Page 3 of Knowing You
Lenny and I once had one of those indulgent conversations that new couples enjoy. He’d wanted to know what I thought of him in bed. I said his oil massages were second to none and loved the fact that he didn’t enjoy sex unless I had. Then I asked him what he liked about me. This was one year ago, just after we’d moved into the flat. Lenny said he liked the way I kissed. On a more practical note, he praised the way I made cheese and pickle rolls.
Eventually my probe burrowed through the surface.
‘You’re sort of like my… keepsafe,’ he said. ‘Moving to the capital was daunting. I missed the easy, cosseted student life. You made London feel like a home and helped me focus on my career.’
I had studied English in Durham, while Lenny went to Manchester Metropolitan. We met in The British Library almost two years ago, a few weeks after moving to the city and into tiny bedsits. We’d both been mature students, taking a gap year after the sixth form to do internships.
I guess I’m lucky. I’ve always enjoyed that feeling of being at home as long as there’s a good book between my hands. Lenny’s revelation made me realise I’m his go-to book in a way. I make him feel safe in a world of chaos. He said he loves thataboutme which must be the same as saying those three magic words straight. So I’ve written them in his Valentine’s Day card. I feel like I should have reciprocated his declaration by now. We were in too much of a rush to exchange presents this morning. I can’t wait until tonight when I cook him a special Valentine’s dinner.
Irfan looks at his watch again.
‘I’ll go down to reception,’ I say.
When I arrive, all is quiet. Snow is settling outside. ‘Our author should be here by now.’
Hugo shrugs. ‘Perhaps it’s this weather. I can’t say I’m looking forward to bracing it tonight. You must have had a large incentive to go out earlier – perhaps a romantic lunch?’ He pulls a face. ‘I’m helping Dad decorate his kitchen today. Not sure how I ended up without a date on the one day of the year a meal out is most likely to end with a shag.’
I shake my head and he laughs.
‘You know I only say things like that to wind you up.’
It’s true. Hugo’s no misogynist. He’s popular with the opposite sex because he shows respect. It’s his commitment that’s lacking and he rarely dates the same woman for longer than a few weeks.
His desk props me up. ‘I wanted to surprise Lenny. Take him to lunch.’
‘I hope he ended up paying as recompense for you braving the cold.’
‘Not exactly. He was in the waffle house with someone else.’
‘Business?’ Hugo yawns.
What can I say? Casey Wilde’s book isn’t out on submission yet.
‘Networking.’ I gaze at Hugo. He knows everything about everyone, from professional achievements to random details. That includes me. A bookseller once emailed because Hugo told him I baked the best brownies this side of the Atlantic. He wanted the recipe for his Californian wife’s birthday.
‘Lenny was meeting Beatrix Bingham.’
It’s not how Hugo reacts – it’s how he doesn’t, by concentrating on the signing-in book even harder, as if it were a newly discovered Dickens manuscript. He’s remarkably quiet.
‘Have you ever met her?’ I ask and raise my eyebrows. Hugo and I get on well. Sometimes we eat lunch together. He’ll give me the run-down on any agent I’m due to meet and of course, we’ll talk books. Hugo loves Young Adult fiction. We’re both huge fans of John Green. He’ll try to show me photos of his latest date but I always refuse, citing no need. She’ll have straightened hair, look athletic and well-groomed. We joke that his type is the antithesis of me.
‘I’ve seen her a few times, most recently at Waterstones Piccadilly for a book launch last month.’ He runs a finger down signatures and focuses on a name that didn’t sign out.
‘No doubt she’s on your hit list even though she’s way out of your league.’ I keep the tone light.
‘I’d probably be in with a chance. She likes younger men.’
We don’t speak for a few moments and I realise I’ve folded my arms.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask eventually.
No response.
‘Hugo?’
The phone rings. He picks it up. Expresses sympathy. Hangs up. ‘That was Gary Smith. His bike skidded on ice. He’s okay but the chain’s broken. He’ll have to reschedule.’ Hugo shakes his head. ‘What sort of idiot cycles in this weather?’
‘An ambitious author who combines novel-writing with another job to pay the bills. Gary doesn’t like spending money on public transport. Anyway, what were you saying about Beatrix?’
