LITMIR.BIZ

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things. You’re trying to make everyone else as miserable as you are.’ I pick up a paper doily from one of Clara’s other dining tables and start shredding it with my fingers. It’s not quite as good as wringing his neck but it’s a legal alternative.

      ‘I’m not miserable, I’m just not deluded into thinking that one day someone will appear in a halo of white light with hearts and flowers swirling around them and all my problems will be solved.’

      ‘I don’t think that. I just think that marriage is something special. Meeting someone you have a connection with and knowing you want to spend the rest of your life with that person is magical. Not that I’d expect you to know that. All you do is tell men how to spot women who want to get married and trap them with a baby! You seem to think that no man on the planet actually wants to find someone they love and have a family.’

      ‘See, there’s this thing called freedom of speech where I’m entitled to say anything I want, and people are entitled to read it or not read it if they don’t agree. That’s why I posted the screencaps of what you said to me on Twitter. And you saw how many people agreed with me and thought you were a loser.’

      I twist the doily so hard that I’m surprised it doesn’t disintegrate under my hands. ‘I was doing what I thought was right. What right do you have to grab a random couple’s wedding photos off the internet and make fun of them for your own amusement?’

      ‘What right do you have to tell me I can’t say something? My opinion is just as valid as anyone else’s. It’s up to me if I want to post that publicly, and up to you if you read it, end of story. You were clearly trying to engage me in an argument to make The Man Land look bad and your awful bridal mag look like the morally superior good guys. A clever tactic. It’s just a shame you resorted to name-calling when I didn’t take the bait.’

      ‘I wasn’t baiting you. I was trying to do the right thing and you twisted it to make it look like I was being underhanded and petty.’

      ‘You were trying to turn readers against me.’

      ‘No, I wasn’t!’ I’ve got a little pile of doily pieces on the empty table beside me where I’m tearing it into tatters. It would have been more satisfying if I’d drawn a Rohan-shaped stickman on it first. ‘It had nothing to do with the battle of the mags. I hadn’t even thought of that. All I was thinking about was how much prejudice that couple must come up against every day and you’re adding to it. Who you wrote for didn’t make any difference.’

      ‘Why do you care what I write about some random couple? What’s it got to do with you? You don’t even know them!’

      ‘Neither do you, do you? And yet you still think it’s okay to personally attack their appearance and call into question their love for each other because there’s a bit of an age gap!’

      ‘She’s fifty years younger than him!’

      ‘So what? Love can’t count. It doesn’t always strike at the time that twats like you find socially acceptable.’

      ‘And she’s his fourth wife in five years! What do you think a bloke like that knows about love? Weddings are an annual occurrence to him. Love isn’t something that lasts a lifetime, it’s something that lasts less time than the guarantee on a new microwave!’

      ‘Other people’s relationships have nothing to do with you. I don’t know how The Man Land let you get away with the bollocks you write.’

      ‘My boss appreciates me being a realist. He wasn’t happy about the Twitter thing with you though. He was mad at me for posting the screencaps and making fun of you. Said I should’ve gone all Elsa and let it go.’

      ‘Which you should have.’

      ‘So should you,’ he fires back.

      I let out an annoyed huff. He’s right. Oliver was right. I should’ve known that R.C. Art would use my tweets as a way to gain himself even more publicity, especially with this battle of the mags going on between us and them. I shouldn’t have got involved. But no way am I going to admit that to him of all people.

      I sweep my pile of doily confetti into my hand and deposit it in the bin in the corner, and we glare at each other in silence, at an impasse that there is no getting around. I’m not going to apologise and I’m sure his self-righteous ego thinks he was completely in the right and has nothing to apologise for. How can he be the guy I was looking forward to having dinner with tonight? I’ve always had bad luck with men but this absolutely takes the biscuit.

      ‘Why are you here then?’ I snap when I can’t stare at his frosty blue eyes any longer. ‘What awful things are you going to write about this lovely island and its church of no-divorces?’

      ‘Nothing.’ He holds both hands up like he’s surrendering. ‘I’m being punished here. I got sent to write the article that no one at The Man Land wants to write but apparently everyone wants to read. I’ve just got to find out if the story’s true and write a bit about the island and why people are so keen to get married here. It’s not for my usual column, it’s just because no one else would do it. It’s your fault I’m here.’

      ‘It’s your fault that I’m here!’

      ‘Hambridge should be grateful to us for getting people talking. Our fight has garnered more public attention in one weekend than their ridiculous “only one can survive” marketing campaign has in weeks. They spent a fortune on it and it’s had about as much impact as a flip-flop in a thunderstorm. All we did was send a couple of tweets, and… bingo.’

      ‘There’s such a thing as bad publicity, you know. I don’t want to be talked about for having arguments online and getting—’

      ‘Meh. If people are talking about you, they’re talking about you. That’s what sells magazines.’ He gives me a saccharine smile. ‘Of course, if you knew that, maybe Two Gold Rings would have a hope in hell of winning this battle of the mags, no matter how ridiculous a marketing ploy it is.’

      I fold my arms and give him my best death stare. ‘What makes you think we haven’t?’

      ‘Oh, come on. I’m sure your boss has lectured your office just as much as mine has lectured our office. You’re a niche, we’re not. We’re funny, you’re schmaltzy. We have a better online following, we have loyal readers, whereas your readers have an expiration date. The Man Land is clearly going to win, no matter how you frame your story about the church of no-divorces. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby but easier and less fun. At least if you take candy from a baby, you get sweets at the end. I’ll just get to keep my job and wave goodbye to another sappy, starry-eyed monthly issuing of printed dead tree.’

      He raises an eyebrow like he’s waiting for an answer, and I can’t take any more. ‘God, how could I have been stupid enough to actually enjoy your company today? You’re just The Man Land’s rent-a-gob. You don’t care how many people you hurt as long as it gets you publicity. I’d say you just haven’t found the right woman yet, but there’s no way anyone’s ever going to love you with that appalling attitude!’ With that, I grab my wine glass and throw what’s left of the contents over him, slam it back down on the table, and stomp out.

      The complete and utter knob. How dare he have the nerve to be so funny and sweet and really be R.C. Art all along? I actually felt sorry for him today, and there’s no way R.C. Art deserves even a second of sympathy. Seasickness is among the nicer things people probably wish on him.

      Even though I’m fuming, I creep upstairs to my room hoping not to be intercepted by Clara. I’m not sure if I can face questions from her at the moment, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I make it into the bedroom. I don’t realise I’m going to cry until the door clicks shut behind me and tears start pouring down my face without my permission.

      I liked him. I really liked him. I know it’s only been one afternoon, but there was something there, something that I’ve never felt on a date before, and it wasn’t even

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