The Party

It was the Twentieth Anniversary Party of Next Chapter Books in Warriewood. There were lucky door prizes and hors-d'oeuvres and some friendly writers: the lovely Michael Robotham (who ghost wrote Geri Halliwell’s autobiography, and also has best sellers of his own); a woman with a new slant on astrology; a writer of novels about surfing.
I sat at a table to sign books and a young man approached. He had a beard and a glass of champagne.
“Tell me about myself,” he said, very smooth.
I thought about that for a moment.
“Do you mean,” I said, eventually, “tell you about myself?”
“No.” He was emphatic. “Tell me about myself.”
After a moment, I murmured, helplessly, “But where do I know you from?”
The young man looked stern. He straightened up.
“You’re a clairvoyant!” he cried. “Tell me about myself!”
I had to explain that I was not a clairvoyant.
“The astrologer,” I realised. “She’s over there. These are fiction,” I said. “I write fiction.”
“Do you?” he said, moodily. He looked down at my piles of books and wandered away.