Wild Fiction

‘Like that for example,’ he said excitedly. ‘I don’t think you should be knotting your eyebrows together in a frown. It doesn’t suit you. That’s the sort of thing that old men do. I don’t think he, your author, understands you and has your best interests at heart. He’s alienating you from your fans, from the people that’ll adore you.’
‘Do you fully understand the art of fictionality and the objective of the fictional character?’ Rebecca snapped this at him as an interviewer would in a particularly bad interview.
‘Yes.’
‘Explain.’
‘Well, the art of fiction is to make the reader suspend their disbelief. The objective of the fictional character is to be able to reach out and touch the reader. Guide him or her through an unforgettable tale, without the reader ever suspecting that they are in fact fictional and this story never happened. Look at what’s happening here. The reader hasn’t a hope of suspending their disbelief with this type of prose.’
Rebecca took another long swig from her pint of Guinness without taking her eyes off Retir. With the back of her hand, she wiped off the blonde moustache leaving a little of it on her cheek. Retir took out a handkerchief and passed it too her. She put it on the bar counter without thanking him.
‘There are others, I’m not the only one,’ she said.
Retir replaced his glass and raised his eyebrows. ‘Others?’
‘Yes, other fictionals. I’m not the only one.’
‘The two men with you in the café. Are you saying that they’re fictional as well?’
‘Yes, could you take them into your book as well?’
He scratched at his thick beard with his hand and frowned at her. ‘I’m not sure if I have anything that they’d fit into.’
Rebecca looked long and hard at him. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said and stood up to go.
He stood up and placed his hand on her arm squeezing it gently in an avuncular manner. ‘I can help you, I can get you published in a best seller and make you immortal. I have the perfect book for you.’ His face dropped a little. ‘But the others I’ll have trouble with, I don’t think I can take them.’
‘I understand,’ she said as she headed for the door. He was following her. She stopped and turned around. ‘Don’t follow me. They’re waiting outside.’
Rebecca stopped outside the pub and breathed in the fresh air. She saw Conrad on the other side of the street staring into an estate agent’s shop window. She put a baby finger in either side of her mouth and let out a sharp whistle.