If I was a good girl, would I write such wicked stories? - A prologue

As I run out crying from the building in Soho Square, my vision is blurred, my movements jerky and I collide with a body much taller and broader than mine. In the force of the crash I flop backwards to the floor. It’s like hitting a lamp post running. That has also happened once before and the bump in the middle of my forehead gave me an interesting alien look for a few days.
The man says ‘Jesus’ and kneels down to help me up. At least - I think vaguely - this time i have not scattered around me the copious contents of my bag. That has also happened, and not just once. The pitiful stares of men, the understanding stares of women though even my girlfriends alwasy remark ‘but what have you got in that bag?’. I tell them it’s the flight scenario with me, always ready for those 48 hours when the world ends and you are stuck in an elevator. If those people had something to read and write with and eat, they wouldn’t talk so much rubbish. No, this time I came out to impress, with a small Gucci leather teeny bag that’s still worn bandolier style across my chest.
As he pulls me up i see who he is and I go ‘Oh no, not now!’
He gives me a quizzical look. I hurriedly try to explain, ‘It’s not what you think, it really isn’t.’
‘You can tell what I am thinking? he says smiling which i don’t think is that fair as I am genuinely distressed here, though it’s not raining so my clothes are clean and my hair is not frizzy.
‘You are thinking that it’s about some men trouble. That I just got served divorce papers and found out at the same time that my husband has already taken the children out of the country.’ I trail off.
‘So it’s not that then’.
‘No, it’s just that i think my short story collection is not going to get any good reviews.’ And here i burst into tears again, damn the fact that they come easy to me. I resume ‘And without good reviews, who’s going to bother reading it? It’s not like the publishers are spending much money marketing it, it’s small fry for them, I didn’t start with a newspaper column or anything, there’s no tv series.’
‘It’s not the end of the world’ he says.
‘Yes it is, yes it is’ I say, tremendously annoyed that my voice probablys sounds as it does in my head, that of a ten year old on a strop. ‘It’s not like it’s for you’ I continue ‘You do a film that’s a flop, but people forgive you because you did thers that are good (brain already searching files, which good ones? the one with the bus in LA, that was cool), but this is my first book and it’s just I’m not going to recover if it takes a battering.’
‘Why would it, is it that bad?’
‘No, but it’s got this mixture of light and superficial and then self obsessed and withering and reviewers won’t get the irony, the metafitction of it, the Houellebeq without the theories and written by a woman who’s not French, and you can’t draw their attention to this or it’s like calling them stupid and they hate that. You are not supposed to ever be more clever than your critics.’
‘Have you got it on you?’ he asks, ignoring all my clever stuff about ‘the theory of it’.
‘Yes of course’. It’s a bit crushed but I made it fit in the teeny bag, so I pull it out.
‘Then why don’t we go to a bar nearby and I can read some of it now and tell you what i think. If you want my opinion’ he says with a trace of humility that I really appreciate.
‘Sure, but there’s no role in it for you, I must tell you now, as you are probably 40 but you look younger and you’re far to attractive to be from these parts.’
‘No problem’ he says evenly, not picking up on my flattery offering.

I am perfectly made up that he’s not suggested we go to one of his clubs like I am sure he’s a member of Soho House and the like. There to be honest nobody would notice us because they are trained not to. We are actually walking in Soho and end up sitting with the hoi polloi in Greek street. I hope no gay guy dares to interrupt our little tete a tete, he’s one of the ones they claim for their species after all (like Tom, Richard, Brad etc., despite the wives and kids and if you ask for hard evidence they say they know their on set dresser and he swears by it but I’ve never seen the photos).
But it’s fine really, he’s not wearing some long black leather coat after all and the sunglasses are different. He’s probably closer to the look he had in that surf film, his first? Not sure, really he was not in my canon. Anyway, nobody I know walks by that I can impress with my new friend.
He sits intently reading the opening pages and drinking mineral water. He chuckles - good sign.
‘How much time have you got?’ I ask.
‘About half an hour’ he says glancing at his watch.
‘Then you should skip and read some of the others. Here, try this one’ I say reaching to turn the pages making sure our hands don’t brush against each other. ‘It’s different in tone to the one you just looked at.’
He starts to read and after a few minutes raises an eyebrow ‘Mmh, yes, but you are still angry!’
‘No, not me’ I correct ‘the character. It’s like when you are in a movie, you don’t automatically assume the story is based on the scriptwriter’s life ... not if it’s an adaptation anyway, but if the scriptwriter is Charlie Kauffman, then, er , you do.’
‘Great guy, I’d like to work with him someday’ he says with a sudden note of real enthusiasm in his voice.
‘I think that would be great’ I say, stopping just in time before the following, sarky stuff escapes my lips, ‘Would be interesting to see what type of performance that would force you to give, for a change.’
After fifteen more nail biting (mine - his are perfectly square and neat) minutes, he shuts the book and says ‘I like it. Can I take it with me? I can show it to a few people.’
‘Er, yes, thank you for that, but you know, it’s already published, it’s in the shops in two weeks.’
‘Yes, but I mean, one of the stories could be developed into a quirky movie, like some 21st century comedy of manners.’
‘Sure, thank you again.’ I say, wincing imperceptibly at the word ‘quirky’, which i am most definitely not. It’s other people that are far too ... far too well adjusted, It’s all surface anyway, I am sure, scratch a little deeper and you would come away with tremendous stories.
We shake hands, exchange numbers even. And I manage all this resisting the temptation of asking for an autograph. I only have three, alll from writers, and only one of them is really well known.

I watch him walk away in that way they have to make themselves not noticeable. That was good I reflect, and best of all we got by avoiding using his name which I’m never sure how to pronounce: Kyanu’, Keenoo. I sit back, puzzled. Shame it was not Johnny Depp I think. Now, he’s my favourite, that ‘I don’t care look’ he always slips in and he’s got a better rep frankly.

See? Am i ever satisfied? Not even in my fantasies. Though it’s not that far fetched as it happens. I have a friend whose friend is a good friend of Keanu, and i know this person too, only a bit peripherally, she lives in LA and she thinks he’s a great guy. So it’s only one degree of separation and it could really happen as I told it here.