The Love Detective

by Alexandra Potter

  Snatching up a pen I scrawl ‘Buy new kettle’ on one of the bits of paper on the fridge door.

  I’m a big fan of lists. I love that feeling when you get to cross something off. It makes me feel all super-organised. In fact, I have a secret to confess: I sometimes even put things on there I’ve done already, just so I can draw a line through them.

  Like, for example, ‘Lunch with Diana. Friday @ 12.30.’

  See, I can just take my pen and cross it straight off.

  Wait a minute . . . I pause. Working from home makes every day roll into the next and I quickly scroll through the calendar in my head. Oh crap, Friday’s today! I glance across at the clock on the microwave. And is that the time already?

  Double crap.

  Abandoning the half-made coffee, I dash back into my bedroom, throw on some clothes and attempt to drag a brush through my hair, before giving up, sticking on a woolly hat and grabbing my coat.

  Heathcliff starts yapping; he hates it when I go out and leave him. ‘Heathcliff look! There’s the pussycat!’ I fib, to create a distraction. As he races over to the French windows, I race out of the front door.

  Honestly. Lying to my own dog. What next?

  And, taking the steps two at a time, I reach the street and begin hurrying towards the Tube.

  Chapter 2

  Outside it’s a typical January day in London. Cold, grey and damp, the city feels grumpy and lethargic. Even the weather can’t be bothered to make the effort to pour with rain, and instead is just lazily drizzling. But I don’t have time to go back and hunt for an umbrella and, even if I did, it would probably only blow inside out. I grimace, pulling up my collar and dipping my head into the wind.

  I take the Tube to Baker Street, then walk to Marylebone High Street. Diana’s my agent and we’ve arranged to meet at a little Italian café on the corner. Before I was a writer, I thought lunch with an agent would be terribly glamorous, all fancy restaurants and big business deals, but in reality we meet in cafés and spend the whole time gossiping about men over the house white.

  Only, in all the rush I’m actually a few minutes early, and Diana hasn’t arrived yet, I realise, glancing in the window. In which case I’ll just pop next door and buy my parents a card – it’s their wedding anniversary in a few weeks.

  Next door is my favourite bookshop in all of London. In all the world, probably. Feeling a rush of pleasure I push open the door and walk inside. An original Edwardian bookshop, with beautiful floor-to-ceiling oak shelves, a creaky wooden staircase, and books organised into their different countries, it’s more than just a bookshop, it’s like taking a trip around the world.

  Heading past Malaysia and Africa, I reach the rack of cards and, twirling it around, find the perfect one for Mum and Dad. Pleased, I make my way towards the till.

  Then pause.

  Hang on . . .

  In the shadowy depths of the bookshop, a statuesque grey-haired woman, wearing a Columbo-style mackintosh raincoat with the collar turned up and oversized sunglasses, is acting very suspiciously over by Great Britain. Grabbing several books from a shelf, she’s nervously chewing gum and looking from side to side to make sure no one is looking.

  That’s Diana, although she hasn’t noticed me. What on earth is she doing?

  I’m about to call out her name when suddenly, in a swift and seamless move, she swipes the books quickly up inside her coat.

  Oh my god. She’s shoplifting!

  I watch in horror as she starts heading towards the exit, head down, avoiding the eye of all the sales assistants. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. For a moment I’m frozen to the spot in disbelief, then abruptly I come to. I can’t just stand here; I need to take action. I have to stop her before she gets caught. Diana isn’t just my agent, she’s also a dear friend.

  I suddenly see the news headline flashing before my eyes:

  SUCCESSFUL LITERARY AGENT ARRESTED FOR

  SHOPLIFTING IN A LONDON BOOKSHOP.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ wept disgraced agent Diana Diamond as she was led away in handcuffs. ‘My reputation and career are now ruined!’

  Prompted to act, I charge towards her like a rugby player. She might be six foot tall, but I’m prepared to tackle her to the ground if need be.

  ‘Diana!’ I say her name out loud, blocking her path.

  She looks up in surprise and, seeing me, creases her face into a huge smile. ‘Hey sweetie!’ she cries in her strong New York accent. ‘You’re looking great as always!’

  ‘So are you,’ I smile, trying to avert my eyes from the large bulge under her mac. I don’t know what to say. It’s like the time a girl at school had terrible halitosis and no one knew how to tell her. In the end I bought her a packet of Polos and hoped she’d take the hint.

  But this is going to take a lot more than a breath mint.

  ‘I just thought I’d pop in, check out the competition,’ she laughs. ‘It’s a habit.’

  Maybe she’s a kleptomaniac. Maybe she can’t help it. Maybe it’s a bona-fide medical condition she’s never told me about.

  ‘But hey, listen, let’s go next door and get some lunch and catch up.’

  Shit. I have to stop her. But how?

  She goes to step forward and there’s nothing else for it: I block her.

  ‘Oops,’ she laughs as we almost bump into each other, and steps to one side. I do the same. She laughs again and steps back. I mirror her move. Back and forth we go like we’re doing some kind of dance, until finally she gasps with impatience. ‘Ruby, is everything OK?’ she asks, pushing her sunglasses onto her head and peering at me intently. ‘You’re acting really weirdly.’

  ‘I’m acting weirdly?’ I reply indignantly, before remembering myself and hastily lowering my voice. ‘You have books underneath your coat,’ I hiss.

  ‘I know,’ she replies evenly.

  I feel a beat of shock. Gosh, she’s so brazen about it.

  ‘They’re your books,’ she adds, and gives me a quick flash. I see a whole pile of my latest novel hidden in the lining of her coat.

  I gape at her in total confusion. ‘But why would you steal my books?’ I whisper.

  Throwing back her head she erupts with throaty laughter. ‘I’m not stealing them silly!’ and sweeping past me she moves over to the ‘Weekly Promotions’ table and starts moving books around.

  ‘So what are you doing?’ I hiss, rushing over.

  ‘Well, no one’s going to notice you if you’re sitting on a shelf, now are they?’ she intones, roughly shoving several bestselling celebrity tell-alls to one side and plonking my books on top. Spreading them around so there’s a whole display, she picks one up and starts waving it around.

  ‘Come and buy this book by Ruby Miller,’ she says loudly to an elderly woman in tweed who’s browsing the Russian classics section. The old lady looks up from her copy of Dostoevsky and peers at us through her spectacles.

  ‘It’s fabulous, lots of sex,’ adds Diana with a wink.

  Oh my god.

  ‘I’m so sorry, please ignore my friend,’ I fluster apologetically, my cheeks blushing bright red. ‘She’s American,’ and, grabbing Diana by the elbow, I start steering her towards the exit.

  ‘What’s wrong with lots of sex?’ she protests.

  Is it just me or is her voice getting even louder? Several other customers are turning around to stare now and it’s all I can do to get her through the doorway.

  ‘I write romance, not porn!’ I gasp, once we’re outside.

  ‘So what?’ she shrugs. ‘Sex sells.’

  I shoot her a look. After the furore surrounding Fifty Shades of Grey, she’s been nagging me to try my hand at erotic fiction, but I can’t. Not in a million years. I once tried talking dirty with a boyfriend – it was his idea not mine – and it was so embarrassing. Plus I was useless at it. I’m not a prude, I’m not still calling it ‘my front bottom’ like my friend Harriet, but I can’t even say the you-know-what word, let alone write it
down. Imagine my mum and dad reading it?

  I feel a flush of embarrassment. Oh god, no. On second thoughts, best not.

  Dashing out of the rain, which has now obviously decided it should put a bit more effort in and is coming down in stair-rods, we step next door and are seated by the waitress who swiftly takes our order.

  ‘So, how’s the new book going?’ asks Diana, getting down to business.

  I feel a beat of anxiety as my mind flashes back to earlier, sitting at my computer, staring at the blank screen. ‘Slowly,’ I say vaguely.

  ‘How much have you written so far?’

  ‘Um, you mean specifically?’ I try stalling.

  ‘Because I’m dying to read it!’ she continues swiftly. ‘I thought if you emailed me the first few hundred pages, or whatever, I could read it tonight on the flight back to New York.’

  Diana works for a literary agency based here in London, which also has offices in New York, and she’s always back and forth. Which sounds exciting, but in actual fact it just means eating a lot of bad airline food and being constantly jetlagged.

  ‘Well, that’s the thing . . .’ I swallow hard. Fuck. I’m going to have to confess. ‘There aren’t any pages,’ I blurt.

  For a moment, there’s a pause, then . . .

  ‘None?’ Even unflappable Diana, who will fight a publisher to the death for me and is never fazed by anything, looks slightly alarmed.

  ‘Not yet, no,’ I add hastily. ‘But it’s just a bit of writer’s block. I’ll be fine,’ I say reassuringly, though I’m not sure if it’s her or me I’m trying to reassure.

  ‘Of course you will,’ she agrees confidently, swiftly remembering her role is to support and encourage. ‘What you need is some inspiration and I have just the thing. There’s this guy—’

  ‘No,’ I shake my head, cutting her off.

  ‘What do you mean, no? You don’t even know what I was going to say.’

  I throw her a look. ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’

  ‘What?’ She stares at me all wide-eyed and innocent. ‘I’m your agent, I can’t believe you don’t trust me.’

  I feel a stab of guilt. ‘I’m sorry,’ I apologise quickly, feeling bad for misjudging her. ‘I thought for a moment you were trying to set me up on another date, that’s all.’

  Her face colours. ‘Well, I wouldn’t call it a date exactly.’

  Wait a minute . . .

  ‘Why, what would you call it?’ I ask suspiciously.

  ‘A favour. He’s a friend of a friend and he’s going to be coming through London at the end of next month and doesn’t know anyone,’ she says briskly, before I can get a word in. ‘And I said you’d meet him for coffee. That’s all,’ she adds, smiling brightly.

  ‘Well, now you’re going to have to tell him I can’t,’ I reply firmly.

  She frowns. ‘C’mon Ruby, it’s only a coffee.’

  ‘That’s how I met Sam. In the queue at Starbucks, remember? One minute he was buying me a cappuccino and asking me out on a date; eighteen months later he was cheating on me and I was calling off our wedding.’

  ‘I know, and it sucks, but that was over a year ago—’

  ‘And it still feels like yesterday,’ I reply quietly.

  Reaching across the table, she gives my hand a sympathetic squeeze. ‘I know, sweetie,’ she says, softening, ‘but you can’t give up on love.’

  ‘Why not?’ I say impulsively.

  ‘Because you’ll end up on the shelf like one of your books,’ she quips, trying to make me laugh, but it just makes me more resolute.

  ‘Fine. I don’t care,’ I shrug, leaning back into my chair. ‘Maybe it’s better that way.’

  Diana looks at me, shocked.

  ‘Well, why not?’ I demand again and, as the thought strikes me, it suddenly catches like an ember from a flame, and takes hold. ‘I’ve always been such a hopeless romantic, I’ve always dreamed of love and marriage and happy-ever-afters . . . and yes, I know it’s not always easy,’ I add quickly, before she can. ‘But I’ve always had hope – it’s like the Beatles said, “All You Need Is Love” . . .’ I break off and stare down at the table, twisting up my paper napkin as my mind races. I can feel the emotions rising inside me, all the hurt and disappointment and heartbreak. ‘But you know what? Not anymore, the Beatles got it wrong, it’s all bollocks—’

  ‘But you can’t say that!’ protests Diana.

  ‘Yes I can,’ I fire back.

  It’s like a revelation. It’s as if everything I’ve held onto my whole life is crumbling away around me and I’ve suddenly seen the reality. ‘And it’s not just about what happened to me, look at all my friends!’ I cry, my emotions spilling out of me. ‘They’ve all been disappointed in love. Look at Harriet – she just found out the guy she was dating was still married! And then there’s Milly: her boyfriend’s a commitment-phobe and after seven years he still won’t propose. And what about Rachel? She’s been single forever, because every date she goes on ends in disaster—’

  ‘And that’s exactly why you can’t write,’ interrupts Diana simply.

  I break off and look at her.

  ‘It’s not because you have writer’s block, it’s because you don’t think any of it is true any more. You’ve lost your faith in love, Ruby,’ she says, and gives me a long look. ‘You just don’t believe in love any more.’

  I fall silent, her words sinking in, only this time I don’t try to argue.

  Finally I’ve admitted it to myself. For so many months I’ve been trying to ignore a fear deep inside of me, to hold onto that person who, despite everything, believes in love. Real, true love. Move-heaven-and-earth, can’t-live-without-you love. The kind of love that makes people do incredible, ridiculous, wonderful things. And, despite everything that’s happened, despite her being bashed and bruised and badly shaken, I don’t want to let that person go.

  But she’s already gone, I suddenly realise.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say quietly. ‘I don’t think I do believe in love any more.’

  We’re interrupted by the arrival of my gnocchi and Diana’s spaghetti marinara; Diana’s distracted as the waitress fusses around her, laying down a plate for the shells and a finger bowl with a slice of lemon. The waitress leaves the table, and we both fall silent as we make a start on our food.

  After a few moments, Diana breaks off between mouthfuls. ‘What you need is a vacation,’ she says decisively. ‘Why don’t you take some time out? Shut the laptop, turn off your phone, go relax on a beach somewhere.’

  ‘A beach? I can’t go and sit on a beach.’ I make a moan of protest, but she railroads my objections.

  ‘It’ll do you the world of good. Seriously, when was the last time you had a break?’ She looks at me pointedly.

  ‘The year before last. Sam and I went on a cycling holiday around Norway. You know how he loved activity holidays.’

  ‘That’s not a vacation. A vacation is lying on a beach in a bikini, not wearing a fleece and a backpack.’

  I smile, despite myself. ‘I know, but I can’t, I have so much to do here—’

  ‘Trust me, I’m your agent, I know what’s best for you. See . . .’ With her fork she gestures towards the window. I glance over and see the little old lady from the bookshop. Sitting at a table, she’s sipping a cappuccino, deeply engrossed in a novel. Only it’s not Dostoevsky’s, it’s mine.

  I turn back to Diana, who raises her eyebrows. ‘Now will you do what you’re told?’ She waggles her fork scarily at me. ‘A vacation will do you the world of good. Go!’

  Chapter 3

  It’s already dusk by the time I arrive back at the flat. It’s still raining heavily and I’m just putting my key in my front door when I hear a loud thudding coming down the steps behind me. My heart jumps into my throat and I twirl around, terrified.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I demand, in my deepest, gruffest voice.

  I see a dark shape. Hear a rustle in the bushes. Oh my god! Just when I think things
can’t get any worse, I’m going to be mugged! And on my own doorstep!

  Gripped with panic and fear I try to scramble my brain into action, I need to act fast, surprise my assailant, attack before I’m attacked—

  ‘Ruby, is that you dear?’

  Suddenly I hear a quavering voice.

  ‘Mrs Flannegan!’ I gasp, my voice coming out in a rush of relief. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry, did I scare you there for a moment?’ The security light flashes on, and across the hedge her face abruptly comes into view underneath her plastic rain hood.

  ‘No, not at all, don’t be silly,’ I fib, feeling silly myself that I could have been scared by my tiny, silver-haired neighbour. Mrs Flannegan’s nearly eighty, a widow and a heavy smoker, and has lived in the flat next door for fifty-eight years. I often chat to her over the garden wall, as she likes to go outside for a cigarette. She has to use a walking stick now, as she’s unsteady on her feet, but three times a day she stands by her back door, blowing out clouds of smoke, like she must have done for over half a century.

  ‘I was just coming back from the shop, I had to get a few things.’

  ‘Here, let me help,’ I offer, rushing across to her and grabbing the shopping trolley, which she’s attempting to drag down the steps behind her.

  ‘Oh, you are so very kind dear,’ she smiles. ‘I was rather wondering if a big strong man might come to my rescue, but you’ll do . . .’ She lets out a chuckle, which turns into a rattling cough.

  ‘You should stop smoking,’ I chide, hitching the trolley over the crook of my arm so I can help her down the rest of the steps, which are all slippery in the rain.

  ‘Then I’d have no vices left,’ she grumbles.

  I scoop her key from underneath the geranium pot on her windowsill – despite my constant nagging that’s it’s less a ‘hiding’ place and more a ‘come and burgle me’ place, she refuses to move it – then unlock her front door and help her inside. We’re greeted by her tabby cat, which immediately begins rubbing herself on Mrs Flannegan’s stockinged ankles.