The Holiday Buddies (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter 16

Joe

God, I'm shitting a brick here. I have no idea what she's going to ask and that terrifies me. But if I want anything to happen here, I'm going to have to go along with this.

And I do want something to happen.

"Okay, first up: what's your surname?" She asks.

That's easy; I can do this one. I don't think she'll recognise me immediately from that. "Quinn."

She nods. "Cool. Mine is Norton." She makes a self-mocking face. "Maybe I'm a bit old fashioned but usually I like to know a guy's full name before I even consider heading off in cars with them. I really should have checked that sooner in case you were a serial killer or something."

"Fair enough."

"What do you do for a living?" is her next question.

Once again, easy enough to answer but it could raise her suspicions. "I'm a freelance journalist." I want to gloss over this one though. I add hurriedly. "You?"

She waves a hand dismissively. "I work in HR. Pretty dull. I'm definitely work to live, I don't live to work." Her eyes light up suddenly, as if something has struck her. I'll welcome anything that changes the subject. "Have you looked up your birthday number one yet?"

I nod. "It's 'Respectable' by Mel and Kim," I tell her reluctantly.

She, of course, immediately starts singing the chorus - "we are never going to be respectable" - while I cringe again at the song choice that according to Sienna Norton, self-proclaimed birthday number one specialist, could say a lot about me.

She of course doesn't realise the irony of it, given she knows fuck all about my past. She's now looking thoughtful, I guess doing calculations in her head. "'87, right?"

I grin. "I'm not that old," I joke.

"Nineteen eighty seven." She narrows her eyes at me. "Yes?"

"You got me," I reply, holding up my hands.

"We're the same age then, give or take," she smiles. "I'm 34, I think you'll already be 35?"

"You're good," I admit.

"Yep, when I actually get it right I'm quite impressed with myself," she laughs. She pushes her chair back. "And now I've impressed you, I need to pop to the loo." She winks at me and wanders off in search of the bathroom.

The couple at the next table are getting ready to make a move. The guy hesitates as he passes the table and then stops completely.

"Sorry, man, this is so not cool of me, but I just wanted to say I'm a massive fan," he says. "Your book has always been one of my favourites."

I look blankly at him. It's been a long time since I've been recognised. But he seems convinced he knows who I am.

I give in. "Thanks, that means a lot," I say. And it does.

So here's my big secret. Well, a part of it . . .

Once upon a time, so long ago now that it feels like it must have been another lifetime, I wrote a book. Which got published. And sold a lot of copies.

At the tender age of 21, I was a bestselling author. And I also found myself with the 15 minutes of fame that went along with it. In fact, I probably got way more than 15 minutes and I don't think I deserved that at all.

Don't get me wrong, it's always nice hearing praise for the book. It was something I put a lot of work into, something I channelled my loneliness into when I felt like I had nothing else. It's just the other stuff, that ended up going hand-in-hand with it all, that I wish I could forget.