‘So, is that how you got your break?’
‘Not exactly…’ He sat back and smiled. ‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Of course – I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.’ She knew, from what she’d read, that for every writer who made a living from their words, there were probably a thousand others waiting tables all across London, hoping for that lucky break.
‘It’s not exactly the stuff of fairy tales, but it does have a happy ending, I think.’ He smiled and his eyes took on a sort of faraway glaze. ‘I managed to get a first in my degree and the university put forward two candidates that particular year to a screenwriting course run by the BBC. It was only a couple of weeks long and, to be honest, it was as much about networking as it was learning how to write.’ He caught the look in her eye then. ‘Any writers I know have been writing since they were in school. You don’t just walk in the front door of the BBC and say: I’m ready to start now.’
‘Okay, fair enough,’ she said and she had a feeling that she’d enjoy his book once it was published.
‘I was only there a few weeks and I ran into Sir Roger Oxley one afternoon. He’d popped in for a radio interview and some angel had sent me on coffee rounds. When I plopped his coffee down before him, I hadn’t a notion who he was, but we got chatting and one thing led to another and by the time he was leaving, he’d given me his email address and asked me to send on a script I’d written the year before about the Paralympics in London.’
‘And the rest, as they say, is history?’
‘In a nutshell, I suppose it is. Sir Roger liked my script. There was more work to do on it, but by the time we were in the lead-up to the next games, it was ready to go and again, we were very lucky, because he managed to secure a fairly big name from the soap opera circuit.’ He waved his hands as if conducting a light orchestral chorus.
‘It sounds like the stuff of fairy tales to me,’ Lucy said and probably, she thought, to plenty of starving, success-hungry writers all over London.
‘I suppose so. The show went on to be a critical smash – the people in the Times and the Observer loved it…’
‘And the ratings?’
‘Oh, no, they loved it too, but halfway through the series, our leading man ended up before a magistrate for being drunk and under the influence of drugs behind the wheel of his Range Rover.’ Dan shrugged his shoulders. ‘You win some; you lose some. It turned out from then on, we got more publicity in brackets behind his name as he walked into court each day and then was sentenced to a stiff turn of community service and a lifelong ban from the soap opera that he had planned to return to later that year.’
‘Ah, it still managed to roll around okay for you in the end.’
‘Yes, I suppose it did. My next script was the one that really set me up and the rest, as they say, is history…’ His voice drifted off, as if the notion of London had robbed him of his enthusiasm. ‘So, that’s me.’
‘And then you decided to come here to write your novel…’
‘Yes, that’s the plan.’
‘Why here, of all places?’ she asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Most people, well, the rock stars and the Hollywood faces, all settle for nice tame locations on the east coast. How on earth did you settle on this end of the country?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I suppose, it just sort of popped out at me.’ He looked away, as if he was embarrassed. ‘Here, we shouldn’t let this wine go to waste,’ he said draining the bottle into their two glasses.
‘I really shouldn’t have any more. I’m not used to alcohol – too many night shifts; you get out of the habit.’ She laughed, but still, she thought, one more glass, not so much to drink, as an excuse to stay here a little longer. It was comforting and relaxed, sitting here, with the wind beginning to howl up outside. ‘You know, I can’t remember the last time I felt so chilled out,’ she said softly, as she turned to look at the stove where a flame had taken flight and now, a river of sparks rushed up towards the chimney. She watched as Dan bent before it and opened back both doors so they could watch the flames dancing around the long sods of turf in the grate.
‘Here.’ He patted the wing chair before the fire. ‘Sit here; you won’t believe how comfy it is.’ Lucy brought her glass with her and watched as Dora made short work of a remaining pizza slice before coming to rest against her leg where she sat half dozing off before the fire. Lucy found herself almost dozing off too, as they sat in companionable silence with only the glow of the flames throwing light and shadows about the walls.