Page 29 of Hope and Happiness in Bluebell Wood
‘Me either,’ Lonan continues companionably. ‘I moved here a week ago. I’m a writer; I decided I needed some peace and quiet to finish a book I’m working on. So I rented a little cottage and here I am.’
I nod. ‘What is your book about?’ I ask. I’m trying super hard to be as calm and relaxed as Lonan seems and make polite conversation. It’s not this perfectly nice man that’s causing the ever-growing knot in my stomach, but the thought of the pub and all those people . . .
‘I write historical fiction,’ he says, obviously keen to talk about his work. ‘My current novel is set in the twelfth century, during the reign of Richard the Lionheart. I’ve heard this area is full of interesting history, so I thought it would be the perfect place to get my creative juices flowing. I also hope to think up an idea for my next book while I’m here.’
‘How interesting . . . ’
Lonan laughs. ‘Don’t pretend to be interested if you’re not.’
‘I am, actually. I used to work with a few museums in London. I’ve always enjoyed history – well, factual history.’
‘Mine is factual. Just because I write fiction, I still have to research all the facts first.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise, it’s fine, I get that a lot. Were you a curator at the museums?’
‘No, nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. I used to work in publicity and events; we had contracts with them for promotions, advertising, that kind of thing.’
‘Really?’ Lonan looks surprised.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing, you just don’t look the type.’
‘And whattypeis that?’
‘Sorry, I don’t mean anything dreadful by it. It’s just in my experience people who work in that type of industry in London are usually a sort. You know, they dress and behave a certain way. And you don’t seem like that.’
I’m not sure if this is a dig or a compliment.
‘It was a while ago,’ I say. ‘I’m a different person now than I was back then.’
‘Sounds intriguing. Why are you different?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure,’ Lonan says, shrugging amiably. ‘Your prerogative, of course. I’m terrible for probing questions. It’s part of the job.’
We walk on for a few seconds in silence.
‘Lonan is an unusual name,’ I say, feeling bad that I’d cut him off in the way I had.
‘Yes, apparently it means blackbird. My parents are Irish, you see. I was born just outside of Dublin.’
I stare at him for a moment as I think of the bird outside the cottage. ‘What a coincidence,’ I hear myself saying.
‘What is?’ Lonan asks.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I reply quickly. ‘I spent some time in Dublin with work. I thought I could hear a Celtic lilt to your voice.’
‘And you’d be right! We moved to the UK when I was ten, so my accent has got somewhat consumed by a rather plain South London twang over time, I’m afraid.’
Lonan seems a lot more comfortable sharing facts about his life than I am.
‘Did you live in the city when you worked in London?’ he asks now. ‘Or did you commute?’
‘I lived on the outskirts. My commute wasn’t too bad.’
