Page 23 of Love and Other Paradoxes

And it all went to pieces. Esi had dressed him up, arranged his hair, told him what to say, but she hadn’t told him how to act normal when the future love of his life called him a genius. His shoulders caved; his hand went automatically to the back of his neck. “Uh—yeah,” he said with a nervous laugh. “That’s—that’s me.”

“No.” She reared back. Her eyes narrowed. “It’syou.”

His heart was hammering. “What?”

She pointed at his chest emphatically. “Train Boy! Is this some kind of joke?” She held up a printout of the poem. “Did you even write this?”

“It’s not a joke. I...”I did write this.He couldn’t say it. He searched for a way to claim it that was true. “That’s my poem. I’m Joseph Greene.”

She looked at him, then back at the poem. She took a breath. “You should know that the only reason I’m not walking out right now is because I am a consummate professional.”

He exhaled in heart-stopping relief. “Thank you. I—”

“And because your poem is, I grudgingly have to admit, very good.” Her attention pinned him in place. “Who’s it about?”

His brain short-circuited. “I’m sorry?”

“The poem,” she said, with fraying patience. “Who inspired it?” When he still failed to reply, she rolled her eyes. “Oh my God. Do I have to spell it out for you?Who were you kissing?”

“Just—this girl.” Rob’s words echoed.There’s the competition-winning eloquence I’d expect.He had to do better. “She’s—” And as he said it, he realised his dilemma. The poem had been written by someone deeply in love. But he couldn’t have Diana thinking he was taken. “She was the love of my life.”

Cliché. He winced internally. Diana raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Was?”

She died.He rejected the lie with the same instinct that rejected the wrong word when he was writing a poem. Another cliché, not to mention it was in bad taste, not to mention he’d have to think up something his imaginary girlfriend could have died of and keep that straight for the entirety of his and Diana’s future together. “It didn’t work out.”

She looked at him knowingly. “You mean she broke up with you.”

He felt the self-protective urge to deny it. Wouldn’t it make him look more desirable if he’d been the one to end it? Esi spoke softly in his ear.Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable.

“Yes,” he said, with a quiet laugh. “She did.”

Diana nodded sagely. “You couldn’t have written this poem otherwise. The pain, the loss—that’s what drew me to it. All that longing, all that desire for what can no longer be, it’s there in every word.”

“Aye—yeah, that’s exactly what I was going for,” his mouth said, while his brain protested,What the hell is wrong with you?How could she read the poem as a lament for love lost, when it was clearly a celebration of love everlasting?

She threw him a sly glance. “Is this what all that nonsense was about the other night? You knew I was involved in Love Poems for Tomorrow, and you were—what, auditioning?”

He remembered what Esi had said.She’s going to ask you for an explanation, but that’s not what she really needs.“It doesn’t matter. I should have realised going up to you like that was creepy and invasive. I’m sorry. I won’t put you in that position again.”

She looked taken aback. He wondered uneasily if she wasn’t used to men apologising. The idea of Crispin floated into his mind. Her unhappy, inevitable marriage loomed on the horizon, a shadow she was doomed to walk through.

“All right,” she said. “I accept your apology. Mostly because, on the evidence of this”—she shook the poem—“you’re talented enough to get a pass.”

He didn’t necessarily agree that talented people could go around being as creepy as they liked. But the future love of his life had given him a compliment, and he couldn’t think straight. He grinned at her, then realised talented people probably didn’t grin, and moderated it to a knowing smile.

Her eyes met his.Gimlet eyes, he thought. Not just because of their sharpness, but their colour, exactly like the cocktail, a green so pale it was almost yellow. They looked through him, searching for something he wasn’t sure he contained. “I tend to find collaborations flow better in more intimate surroundings,” she said in her low, musical voice. “Why don’t you come by my room tomorrow morning and we’ll give it a go?”

He tried to look as if he wasn’t exploding. “Uh—sure. Absolutely. Here’s my number.”

She typed it into her phone and gave him a missed call. As if by magic, Diana Dartnell’s number appeared on his screen. “F5, Whewell’s Court,” she said. “Trinity Street gate. Shall we say eleven? Text me when you’re outside. I’ll buzz you in.” She leaned forward, a breath of orange blossom and patchouli, andkissed him almost imperceptibly on the cheek. “Must go. Got to circulate.”

He watched her leave, his soul buzzing. He’d done it. He’d made his future happen. But even as joy spread through him, he felt it dull at the edges. He hadn’t really done anything. He’d been a passenger, floating on the tides of fate, no more responsible for his success than a message in a bottle that had happened to be found.

He knew one person who would give him credit. As he left the theatre, he took out his phone and texted Esi.

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