London

London (Approx 500 wds)

After I retired I began writing, human interest stories for our local
paper, for which I was paid (not much), and short stories, for which I
received rejection slips. So when, on a trip to London, my wife and I
saw a notice that the English mystery writer Ruth Rendell was giving a
reading at a nearby book store, we made it a point to attend.
When we arrived, Ruth Rendell was reading from her latest book. She
was a dark-haired woman with a pleasant face, and she read in a soft
voice. After the reading, it was announced that she'd sign copies of
her book for those who bought them. We looked at the price and decided
it was too high but my wife found a paperback of an earlier book and
asked Ruth Rendell to sign it for me.
"He's a writer, too, you know," she said.
"Really?"
"Not really," I said.
"He's even had a couple of stories published."
I didn't think that Ruth Rendell, who turned out one or two books
every year, would be terribly impressed. "That's very nice," she said.
She was a nice woman. We talked a little while more, then Ruth Rendell
signed the book. She didn't have a pen so I gave mine, which I'd bought
that day as a souvenier, to my wife, who then passed it on to her. When
she handed the book back to me, I saw that she'd written, "Best wishes
to a fellow writer, Ruth Rendell." She was a very nice woman.
When we returned to our hotel, I said, "Maybe I should have tried to
be a real writer. By the way, do you have my pen?"
"Oh, I never got it back from Ruth Rendell."
"So Ruth Rendell has my pen."
"She must have."
"Mmmm. I liked that pen."
"But you have her autograph. Maybe she'll use your pen to write her
next book."
"She probably uses a computer."
"But maybe when she got home tonight she made a note for a book with
the pen, possibly about an American couple visiting London."
"I hope she doesn't make us the victims of one of her crazy
killers."
"Are you sorry you didn't start writing when you were younger?"
"No, I suppose not. Judging from what I've earned so far, we'd have
starved to death."
"So it's just as well." My wife is always sensible.
Once in bed, I thought, I could write a mystery. Passions ran high in
our retirement community, over a misplayed bridge hand, a contest for
club office or a too loud television. It shouldn't be too hard to
imagine somebody who deserved killing, with a whole host of suspects. I
told my wife my idea.
"You're right," she said. "You'd have starved to death." Always
sensible.
In our annual Christmas letter, I said we'd had a good visit to London
and mentioned meeting Ruth Rendell. Looking back, I suppose it was a
good visit. But I've always regretted losing that pen.