Fuck, so there I am furiously scribbling into a note-book when I look up and Fay Wheldon is sat at the table next to me in the cafe.
I carry on writing, but she keeps looking over at me. Maybe she thought I was writing about her.
I wasn't. But I'm not even going to attempt to describe what it was that I was writing, least you think I'm, uh...
She was with some old dude, who might have been Nick Fox. I guess I could Google on him, but I'm not gonna. Everytime I wrote something she would look over and purse those weird little heart-shaped lips of hers.
Maybe it wasn't Fay Wheldon, tho someone told me they thought she lived fairly locally. And these old Dorset broads all start looking similar after a while.
Weirder things have happened. A couple weeks ago, Mein Host told me to sit down with some old posh broad. "He's a writer too," he said. "Talk to each other." And then he left us to it. I thought it would be awkward, but we got on famously. Within 5 minutes she was telling me what national newspapers she written for and about meeting Woody Guthrie when she was young. She seemed pleased that someone actually knew who he was. I tried to explain to her about Free Folk. And then she told me about the time Clint Eastwood gave her a lift on the back of his motorcycle in Rome when he was filming there in the 60s. She didn't know who he was until someone told her later. It might have been bullshit, but I don't care; she told the anecdote with such wonderful panache. I really liked her.
"I'm ************ **********," she said and shook my hand as I got up to go.
"Well, I'm very pleased to have met you, Kek," she said. I was oddly touched.
I could have asked the other woman if she was Fay Wheldon, I guess. She looked like she wanted me to.
But what would I have said? - "I really don't like your books."