“Hi. Listen, I know that this looks bad, and you have every right to call the Police or just run like Hell, but I didn’t believe your assistant that you had seen my request for an appointment to meet with you, and well…”
I was aware that if I kept talking I could well be accused of trying to do too much; that tailing off and not belabouring the point might indeed serve me better than sounding too desperate.
It’s not often that one of your literary heroes catches you shinning over their garden wall on a sunny Saturday afternoon, but I had been getting desperate. As a solution, having worked out roughly where DeLacey was living, I had spent Friday evening buying drinks in the village pub until the actual location of his house was shaken loose. Now here I was, on my knees in the camelia bed, gesturing a little wildly with a notebook and hoping that perhaps the greatest novelist of my lifetime was going to be amused or at least curious rather than angry.
“Get up, young man. Would you like a cup of tea perhaps?”