Page 82 of You Were Always the One

Sitting there, I realise that somehow, my protagonist is more than based on me. He has actually become me. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad. But then I decide to hell with not being autobiographical. Christie doesn’t know enough about me to be able to tell.

And so it is that far from writing the story of Holly and me, it becomes my story, warts and all, told like it is, by someone who, however hard they try, has yet to get to grips with the way the world works.

From there, it’s easy. And of course, there’s a fair amount of rewriting to be done – but the word count rapidly ascends as I finish the next draft. Of course, I’ve no idea if it’s any good and four weeks later, when I send it to Christie, I’m engulfed with fear. What if she doesn’t like it? Of course she will, I tell myself.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ It’s the first thing Christie says. ‘This Monty… He’s you, isn’t he?’

‘Not exactly,’ I say weakly.

‘Whatever,’ she says. ‘I don’t suppose anyone will realise. I mean, he really is a bit of a disaster, isn’t he?’ She pauses. ‘Don’t tell me your life is really like that?’

‘It’s exaggerated for dramatic effect,’ I lie, because I don’t want it getting around how hapless I am. ‘Do you like it? That’s the main thing.’

‘I do,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘It’s very readable. And entertaining. I didn’t have you down as a comedic writer, I have to say.’

That’s because I never intended to be one, I don’t say. ‘But it works?’ I ask cautiously.

‘I think so. I want to take another look.’ She pauses. ‘Remarkable,’ she adds, slightly distracted.

‘What is?’ I ask.

‘I never thought you’d do it. Finish it on time, I mean. Let alone early.’

‘I like to keep my word,’ I say, assuming a confidence I don’t feel.

After the call, I decide to celebrate that, somehow, I’ve managed to pull this off. But that’s in no small part down to Sophie, I remember. Picking up my phone again, I call her.

‘Can I take you out to dinner?’ I say.

‘What are we celebrating?’ she says suspiciously.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ I say.

We go to a bar in a nearby village. Nothing fancy. There isn’t anywhere fancy at this time of year. But the food is very good.

‘I finished my book,’ I tell Sophie as I pour her a glass of perfectly chilled crémant.

‘Congratulations,’ she says. ‘I am happy for you.’

‘And I am grateful to you,’ I say gently, raising my glass. ‘It was your pep talk that did it. I have become an alcoholic, write-all-night author, thanks to you.’

‘You make that sound like it is good,’ she says bluntly. Then she looks at me uncertainly. ‘Does that mean you’re going home now that your book is finished?’

‘I haven’t thought,’ I say more seriously. But having already extended my stay by a month, there’s no reason I can’t stay a little longer. ‘If I want to stay, is the house available?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes are shining. ‘Winter isn’t so good, but spring is beautiful here, Riggs. You will like it. You could write another book!’

‘I’ve only just finished the last one,’ I say, slightly alarmed at the thought of starting the next.

She looks at me teasingly. ‘And I thought you said it was easy.’

As the evening goes on, I get the feeling Sophie’s flirting with me. My hunch turns to certainty as we walk back to my car, where she turns and kisses me. We’re not talking a friendly kiss French-style on the cheek. I mean, full on kissing. On the lips.

‘Wow,’ I say when finally she stops. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘If you are staying…’ She looks at me coyly. ‘I am thinking that maybe we could be more than friends. Only while you are here, obviously. I know you will leave at some point.’

I gaze at her, unable to believe my luck. But then Holly comes into my head. ‘I am a disaster,’ I say. ‘I am hopeless at making decisions. I frustrated the hell out of my ex-wife.’ Not to mention Holly. ‘And earlier this year, I met someone. An old friend.’