Page 138 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘In what way?’ he said, though he knew exactly what she meant.

‘Us, meeting like this. Such a random coincidence.’

‘Or maybe it was always on the cards. Who knows?’ he said.

Not now, Damien, said the Voice.It’s way too early in the game to start with the kismet bit.

‘Anyway, Frances… it’s been good to meet you.’ He shook her hand. ‘Good luck with your short.’

‘Thanks. I’ll see you at the screening. I’d better come up with a question.’

‘Good idea.’

She turned round and walked back in the other direction. He wondered if Frances could be the one. She was different from the other women who’d been in his life, particularly his miserable and frosty mother.

Frances was a happy, cup-half-full woman… She was warm.

And, as the cards foretold, she came from overseas. Was a student – post grad.

But then again… Maybe she was just a little too lively. A party, gin-and-tonic sort of girl. Not good for him.

Just hold your horses, the Voice said.You could have anyone. You don’t want a fan– you want a soulmate. What’s the matter with you? Remember who you are.

‘I am Damien Spur, the famous fucked-up writer.’ He hailed a taxi to take him home.

When he arrived, his agent was waiting outside the door.

‘Hello, Angus.’ Damien gave him a lazy smile.

‘You’re late,’ his agent said. ‘I’ve been here for twenty minutes. We agreed to meet at ten thirty, and it’s now ten fifty!’

‘Look, Angus,’ Damien said, ‘how many times when I was a struggling writer did you make me wait for you?’

His agent ignored him. ‘Are you going to let me in or do you expect me to wedge my foot in the door like a travelling salesman?’

‘Of course.’ Damien ushered him through with a wave of his hand.

Angus walked past him into the sitting room and sat on the sofa. ‘Well, then, how have you been?’

Damien had always been aware that Angus had only cared about his well-being in relation to his work. He was good at the cheerleader chat, flagged him on to the finishing line. He was simply his agent, not a sympathetic friend, but to his credit he was the best dealmaker in the business.

‘Do you want tea or coffee?’ Damien asked.

‘No, I’m fine. Haven’t got the time now.’

Damien sat next to him. ‘Before you start, let me make something absolutely clear. I’m not accepting any of those party invites that you forwarded to me. I told you to trash them. You know that I’m not prepared to spend my time making small talk.’

‘It’s okay, Damien.’ Angus gave him a hard glance. ‘Why not be honest? You don’t want to be around the booze.’

‘Yup, that’s right. So, if you know that, why keep on throwing the invitations in my face?’

‘Because you can’t spend your life hiding away.’

‘Why not? It probably makes me more exciting. I’m not into courting publicity anymore. Not interested in being the pin-up addict who bleats about his recovery and how many times a week he goes to AA. How my life has changed and that I’dnever touch the stuff again. The truth is I’m still dying to have a drink and a snort of coke.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Angus said. ‘I’m not your therapist. But I’ll tell you one thing, there’s a lot riding on the next book and if you start backtracking and get hooked on the alcohol and drugs again, I wouldn’t think that you’d be in a fit state to even write an email, judging by your last sordid performance.’

‘Thanks for the pep talk, Angus.’

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