me.â
âAnd you came.â
âBecause I needed to see you.â
âThe woman behind me. With the MacBook Air,â he said, leaning forward. âIf she comes over, tell her that weâre old friends who havenât seen each other in a long time andââ
âWell, thatâs actually true,â I pointed out.
âSheâs probably writing a book,â he said. âSheâll ask me to read it. Thereâs no way that I will but I donât want to disappoint her.â
âI donât think sheâs even aware of us,â I said.
âPerhaps sheâs shy.â He turned and looked at her, flashing a set of very white teeth. âI donât bite,â he shouted, causing every head in the place to turn in his direction. âMy prose does, yes. But I do not.â
He turned back to me with a shrug, as if to say that it was no easy thing being as brilliant as him.
âDid you read my novel?â he asked me.
âI did,â I said.
âAnd what did you think of it?â
âI thought the reviews were a little cruel, to be honest. I didnât think it was as bad as they made out.â
His face darkened a little and he took a long drink from his pint. âI never read reviews,â he said.
âThen why do all the good ones show up on your Facebook page?â
âI couldnât tell you,â he said. âSomeone is probably hacking my account.â
âDoes it hurt?â I asked.
âDoes what hurt? Being hacked? I imagine my phone is being hacked, you know. Bloody tabloids. They hate all of usâ â he made inverted comma symbols in the air â ââcelebritiesâ.â
âBad reviews,â I said. âDo you find them depressing?â
âItâs better than getting no reviews, I suppose.â
I felt a stab of pain in my chest; that was unkind of him.
âMost reviews are written out of professional jealousy,â he continued, apparently oblivious to my discomfort. âThe so-called journalists who write them know that Iâm the best thing in this town and they hate me for it. The only reviews I read are the ones published in the French papers. They value literature in France. Not like here. But look, darling Mulligan, it is good to see you again after all these years. Weâve gotten older, havenât we? Youâve changed so much. I donât think I would have known you if youâd walked past me on the street. You used to have such a boyish complexion.â
âWhen I was a boy, I suppose,â I agreed. âAnd Iâm glad youâve decided to accept what happened with your hair. The shaved look suits you. Iâd shave this mop off if I could. It takes so much upkeep.â
âBut it helps to cover up the wrinkles on your forehead,â he said. âAnd your acne cleared up too, I see. God, you were just plagued by that as a teenager, werenât you? Remember how you could never get a girlfriend?â
I nodded â this was a painful memory â and glanced at my watch.
âDo you have someplace to be?â he asked.
âNo, I was just checking the time.â
âWhat time is it? I never wear a watch. I canât bear to feel trapped by an artificial conceit.â
âIâm not sure time is an artificial conceit,â I said. âThe sun goes round the earth, the day grows steadily brighter, then darker. Itâs not complicated. And itâs almost nine oâclock.â
âThe sun doesnât go round the earth, darling,â he said. âStrike that, reverse it, as Mr Wonka said. But Iâm sure you just misspoke. Anyway, look, I havenât said how sorry I was to hear of your motherâs death.â He reached across and took both my hands in his. For a moment I thought he was going to kiss them. âIâm so very, very sorry,â he said, looking me directly in the eyes.
âThank
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