Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series)

by Nick Spalding

  Also, our editor Imogen is going to be there, and while I have a close enough relationship with Craig that I don't care if he sees me belly dancing on a table, the same cannot be said for Imogen. She's a nice woman, but is strictly all business, all of the time.

  This is exemplified by the fact that when I reach the restaurant, she is already seated and waiting.

  For once I'm actually on time, a fact I would be more proud of, had I been the first to arrive.

  'Evening Imogen,' I say as I sit down in the plush leather booth by one of the arched windows that looks out onto the West London nightlife.

  'Hello Jamie,' she replies with a tight smile. 'Did you get the email about the orphans I mentioned?'

  For a moment I'm completely confused. Is Imogen asking me to contribute to some sort of charity effort? Or does she actually want me to adopt a couple of Sudanese refugees? I know Laura and I are doing alright these days, but I'm not sure Poppy would take well to -

  Then my brain kicks into gear and I realise that Imogen is talking about a typesetting term for books, where the first line of a paragraph begins at the bottom of the page and looks a bit untidy. 'Yeah, yeah I got it. Tell them the changes are all fine with Laura and me.'

  'Excellent,' she beams. You can tell that the world is a happy place for Imogen when people don't put up much of an argument.

  'Have you been here before?' I ask, wanting to steer the conversation away from typesetting issues before my eyes glaze over - as they are wont to do in such circumstances.

  'No. This is a first for me. You?'

  If Imogen knew me well, she wouldn't have to ask that question. The chances of finding Jamie Newman in a restaurant called Maruga - famous for its enormously overpriced steak, aforementioned alcohol selection, and preponderance for attracting upper middle class twats by the thousand - are usually non-existent. This is not a pond I am comfortable swimming in. But Craig's footing the bill tonight, so he gets to decide where we eat, I suppose. When he gets here, I'll have to ask him what Maruga means. I'm fairly sure it's the name of one of my old He-Man action figures, but I can't see them naming a plush London steakhouse after him, no matter how many points of articulation he had.

  Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

  You can always tell when Craig has entered the room, even if you're sat facing the wall with headphones on.

  'I'm sat with them!' he roars at the maître d from the doorway. 'Those two over there!' he adds, pointing right at us. 'The table's booked under the surname Chambers!' You'd be forgiven for thinking that the maître d was either hard of hearing or foreign, given how loudly Craig is talking at him. Neither is the case though. The guy seems to be able to hear perfectly well, and his nametag says Brian.

  Brian knows better than to engage with this Scots madman any longer than is necessary, and allows him past.

  As Craig weaves his way towards Imogen and I, I can't help but notice how he seems drawn to the bar like a small planetoid caught in the gravity well of a passing black hole. People sitting at other tables shrink back a little as Craig passes them. He is six foot two and looks like he can toss three cabers at once. If he hadn't decided on a career in literature, a job as the model for the bloke on the shortcake tins would have been a no-brainer.

  'Evening you two!' he says as he reaches us. Thankfully for our eardrums, he's managed to modulate the volume of his voice a touch. Off comes his black trench coat with a flourish, and before you know it Craig is sat next to me with the drinks menu in hand. 'Have you not ordered any booze yet?'

  'Er, no.' Imogen replies. 'We were waiting for you.'

  Craig waves a hand. 'Ah, you silly buggers. Never wait for a drink, that's what I always say.' He looks across the restaurant to a likely looking waitress. 'Hey love! Can you come over here and get us some drinks?!'

  I cringe in my seat. The last time I tried to order a waitress over like that I ended up with minty discharge and utter humiliation. I simply don't have the build or demeanour to get away with it. Craig, on the other hand, channels a mixture of Sean Connery and Frankie Boyle on a good day, so he most definitely can.

  'What would you both like?' he asks as the slightly stunned waitress makes her way over, in much the same manner as a puppy approaching a fully grown dog.

  'A lime and soda water for me,' Imogen replies, eliciting the merest raise of a Craig Chambers eyebrow.

  'I'll have a Diet Coke,' I say in a rather meek voice.

  'You what?!' Craig responds, eyes narrowing.

  'I mean I'll have a Jack Daniels and Coke,' I say with a squeak.

  'A double?'

  'Yes?'

  'Good man!'

  Look, I know I sound pretty pathetic. You don't have to tell me. This is simply what happens when I’m confronted with males who are considerably more alpha than me. The unintended emasculation would bother me a lot more, were it not for the fact that Craig has secured Laura and I several lucrative publishing contracts, no doubt partly due to his explosive personality. There's every chance he just turns up at the publishers door and shouts at them until they agree to print the bloody book. I don't think he negotiates, so much as scares his opponent into submission.

  I'm not complaining though. If my bank balance likes Craig Chambers, then I bloody well do too.

  …even if it means drinking a double shot of Tennessee whisky before I've even had so much as a starter.

  Fast forward about an hour and a half and we rejoin Jamie Newman just as that fourth double hits his stomach. It has followed garlic mushrooms for starters, eight ounces of fillet steak for main, and a chocolate brownie for pudding that was so sweet, I could almost feel the diabetes fairy tapping me on the back and coughing politely in my ear to get my attention. You'd think that lot would soak all the alcohol up.

  Nope. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Imogen had a tuna niçoise salad and some balled melon, while Craig basically ate everything else on the menu.

  He has also drunk seven large measures of Glen Fiddich - but appears to be only mildly inebriated when compared to me.

  I know I'm in trouble when the waitress brings around the coffee menu and it takes me a good twenty seconds before I can focus my eyes on it.

  'So Jamie, how are you feeling about tomorrow night? Looking forward to it?' Imogen asks. Thus far this evening the conversation has largely been around the subjects of contract wording, production deadlines, marketing strategies, and other such dry topics, so I'm quite surprised to hear her come out with a question that's actually about such a squishy, non-business thing like feelings.

  'Hmmmm?' I respond, my voice inexplicably rising in register at the end like a swanee whistle.

  'The book launch? Tomorrow night?'

  'Oh yes! Yes! I am... I am... '

  I am what? Happy about it? Terrified? Lackadaisical? Insouciant? Borderline psychotic?

  I leave the response hanging in the air, because if nothing else, I am far too fucking drunk to form a coherent sentence.

  'He's really looking forward to it. Ain't you Jamie?' Craig interjects, and slaps me on the back with one broad hand. Such is the size of Craig's hand, and such is the strength of his friendly slap that I emit a loud burp in much the same manner as a newborn baby.

  Imogen looks horrified, and even Craig's eyes widen under their bushy dark eyebrows. 'Better out than in, son!' he opines with a roar of laughter.

  Needless to say I am disgusted with myself, even in my current foggy state of mind. Burping at the dinner table is reserved for when you're five years old or on a stag do. It is not something you do in a dinner meeting with two people you’re in business with. It's just not bloody professional.

  The publishing industry is also a very small world, and I'm sure before the week is out, everyone in it will know that Jamie Newman is a galloping drunkard, with the table manners of a pig.

  Some may argue that this would just make me like every other writer in the world, but that is beside the point.
r />   I am hugely embarrassed, and want to leave as swiftly as possible.

  Craig has other ideas though, and orders me an Irish whisky - the complete and total bastard that he is.

  I sip this like it’s hot brown poison, until the clock hits 10pm.

  'Well, this has been a lovely evening,' Imogen lies - unless she has a penchant for watching two men get shit-faced over medium rare cow parts. 'But I'm due in the office tomorrow at 8am, so had better be going.'

  I take this as my opportunity to leave as well. 'Yes! I agree. I'd like to go get some sleep as I have to... '

  Dammit!

  I don't have anywhere to be tomorrow! I'm a sodding writer. Craig can quite comfortably keep me here until three in the morning, pumping booze into me, and I have absolutely no excuse to get out of it, other than the fact I'm a total lightweight.

  'No problem, Imogen. It was nice to see you again,' says Craig, a man still capable of being perfectly charming even with a bottle of 15 year old single malt sloshing around in his guts. Bastard!

  He rises elegantly from his seat.

  I try to follow suit, managing to clout my knee on the bottom of the table as I do so. 'Ow! Fuckery biggins!' I cry in pain. I don't usually borrow any of Laura's curses. It only tends to happen when I'm blind drunk and not feeling all that creative.

  'Are you alright?' Imogen asks.

  'Yes,' I wave off her concern with a limp waggle of my wrist. 'I'll be fine. Absolutely fine. Fiiiiiine.' In an effort to brush off my latest act of drunken clumsiness I throw my arms open wide and move towards her. 'Now, come here and give us a kiss.'

  What?

  Fucking WHAT?

  Did I really just ask my editor - a woman I have only ever known in an entirely professional capacity - to give me a ruddy kiss? Like we're long lost relatives, or best buddies who won't be seeing each other for a year, because one is travelling in the Orient?

  The faux pas is enormous. A ten story, luxury faux pas, with 24 hour room service. It's the Dorchester Hotel of faux pas.

  I stand there with arms outstretched, ready to give Imogen a sweaty hug and kiss. In my ramshackle, drunken state I look less like a person offering their goodbyes, and more like an extra from The Walking Dead going in for his lunch.

  Poor Imogen doesn't know what the hell to do. I can see it on her face. On the one hand, I'm sure she has no desire to embrace me, if for no other reason than it will bring her closer to my apocalyptic breath. On the other though, I am one of Watermill Publishing's more successful authors, and I'm sure employees of the company are encouraged to be nice to successful authors, no matter how badly they're behaving.

  Self preservation gives way to the desire to keep seeing a paycheck, and Imogen reluctantly moves forward and puts one awkward arm around my shoulder. Her worried face hovers just in front of mine, one cheek proffered in my direction.

  I have to go through with it now, don't I? If I reject her sacrifice, it will just make things ten times worse. I pucker up my lips and go in for a peck on her cheek. Sadly, I'm so bastard drunk, I stumble to the left as I do so, and end up planting the kiss on Imogen's ear. She recoils in barely concealed disgust. 'Okay then!' she says in a high-pitched tone. 'I'll be off now! Goodnight Jamie! Goodnight Craig!'

  The poor woman can't move through the busy throng of Maruga customers quick enough. I watch her go with bleary-eyed regret, knowing full well that I will be getting a new editor soon.

  I look back to Craig, to discover that he is staring at me in wide-eyed Scottish horror.

  'Oh boy, Jamie. Oh boy!' He roars with laughter and sits back down. 'You know, I've read all your books and thought you might have been exaggerating about the stuff that happens to you, but you bloody weren't, were you?'

  I slump back into my seat, rubbing my knee as I do. 'Nope,' I reply in a forlorn voice. 'If anything I've underplayed quite a lot of stuff.' A thought occurs. 'At least I didn't try any belly dancing this time.'

  This sends Craig off into a gale of Highland laughter. Sadly, this also draws the attention of our waitress for the evening, who comes over to see if there's anything else we'd like. I would like to order a taxi, a bottle of Tramadol and a loaded shotgun, but Craig unfortunately gets to her first and orders us both a nightcap. I start to protest... but give up before I've even got my mouth halfway open. There is no possible way on Earth that Craig will let me leave tonight without consuming at least one Bailey's Irish Cream liqueur.

  'Bottoms up, Jamie!' he exults, and throws the entire glass of creamy liquid back in one go. 'Here's to your book launch tomorrow!'

  Oh yes. That's right, isn't it? This is Thursday night, and Friday night is the most important night I've had in a long time. Of course, the perfect preparation for it is to get captain bladdered the night before and kiss your editor's earlobe.

  I throw the Bailey's down my throat with resignation and feebly hold the empty glass up. 'Yay,' I say in an equally feeble voice.

  'What's the matter? You don't think it'll go well?' Craig asks.

  'Well Craig, well, the thing is... the thing... the thing is... '

  The thing is I'm absolutely busting for a piss. I have no idea how I feel about the book launch, but I do know that if I don't get to a toilet soon, the crotch of my trousers will be a lot darker and wetter. 'I need a wee,' I tell Craig. I could have said 'slash' or 'piss', either would have been more alpha, but as I think I've already established, around Craig I am most definitely beta, so what's the point in trying to prove otherwise?

  I rise from the table - managing to avoid another knee related injury this time - and stumble off in the general direction of where I think the toilets are. Having never been to this restaurant before I have absolutely no idea where the toilets are located however. I have to be rescued from trying to take a piss in the kitchen by a passing waitress, who points me in the direction of where the facilities actually are - right back across the other side of Maruga, behind where Craig and I are sat.

  As I shamble past my agent again, I give him a little wave. He responds with the kind of unsure smile you'd usually see someone make when his dog starts chewing on its own foot.

  In the toilet I discover a row of clean white urinals... and blessed relief.

  I'm halfway done, when a short, fat little man of about 50 comes in, and stands a couple of urinals down from me. I ignore him completely of course, as is right and proper.

  I can hear him start to urinate too, so he's obviously not a man who suffers from the legendary stage fright. I return to contemplating the wall in front of me, which is decorated in an attractive aqua marine marble effect that I think would look lovely in the bathroom back home.

  'Excuse me?' says my fellow urinator.

  I turn my head slowly in his direction. 'I'm sorry? Were you talking to me?' I ask, unable to believe that this could be the case. Men simply don't have conversations at urinals. It is most definitely not right and proper.

  'Yes. Sorry to interrupt, but you're not the fellow who writes those books, are you? Only you look like him. You were on Lorraine a couple of weeks ago with your wife.'

  Oh good bloody grief.

  'Um...'

  There are two ways I can handle this. I can feign ignorance. After all, I'm a bloody author, not Tom Cruise. My books are the things people recognise, not my face. I can lie, and pretend I don't know what the fat little fella is on about. Or, I can fess up and hope he doesn't want to engage me in a lengthy conversation about grammatical syntax and character development.

  I'm too sodding drunk to lie convincingly, so opt for the latter. 'Yeah... that's me. The book writing bloke. On Lorraine with m' wife.'

  I knew agreeing to appear on TV was a mistake that would bite me on the arse - I just wasn't expecting it to happen at a urinal.

  'I thought so!' my new friend says, as he finishes up and zips his fly.

  The man has the good courtesy to let me do the same, before thrusting out his hand. 'My wife and I are big fans of your work,' he says.


  Now then...

  We have what might be considered a 'social situation' here. One where hygiene plays an important part.

  When I was much, much younger and could handle my drink better, I briefly dated a girl called Odette, who was French, and modelled herself on Avril Lavigne. About all I can remember of Odette was her penchant for woollen beanies, wearing too much eyeliner, and energetic hand jobs. She always insisted on washing her hand afterwards though, for fear of walking around for the rest of the evening with what she called 'willy fingers'.

  Odette would also refuse to go anywhere near any boys who had just come out of the toilet, unless they could prove to her that they'd washed their hands. Odette neither approved of, nor tolerated willy fingers to any degree.

  If she were in my position now, she'd turn white with horror.

  This man - this stranger - is asking me to shake his hand, even though he undoubtedly suffers from first degree willy fingers, having only just popped his gentleman back into his trousers. What's worse is that I am also suffering from chronic willy fingers, having only just done the same thing.

  I can either take the bull by the horns - and the man by the willy fingers - or insist that we both go wash our hands first.

  This is a fan of my books, though. I have no idea how many of those I've actually got, so I make it a goal in life to never offend or upset one, just in case it starts a chain reaction that ends in my complete and utter failure. This sounds totally irrational I know, but there's a streak of irrationality in any writer if you peel back enough layers.

  And fuck it, I'm pissed anyway. A light case of willy fingers shouldn't be too much of an issue for a man well into his cups like I am.

  'Pleased to meet you,' I say, and take the man's hand with barely a grimace.

  'And you!' he replies with enthusiasm, pumping my hand up and down in his own. 'The name's William Walker. Of course I already know yours, Mr Newman!'

  William Walker.

  William 'Willy Fingers' Walker.

  It's so utterly perfect; I wish I'd written it in a book.