“We were very close. They were wonderful.” She managed not to cry when she said it. She was better at that these days. Time had helped, although she still missed them every day.
“I lost my parents young too. You grow up fast after that. My mother was fantastic, a saint, and my father was a devil. He was a drunk, and violent. He killed my mother and then shot himself. I was seventeen, in high school. I dropped out too, hitchhiked my way around Europe, wound up in Turkey, and then in North Africa, Morocco, Tangiers, Libya for a while, then lived in Paris, and eventually went back to New York, when my first book was published. I wrote it at eighteen, dragged it around in my backpack for a couple of years, finally sent it to a publisher, and presto magic, became a writer.
“I come to London a lot. I like it here. I eventually wind up back in New York for a while, and then leave again. I find it hard to stay in one place, and stay connected. I disappear when I write, which most people find difficult, particularly women. I’ve been married twice, to two very nice women I made miserably unhappy, but they seem to have forgiven me, since they’re better people than I am. I spend a lot of time with Bruce. He understands me. I don’t have kids. I’d be afraid to turn out like my father. I like being alone, until I get tired of it, and then I surface, and discover that everyone is pissed at me because I disappeared.” He smiled, without remorse. He was warning her of just how difficult he was. He was more than complicated, but utterly fascinating. “I hate the idea of being responsible for another human being, and I’m allergic to commitment of any kind. So at the risk of sounding rude, if you’re looking for a father for your baby, it won’t be me. I get hives thinking about it. But I think you’re terrific, and I’d like to spend time with you, if you don’t mind my disappearing act, and don’t count on me. I believe in truth in labeling. I’m a nice guy, but I’m an asshole too, as my ex-wives would be happy to tell you, but they love me anyway. I love them too. We’re very devoted to each other.” She laughed. He was certainly an honest person, and a little bit odd, or even a lot, and didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was. As he finished his full disclosure, two women came up to him and asked for an autograph. He was polite to them but not warm. He looked at Coco intensely after they left. “And I’m not good with strangers,” he added. “I find being famous a pain in the ass. Sometimes I pretend I’m not me.”
“I’m not looking for a father for my baby,” she told him just as bluntly. “She was an accident, and the day I found out and rushed home to tell my husband, I found him having sex with someone else, for the second time in four months. So that was the end of it. He suggested giving up his parental rights, which sounded good to me. I traded him a country estate for her. I think it was a good trade. I’m planning to do this on my own. I think I can manage it.”
“He sounds like a real asshole,” Ian said sympathetically, “not a lovable one like me.” She laughed. She could easily imagine him being difficult, and even disappearing. His father murdering his mother had to have left him with some serious damage. He had put it to good use in his books, which were extremely violent, but sensitive too. He had an uncanny understanding of people, and clearly had his own demons. “I think we’ve gotten the introductions pretty well covered.” He smiled at her. “Would you like to have dinner with me? I’m not a vegetarian, or a vegan, and I like fast food, the greasier the better. I love cheeseburgers.”
“So do I.” She smiled at him. She was enjoying his company, and his frank, outrageous brand of honesty and revelation about himself. He was the modern day James Dean, angry, brooding, and even at forty-one, much more handsome.
“How old are you, by the way? Will I get arrested having dinner with you?” She looked very young