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

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.

Fuck it, maybe I will.

'Well, as I said, it's nice to meet you Willy... I mean William.'

Now please let go of my hand so I can wash it.

Thankfully he does so, allowing me to scuttle over to the sink. 'Can I get a picture?' Willy Fingers asks before I can start to wash my hands. He produces an iPhone from his pocket and gives me an expectant smile.

Oh,
fabulous
. Now I get to have a
selfie
taken with a man whose penis I've technically just touched by association. My eyes are also bloodshot from all the booze Craig has pumped into me, and my hair is thoroughly
dishevelled
for much the same reason.

But never upset a punter, right?

I attempt to look happy for the picture, which is very difficult, given that I've been plagued with two man willy fingers for a good half minute now. William has no problem looking happy, and gives it his best Cheshire
Cat
as the flash goes off.

'Thank you so much, Jamie!' he tells me. 'My wife will be amazed when I tell her!'

My wife will be rolling in the aisles mate, so I think you'll get the better end of the bargain on that one. 'Pleasure,' I tell him with a drunken slur.

'I won't disturb you any longer,' Willy Fingers says, before making his way back out of the toilets, leaving me to ponder what the hell just happened.

I give my hands a thorough wash, and shamble back to the table, where Craig is merrily making his way through another Glen Fiddich on the rocks.

'Feeling better there, are you?' he asks, swilling the ice around in the glass.

I unconsciously look down at my hands for a second. 'I think so.' I then glance at my watch and decide it's time to make a stand. 'Craig, it's been a lovely evening but I want to... want to get a good night's sleep before
t'm'rrw
.'

'Ah, you must have time for a last
nifter
?'