Page 101 of Gold Diggers

‘Because it’s not finished.’

Erin groaned. ‘Well, tell me a bit more about this overcoming the monster thing. I like the sound of it.’

Chris put a cushion at the back of his head and stretched his legs out.

‘Overcoming the monster is one of the most basic plots in story-telling,’ he said. ‘“Little Red Riding Hood” is a good example, or “Hansel and Gretel”. Even James Bond – it’s good versus evil, where good has to conquer the bad to get the precious treasure, the princess, to save the world, whatever.’

Erin thought about it for a moment. ‘It sounds like Karin and Adam,’ she said.

‘I heard Karin was a bit of a monster,’ smiled Chris.

‘No, Adam’s the prize, the treasure,’ said Erin thoughtfully. ‘Karin guards him like a Minotaur or something. Every woman that comes into contact with Adam seems to be after him – to her at least. Except they’re not all good,’ she said, frowning. ‘Certainly not women like Molly Sinclair.’

‘They sound like a right bunch of gold-diggers.’

‘Well, yes and no.’

‘No?’ said Chris, laughing, ‘but the man’s a billionaire!’

‘I mean, they are not doing anything that women of their age weren’t doing a hundred years ago – and it was entirely respectable to do it. Marrying for money, position in society.’

‘Bloody hell. Listen to you,’ said Chris, a note of surprise in his voice. ‘It’s like the feminist movement never happened.’

‘But that’s the point. It has,’ said Erin. ‘The women who chase Adam Gold have choices. Chase the career or chase the man. Gold-diggers chose the man. And I guess women like Karin want both.’

‘Well, that’s what you should write about!’ said Chris suddenly, slapping the arm of the sofa. ‘Adam’s wonderful world of women!’

‘I can’t do that,’ said Erin uncertainly, ‘I’d get fired.’

‘But you wouldn’t be writing about him or Karin or Molly or anyone, not specifically,’ said Chris, sitting up, ‘You can create a world. A literary beau monde. It’s what Fitzgerald made a career out of. The Beautiful and the Damned, Tender Is the Night.’

‘Oh, I love that book,’ smiled Erin, relaxing into the sofa. She hadn’t felt like this in ages. Clever and creative and capable.

Chris had moved nearer to her on the sofa. Part of her felt hot and uncomfortable, another part of her was buzzing at the banter between them and the possibility of something happening. She glanced up quickly at Chris and suddenly noticed how long his eyelashes were. Even though it was a warm night, he had lit a fire, and the logs spat and crackled.

Suddenly Chris stood up, as if he had sensed the change in atmosphere between them. He walked into the kitchen to open a bottle of red wine: a medal winner, he told Erin. That meant nothing to her, but it tasted sublime, like blackcurrants and spices on her tongue.

‘Umm, I like your job,’ she laughed softly.

‘I like it too, but I could think of a better way to make a living.’

‘Oh yeah? Doing what?’

‘Being able to make a career out of writing,’ he said, sitting down next to Erin again. ‘It would be brilliant. Me and my girl being able to live away from London, somewhere like this.’

His fingers touched hers on the cushion and Erin felt a spark jump between them. She waited for a moment to see if it was mistake, to see if Chris would remove them, but he kept his hand on hers and looked at her with a nervous expression completely out of character with the confident, womanizing Irish man-about-town.

‘Chris, I … Dammit!’

Erin’s mobile buzzed loudly on the desk. She had promised him she would switch it off, but she had left it on vibrate, just in case. They both looked at the phone humming insistently.

‘Are you going to answer it?’ said Chris, raising an eyebrow. Erin thought he looked annoyed, but she ignored it.

‘It might be work,’ she said weakly, feeling the electricity between them vanish as she said it.

‘Fuck work,’ said Chris angrily.

Erin looked unsure. The phone was still vibrating. It might be important.