The Love Detective (3 page)

‘
I’m
acting weirdly?’ I reply indignantly, before remembering myself and hastily lowering my voice. ‘You have books underneath your coat,’ I hiss.

‘I know,’ she replies evenly.

I feel a beat of shock. Gosh, she’s so
brazen
about it.

‘They’re your books,’ she adds, and gives me a quick flash. I see a whole pile of my latest novel hidden in the lining of her coat.

I gape at her in total confusion. ‘But why would you steal my books?’ I whisper.

Throwing back her head she erupts with throaty laughter. ‘I’m not stealing them silly!’ and sweeping past me she moves over to the ‘Weekly Promotions’ table and starts moving books around.

‘So what
are
you doing?’ I hiss, rushing over.

‘Well, no one’s going to notice you if you’re sitting on a shelf, now are they?’ she intones, roughly shoving several bestselling celebrity tell-alls to one side and plonking my books on top. Spreading them around so there’s a whole display, she picks one up and starts waving it around.

‘Come and buy this book by Ruby Miller,’ she says loudly to an elderly woman in tweed who’s browsing the Russian classics section. The old lady looks up from her copy of Dostoevsky and peers at us through her spectacles.

‘It’s fabulous, lots of sex,’ adds Diana with a wink.

Oh my god.

‘I’m so sorry, please ignore my friend,’ I fluster apologetically, my cheeks blushing bright red. ‘She’s American,’ and, grabbing Diana by the elbow, I start steering her towards the exit.

‘What’s wrong with lots of sex?’ she protests.

Is it just me or is her voice getting even louder? Several other customers are turning around to stare now and it’s all I can do to get her through the doorway.

‘I write romance, not porn!’ I gasp, once we’re outside.

‘So what?’ she shrugs. ‘Sex sells.’

I shoot her a look. After the furore surrounding
Fifty Shades of Grey
, she’s been nagging me to try my hand at erotic fiction, but I can’t. Not in a million years. I once tried talking dirty with a boyfriend – it was his idea not mine – and it was so embarrassing. Plus I was useless at it. I’m not a prude, I’m not still calling it ‘my front bottom’ like my friend Harriet, but I can’t even say the
you-know-what
word, let alone write it down. Imagine my mum and dad reading it?

I feel a flush of embarrassment. Oh god, no. On second thoughts, best not.

Dashing out of the rain, which has now obviously decided it should put a bit more effort in and is coming down in stair-rods, we step next door and are seated by the waitress who swiftly takes our order.

‘So, how’s the new book going?’ asks Diana, getting down to business.

I feel a beat of anxiety as my mind flashes back to earlier, sitting at my computer, staring at the blank screen. ‘Slowly,’ I say vaguely.

‘How much have you written so far?’

‘Um, you mean specifically?’ I try stalling.

‘Because I’m dying to read it!’ she continues swiftly. ‘I thought if you emailed me the first few hundred pages, or whatever, I could read it tonight on the flight back to New York.’

Diana works for a literary agency based here in London, which also has offices in New York, and she’s always back and forth. Which
sounds
exciting, but in actual fact it just means eating a lot of bad airline food and being constantly jetlagged.

‘Well, that’s the thing . . .’ I swallow hard. Fuck. I’m going to have to confess. ‘There aren’t any pages,’ I blurt.

For a moment, there’s a pause, then . . .

‘
None?
’ Even unflappable Diana, who will fight a publisher to the death for me and is never fazed by anything, looks slightly alarmed.

‘Not yet, no,’ I add hastily. ‘But it’s just a bit of writer’s block. I’ll be fine,’ I say reassuringly, though I’m not sure if it’s her or me I’m trying to reassure.

‘Of course you will,’ she agrees confidently, swiftly remembering her role is to support and encourage. ‘What you need is some inspiration and I have just the thing. There’s this guy—’

‘No,’ I shake my head, cutting her off.

‘What do you mean, no? You don’t even know what I was going to say.’

I throw her a look. ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’

‘What?’ She stares at me all wide-eyed and innocent. ‘I’m your agent, I can’t believe you don’t trust me.’

I feel a stab of guilt. ‘I’m sorry,’ I apologise quickly, feeling bad for misjudging her. ‘I thought for a moment you were trying to set me up on another date, that’s all.’

Her face colours. ‘Well, I wouldn’t call it a date
exactly
.’

Wait a minute . . .

‘Why, what would you call it?’ I ask suspiciously.

‘A favour. He’s a friend of a friend and he’s going to be coming through London at the end of next month and doesn’t know anyone,’ she says briskly, before I can get a word in. ‘And I said you’d meet him for coffee. That’s all,’ she adds, smiling brightly.

‘Well, now you’re going to have to tell him I can’t,’ I reply firmly.

She frowns. ‘C’mon Ruby, it’s only a coffee.’

‘That’s how I met Sam. In the queue at Starbucks, remember? One minute he was buying me a cappuccino and asking me out on a date; eighteen months later he was cheating on me and I was calling off our wedding.’

‘I know, and it sucks, but that was over a year ago—’

‘And it still feels like yesterday,’ I reply quietly.

Reaching across the table, she gives my hand a sympathetic squeeze. ‘I know, sweetie,’ she says, softening, ‘but you can’t give up on love.’

‘Why not?’ I say impulsively.

‘Because you’ll end up on the shelf like one of your books,’ she quips, trying to make me laugh, but it just makes me more resolute.

‘Fine. I don’t care,’ I shrug, leaning back into my chair. ‘Maybe it’s better that way.’

Diana looks at me, shocked.

‘Well, why not?’ I demand again and, as the thought strikes me, it suddenly catches like an ember from a flame, and takes hold. ‘I’ve always been such a hopeless romantic, I’ve always dreamed of love and marriage and happy-ever-afters . . . and yes, I know it’s not always easy,’ I add quickly, before she can. ‘But I’ve always had hope – it’s like the Beatles said, “All You Need Is Love” . . .’ I break off and stare down at the table, twisting up my paper napkin as my mind races. I can feel the emotions rising inside me, all the hurt and disappointment and heartbreak. ‘But you know what? Not anymore, the Beatles got it wrong, it’s all bollocks—’

‘But you can’t say that!’ protests Diana.

‘Yes I can,’ I fire back.

It’s like a revelation. It’s as if everything I’ve held onto my whole life is crumbling away around me and I’ve suddenly seen the reality. ‘And it’s not just about what happened to me, look at all my friends!’ I cry, my emotions spilling out of me. ‘They’ve all been disappointed in love. Look at Harriet – she just found out the guy she was dating was still married! And then there’s Milly: her boyfriend’s a commitment-phobe and after seven years he still won’t propose. And what about Rachel? She’s been single forever, because every date she goes on ends in disaster—’

‘And that’s exactly why you can’t write,’ interrupts Diana simply.

I break off and look at her.

‘It’s not because you have writer’s block, it’s because you don’t think any of it is true any more. You’ve lost your faith in love, Ruby,’ she says, and gives me a long look. ‘You just don’t believe in love any more.’

I fall silent, her words sinking in, only this time I don’t try to argue.

Finally I’ve admitted it to myself. For so many months I’ve been trying to ignore a fear deep inside of me, to hold onto that person who, despite everything, believes in love. Real, true love. Move-heaven-and-earth, can’t-live-without-you love. The kind of love that makes people do incredible, ridiculous, wonderful things. And, despite everything that’s happened, despite her being bashed and bruised and badly shaken, I don’t want to let that person go.

But she’s already gone, I suddenly realise.

‘You’re right,’ I say quietly. ‘I don’t think I do believe in love any more.’

We’re interrupted by the arrival of my gnocchi and Diana’s spaghetti marinara; Diana’s distracted as the waitress fusses around her, laying down a plate for the shells and a finger bowl with a slice of lemon. The waitress leaves the table, and we both fall silent as we make a start on our food.

After a few moments, Diana breaks off between mouthfuls. ‘What you need is a vacation,’ she says decisively. ‘Why don’t you take some time out? Shut the laptop, turn off your phone, go relax on a beach somewhere.’

‘A beach? I can’t go and sit on a beach.’ I make a moan of protest, but she railroads my objections.

‘It’ll do you the world of good. Seriously, when was the last time you had a break?’ She looks at me pointedly.

‘The year before last. Sam and I went on a cycling holiday around Norway. You know how he loved activity holidays.’

‘That’s not a vacation. A vacation is lying on a beach in a bikini, not wearing a fleece and a backpack.’

I smile, despite myself. ‘I know, but I can’t, I have so much to do here—’

‘Trust me, I’m your agent, I know what’s best for you.
See
. . .’ With her fork she gestures towards the window. I glance over and see the little old lady from the bookshop. Sitting at a table, she’s sipping a cappuccino, deeply engrossed in a novel. Only it’s not Dostoevsky’s, it’s mine.

I turn back to Diana, who raises her eyebrows. ‘Now will you do what you’re told?’ She waggles her fork scarily at me. ‘A vacation will do you the world of good.
Go!
’

Chapter 3

It’s already dusk by the time I arrive back at the flat. It’s still raining heavily and I’m just putting my key in my front door when I hear a loud thudding coming down the steps behind me. My heart jumps into my throat and I twirl around, terrified.

‘Who’s there?’ I demand, in my deepest, gruffest voice.

I see a dark shape. Hear a rustle in the bushes. Oh my god! Just when I think things can’t get any worse, I’m going to be mugged! And on my own doorstep!

Gripped with panic and fear I try to scramble my brain into action, I need to act fast, surprise my assailant, attack before I’m attacked—

‘Ruby, is that you dear?’

Suddenly I hear a quavering voice.

‘Mrs Flannegan!’ I gasp, my voice coming out in a rush of relief. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m sorry, did I scare you there for a moment?’ The security light flashes on, and across the hedge her face abruptly comes into view underneath her plastic rain hood.

‘No, not at all, don’t be silly,’ I fib, feeling silly myself that I could have been scared by my tiny, silver-haired neighbour. Mrs Flannegan’s nearly eighty, a widow and a heavy smoker, and has lived in the flat next door for fifty-eight years. I often chat to her over the garden wall, as she likes to go outside for a cigarette. She has to use a walking stick now, as she’s unsteady on her feet, but three times a day she stands by her back door, blowing out clouds of smoke, like she must have done for over half a century.

‘I was just coming back from the shop, I had to get a few things.’

‘Here, let me help,’ I offer, rushing across to her and grabbing the shopping trolley, which she’s attempting to drag down the steps behind her.

‘Oh, you are so very kind dear,’ she smiles. ‘I was rather wondering if a big strong man might come to my rescue, but you’ll do . . .’ She lets out a chuckle, which turns into a rattling cough.

‘You should stop smoking,’ I chide, hitching the trolley over the crook of my arm so I can help her down the rest of the steps, which are all slippery in the rain.

‘Then I’d have no vices left,’ she grumbles.

I scoop her key from underneath the geranium pot on her windowsill – despite my constant nagging that’s it’s less a ‘hiding’ place and more a ‘come and burgle me’ place, she refuses to move it – then unlock her front door and help her inside. We’re greeted by her tabby cat, which immediately begins rubbing herself on Mrs Flannegan’s stockinged ankles.

‘What’s yours?’

‘My what?’ Turning on the hallway light, I walk through into the kitchen and start putting away her groceries: teabags in the cupboard on the left, fruit scones in the bread bin, milk in the fridge . . . I’ve done this so many times, I know where everything goes, including her tins of treacle pudding which, for some bizarre reason that she’s never explained, she keeps next to the shoe polish. I’m always worried she’ll get mixed up one day and end up eating black gloss polish and custard.

‘Your vice,’ she says, as if it’s obvious. Having changed into her tartan slippers, she shuffles behind me into the kitchen and flicks on the kettle.

‘Oh, I don’t have one,’ I laugh, reaching for the teapot. Mrs Flannegan likes her tea brewed properly: ‘None of that horrid bags-in-cups business.’