“So, at the guide dog centre, they’re showing us around,” MediaChap says. “They bring one of the studs out to meet us. And he’s a gorgeous big yellow Labrador but he’s in a bad mood: usually when he comes out of his room it’s to mate, and now he’s got to meet a whole lot of journalists. And he’s barking and he’s got a great life there but really he can only think about one thing and…stop distracting me with your legs. Am I talking too much?”
“No, not at all,” I say, sipping my gin and slimline tonic. “It’s interesting.”
We’re sitting on a sofa by the fireplace in a pub which is quite an institution round here. In the late 90s a lot of celebrities frequented it. The fire isn’t on and it’s a pleasant temperature: for once I’m not too hot. Nineties hits play in the background: Blur, Pulp, the Stone Roses.
“It’s great to meet you at last,” MediaChap says, putting his arm round me. His West Country accent is faint but detectable. He’s lovely, I think. Am glad we seem to like each other. It’s seems such a relief, after all the messaging that here we are, on a date, getting on well.
“You too,” I say, nestling into his hug. He’s wearing a blue-green cashmere sweater which matches his eyes and feels very soft. His hair is shoulder length, a bit long for a thirty eight year old but he carries it off. It gives him the air of a dishevelled poet, with his long coat, battered satchel and naughty grin.
Conversation flows. We talk about his childhood in Devon, Agatha Christie, his gap year adventure on a kibbutz. We talk about writing. The time flies.
He says he wants to see me again next week. Let’s hope he means it!
sounds really good, will keep fingers crossed for you, xx
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