Page 19 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘I’ve read some of them,’ I tell him. ‘Most people think you’re amazing.’

‘You’re only as good as your last book,’ he tells me. ‘And when that’s a flop, it’s a difficult place to come back from.’

‘Was your last book a flop?’

‘It was critically acclaimed.’ He makes a face. ‘It’s what we say when we get positive reviews and nobody buys it.’

‘But you did win the Booker, even if you don’t have a badge,’ I remind him. ‘Surely that means loads of people bought it. It’s like a gold-star recommendation, isn’t it?’

‘That was a lifetime ago,’ he says. ‘And yes, a lot of people did buy Winter’s Heartbreak, but that doesn’t mean they’ll buy everything I write. They bought my second because it was shortlisted too, but fewer bought the third, even though it took me an age to write and the Irish Times said it was “emotionally engaging at a fundamental level”. My fourth was a novella to keep the publisher happy, and now I’m trying to figure out if the idea I had that sounded so good when I pitched it to my agent will actually turn out to be a book that no one at all wants to read.’

‘Why did you come here to write it?’ I ask. ‘I mean, it’s a stunning location but it’s hardly a get-away-from-it-all type of place. I thought all you great writers needed to find perfect solitude to work: no internet, no people, nothing to distract you. A house in the hills or the forest or the wilds of Connemara or something.’

‘Yes, well.’ He shakes his head. ‘The wilds of Connemara were booked up. Besides, I’m not that sort of writer. I didn’t do English literature in college. I wrote my earlier books mostly in my lunch hour at work. I shouldn’t need solitude to be able to write.’

‘And you’ve compromised by coming to a luxury hotel where you hired a private villa and reserved a table to yourself so that you don’t have to mix with the common people?’ I can barely hide how funny I find this.

‘Sort of.’ He looks embarrassed.

‘It’s the kind of failure I could manage,’ I tell him.

He laughs. He’s a completely different person when he laughs. His faint air of superiority disappears, and because his laughter is so deep, it’s infectious. I laugh too.

‘You’re a tonic,’ he tells me.

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘And you’re right.’ He nods ‘I’m being precious about my book and my writing. I need to get on with it and stop tearing myself apart.’

‘What’s it about?’ I ask.

‘Someone who retreats to a backwater island to find themselves,’ he says.

‘This definitely isn’t the best place to imagine a backwater.’ I look around. The restaurant is busy with holidaymakers. There’s lots of laughter and animated conversation, and people are having a good time.

‘That’s why I go to the cove,’ he says. ‘Although I should be able to imagine a backwater island for myself. It’s just . . .’

‘What?’

‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure what I’m trying to create.’

I wipe my sticky fingers on the crisp linen napkin and pour myself a glass of water because I’ve finished my wine and I don’t want him to think I’m a lush.

‘I know you were dismissive of it earlier, but what about a crime novel?’ I suggest.

‘I don’t do crime.’ He’s clearly aghast at the suggestion.

‘It doesn’t have to be as good as this.’ I pick up the Janice Jermyn book and hand it to him. He’s been glancing at it from time to time during our talk.

‘That’s not the sort of thing I write.’

‘Have you read it?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Then you don’t know if it’s your sort of thing or not.’

‘My themes—’