She had begged me to go to the party with her.
‘It would mean a lot. Please don’t make me go alone.’
‘But I won’t know anyone there,’ I protested. ‘It will be awkward.’
‘I’ll be with you the whole time,’ she promised. ‘I won’t leave your side for a second.’
We had been there less then five minutes when she exclaimed, ‘Oh look, there’s Jim. He writes too.’ She gave us a quick introduction and disappeared into the crowd. I was left with Jim for the night.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘what do you write?’
This was not a conversation I wanted to have but I knocked back some beer and threw myself into it. ‘I like to mix it up,’ I answered. ‘You know a bit of fantasy, a bit of humour. I like to experiment.’ I took another deep slug before asking the inevitable question. ‘How about you?’
‘I write like Ian McEwan,’ was his answer.
I was more than a little drunk so I said the first thing that came into my head.
He spent what must have been an hour extolling the virtues Mr McEwan and he totally failed to see the point.