Not Quite Perfect. Annie Lyons

Hundred Years of Solitude,’ says Emma without hesitation.

      Richard looks pleased. ‘Mine too.’

      ‘You’re kidding me.’

      ‘Why would I do that? It’s not as if I’m trying to get you into bed. You’re attached and I respect that.’

      ‘Again, very reassuring,’ grins Emma.

      Richard gives a little bow. ‘Favourite film?’

      ‘Il Postino. Yours?’

      ‘Cinema Paradiso.’

      ‘That’s definitely in my top five.’ They continue to talk and Emma is amazed at how quickly the evening passes and that she has managed to put away three glasses of wine before she notices the time. Her stomach is growling from emptiness and she is feeling decidedly woozy. ‘I really should be getting home. I was only going to stay for one,’ she says, fumbling for her handbag.

      Richard sits back in his chair. ‘I’ve had a great evening, Emma Darcy, and the best is yet to come. Do you want to know the real reason I asked you here tonight?’

      ‘Surprise me.’

      ‘Well, despite our faltering beginning, I think you understand my novel and you get what I’m trying to say. So, for that reason and the fact that you’ve got really nice legs, I want you to be my editor.’

      Emma is blown away and slightly flattered by the leg comment. ‘What about Joanna?’

      ‘Oh she’ll come round. She’ll still get her fifteen per cent and she needs to keep England’s most promising new novelist happy doesn’t she? So, what do you say?’

      Emma hesitates. Something deep inside her brain is trying to warn her off this one, but the wine and the fact that she has decided she quite likes this man makes her say, ‘I’d love to.’

      ‘That’s wonderful. I’m so happy,’ says Richard grinning. ‘Let’s have champagne to celebrate and if you insist on paying, I’ll accept. That was a joke by the way.’ He reaches for her hand, kissing it in a mock gentlemanly way, looking up at her as he does. Emma’s mouth goes dry. ‘The deal is sealed,’ he says.

      Rachel plods down the stairs glancing at the wonky display of what Steve calls their ‘Rogues’ Gallery’ of family photographs. She looks at the pre-children photo of Steve and her at a friend’s wedding and notices, not only that she was half a stone lighter and Steve’s hair was several tones less grey, but that they look happy. It’s not the happiness of stories or romantic endings but the happiness of possibilities, of what might be; that pre-marriage, pre-children happiness, when you still think you might write that novel or open your own business. It’s not that she feels bitter that she hasn’t achieved these things, she’s just resigned to the fact that she probably never will.

      Tom appears at the foot of the stairs wearing a pair of pink marigolds and clutching a tea towel. ‘All sorted?’

      ‘Yes, thanks. Have you done the washing up? You really didn’t have to.’

      ‘It was my pleasure. Along with my sad devotion to hostas, I also take a tragic delight in cleaning baked bean encrusted pans.’

      ‘Goodness, I married the wrong man,’ declares Rachel and then wishes she hadn’t.

      ‘Well, I should let you put your feet up.’

      ‘You don’t have to go. Steve probably won’t get home until midnight and if you go I’ll only watch some reality floozie’s TV show. If you want to be a friend to me it’s your absolute duty to stay and save me from such purgatory.’ Rachel fears she is sounding a bit needy.

      ‘Very well, you can save me from another night watching eighties sitcom repeats and I will save you from ITV4,’ says Tom immediately.

      ‘Deal. I’ll get the wine, you put on some music. Fancy a game of DJs?’

      Tom looks bemused.

      ‘It’s a game Steve and I play. Each person selects a song of choice and the other person judges. Anything too pretentious or cheesy and you face a penalty, usually of a drinking nature.’

      ‘OK, but I warn you, despite my cuddly bear exterior, I am a bastard when it comes to competition and I rarely play fair.’

      ‘Hurrah, that’s fighting talk!’

      When Rachel returns with the drinks, Tom has selected ‘Major Tom’ by David Bowie and is smiling and singing along.

      ‘Excellent choice but careful with the karaoke, sunshine, or you’ll be knocking this back’.

      Tom laughs. ‘My dad used to sing this to me. He loved music but was completely tone deaf. It’s where I inherited my talent.’

      Rachel laughs and is strangely touched by this shared confidence. ‘Do your parents live nearby?’

      ‘They’re both dead, I’m afraid, and in answer to your question, we grew up in Norfolk.’

      ‘Sorry to hear that’

      ‘Ah Norfolk isn’t so bad’

      ‘No, I meant –’

      ‘Rachel? That was a joke. It’s OK. It’s few years back now and they were older than your average parents. Dad got cancer and died within a few months and Mum couldn’t really survive without him. She had a heart attack about six months later. My older sister, Viv, and I always say she died of a broken heart.’

      ‘Oh Tom, that’s so sad.’

      ‘Yes it is, but they had each other for nearly fifty years and surely it’s better to have that kind of connection with another person?’

      ‘Better to have lived and loved? I’ve always thought so.’

      ‘Come on then, your turn. Bowie’s nearly finished. Surely you need to have a tune on or penalties will have to be faced?’

      ‘I see the man play to win, no? Right, try this one, mate.’ The opening tones of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Lately’ fill the room.

      ‘Nice move. Although of course, if you had chosen ‘I Just Called’ you would have been downing that bottle.’

      ‘True, but even geniuses have their off days.’

      ‘Indeed we do. So how are you then, Mrs Summers?’

      Tom is looking earnest now and Rachel isn’t sure if she wants to take the conversation down this route. She’s enjoying a bit of flirtatious banter and doesn’t want to spoil it. She sighs and looks slightly vague. ‘Oh, you know.’

      ‘Ah, you don’t want to talk about it.’

      ‘No, it’s not that, it’s just that I really need to talk to Steve and haven’t had the chance.’

      ‘Hmm, sounds serious.’

      ‘Well, not as serious as Third World poverty, but important in our lives.’

      ‘Sorry, Rachel, I didn’t mean to pry.’ Tom looks slightly embarrassed and Rachel feels guilty.

      ‘It’s OK, really it is. Oh shit I’m making this into more than it is. Right, well Steve can’t be bothered to come home and talk to me properly, so you are officially my designated male for the evening.’ Rachel thinks Tom might be blushing, but she’s had too much wine to stop now. ‘Steve wants us to move to Edinburgh.’

      ‘Right,’ says Tom as if he’s waiting for the punchline.

      ‘That’s it.’

      ‘Right,’ repeats Tom, ‘and that’s bad because –’

      ‘Because it’s so far away from everything we have here; from my family, my friends. I mean, surely you’d miss me!’

      ‘Of