He spoke to her as they left the elevator together, the lift, as the girls had called it, and he headed in the same direction as Alex.
“New girl in town?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, and she smiled and nodded. She was wearing jeans and a sweater because she’d been told that casual dress was allowed, within reason. No flip-flops, no shorts, no halter tops, but jeans were fine.
“Yes,” she said simply, as he fell into step with her.
“Ah, American?”
“Boston.”
“Intriguing.” He smiled as she went to her desk. She wondered what he did there, since the whole floor seemed to be mostly editorial people. He disappeared down another hall, and she didn’t see him again until they met leaving the building at the end of the day.
“How was school?” he asked and she laughed.
“Not bad for a first day.” The work seemed to be fairly simple so far, at least what they were giving her. She had done a lot of filing, but it was exciting to be in another country, and to have a new city to discover. And London was easy because of the language.
“Where are you staying, with friends?” He was very bold about asking her questions, as she tried to figure out what bus to get on outside the building. She had a map but was embarrassed to take it out and look like a tourist.
“No, I was lucky. I found an apartment, furnished.”
“Want a lift?” He pointed to a small, battered Fiat parked at the curb, with the steering wheel on the European side, not the British. She hesitated and then nodded. She knew where he worked, so he wasn’t a total stranger to her.
“Okay, thanks.”
“Where do you live?” She told him the address and his eyebrow shot up again. “Very posh. Knightsbridge. I live in Notting Hill.” And on the way to her apartment, he suggested dinner. It all seemed a little hasty to Alex, she wasn’t sure if he was just being friendly or was putting a move on her. It was hard to tell. “There’s actually a pub quite near you that I like. Want to rough it with a beer and a burger?”
“Sounds familiar.” She smiled at him. “Sure, thanks.”
They ordered dinner and wine when they got there, and the pub was cozy and dark. She realized she didn’t know his name then, and introduced herself.
“Ivan White,” he supplied. “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” he asked, as they waited for the food. “Not an editor, surely.”
“Probably not. You?”
“I edit nonfiction right now. I have a novel in me somewhere. I’m waiting for it to come out.” She almost groaned when he said it. Not another writer, although he was just being collegial and this wasn’t romance. But he had homed in on her pretty quickly. “And you’re not a writer?” He seemed surprised.
“Not really. I wrote a little in college,” she said vaguely. “Mostly for school. And some short stories in high school.”
“And you don’t want to write women’s fiction?”
“Not at all,” she said empathically, and at least that was true.
“How refreshing. Most of the women I meet want to write novels. Very tedious, I assure you.” She wondered why it was okay for him to want to write a novel, but not the women he went out with, but she didn’t ask him.
“Why don’t you like women writers?”
“They take themselves too seriously, and it’s all too emotional and gushingly dramatic, or romantic. Erghk.” He made a face.
“And what kind of novel would you write?” Now she was curious about him and what made him tick. He seemed very sure of himself and was undeniably handsome, and knew it. Even the five-day beard stubble looked somewhat affected, but it suited him. She still liked the look of him for a villain in a book, and maybe he was.
“I think my style is more like Tom Wolfe,” he said blithely, as their burgers came.
“That’s impressive.”
“It’s what I’m drawn to, and I think when I actually sit down and write it, it will be pretty similar.” He seemed confident about it and she was amused.
“I enjoy crime books, I’ve been reading them all my life,” she said to change the subject a little.
“Like whom?”
She reeled off some names and he was unimpressed, and then she decided to play with him a little. “Have you read Alexander Green?”
He nodded. “He’s pretty good, very formulaic, though, don’t you think?” It was a major put-down, that she wrote by a formula, rather than having the books be different each time.
“How many have you read?”
“Two, I think. Odd that you’ve read them. They’re really brutal.”
“I used to read some pretty gory crime thrillers with my father.”
“You’re a strange sort of girl, aren’t you?” he mused, looking at her. “You jaunt off around the world, stop in London and get a job, find an apartment, like men’s books. You must have been a tomboy as a kid. What are your parents like?”
“They died when I was very young. My father worked for a construction company, and my mother was an actress and model.”
“Sounds like an ill-fated match,” he said as they ate.
“It was. She left when I was seven. I lived alone with him after that, till I was fourteen.”
“And then?”
“It’s a long story.” She didn’t want to tell him about the convent. She didn’t know him well enough and had told him more than she’d intended.
“It’s either a very sad story, or an extremely happy one,” he guessed.
“Pretty happy. It worked out well.”
“You married and had three children.”
“No, definitely not that!” She laughed.
“How old are you, by the way?” He had been curious about it since he first saw her that morning. He was moving quickly and wanted to know a lot about her.
“Twenty-two. I just finished college in June.”
“And you’re on a junket around Europe,” he added. “Rich parents. Poor people can’t do that. Did yours leave you a lot of money?”
“That’s a little blunt, isn’t it?”
“It never hurts to ask. If they did, you can pay for dinner. If they didn’t, I will.” He was only half teasing.
“Let’s split it.” She didn’t want to be indebted to him anyway. And she wanted to start on the right foot so they could be friends. But in the end he didn’t let her pay for dinner and said he’d only been joking. He drove her back to her apartment after dinner and told her he’d had a fun evening with her.
“So did I,” she said easily. She had no friends here and was starting with a clean slate. And she wanted to have time to write, once she settled in.
“I think you’re lying to me, though,” he accused her.
“About what?” It was a surprising comment for him to make.
“I think you’re a writer in the closet.”
“What makes you think that?” She wondered why he would say that.
“Because you’re a keen observer of people. I see you watching me, and everyone around the room. I’ll bet you could describe everyone in the restaurant tonight, couldn’t you?”
“Of course not.” But he was absolutely right, which made him the keen observer as much as Alex.
“You look at people like a writer, checking out their reactions and emotions, and saving them for later.”