah,’ he says firmly. ‘People love reading about women getting murdered. It’s all good fun, isn’t it? A man on the loose, a bunch of women to be picked off.’
He laughs. I do not.
‘So, I’m thinking he decides to target romance authors,’ he continues. ‘He lures them in by dating them.’
I feel my eyebrows edging up. I do everything I can to control them, to not react.
‘Oh yeah?’ I say – funnily enough, it feels like his hand is around my throat.
‘Yeah,’ he replies. I don’t know, it feels a bit like he’s making this up in real time, and he’s really pleased with it.
‘He dates them, acts like he’s going to mentor them, sweeps them off their feet, then invites them back to his place for a coffee, a nightcap, sex…
and then he kills them. I’m thinking strangling – it’s a classic. ’
‘That’s… Wow,’ is all I can say.
Tell me I’m being paranoid. I’m on a date with a crime writer who is writing a book about crime, a writer who goes on dates with…
romance authors. Which is what I am. And then he kills them.
Even if this is simply his plan for the book and not for my murder, he has to see the similarities here?
He has to know this might make me feel uncomfortable?
Then again, he did describe women dying in fiction as ‘fun’.
‘Is that not…’ I pause for a second because, in a way, it hardly seems worth engaging with him on this point. On the other hand, there’s that voice in my head telling me to speak up. ‘Is that not a bit predictable?’
I repeat the question in full, keeping my shoulders back and my head held high.
‘Excuse me?’ he says.