The room service brings me a fabulous breakfast: warm and crunchy bread, fresh orange juice, coffee and a bunch of delicious snacks. I vacillate between chilling by the pool and going as a tourist to enjoy this morning in London.

The temptation of laziness doesn't hold me, I put on my booties to go for a walk. In the morning, the streets look different, more tourists and less beggars. Still a lot of joggers. My roads bring me back to the royal family once again and I continue until I reach Hyde Park and I finish with a visit to the Natural History Museum. I will have to do a second trip to explore the Ken Loach side of London.

-You won't. You tasted the Princess life like an unrefined drug. Going back would be like getting drunk with a warm Tourtel. You won't handle the shock. Talking about warm beer, what time do we go tonight?

-I never said we were going. It was enough shame yesterday. He can do a paper plane with his long comment about my fan fiction and do exactly what I described in the chapter "Alive" with it.

-Oh please! It's just a beer. Don't pretend you don't like it. It isn't tempting?

Temptation. Anger. Desire. Frustration. The annoying beast doesn't neglect anything. I wander inside of the museum watching without seeing them a bunch of animals' pictures, dinosaurs' skeletons, and engravings not worth the interest of a collector but old enough to claim their right to the posterity.

What the hell am I doing here?

The feeling in front a European fox's skeleton is precious. I feel free and overwhelmed by all the options I have, as if I could restart and I had the energy to do so. On my way back to the W Leicester I smile and enter a perfume shop to buy a powder compact. I guess it is way more feminine than a simple toothbrush.

Around twelve, Anastasia is knocking at my door, it is time for the meeting at Foyles'.

-You had breakfast?

-No. I'm not hungry.

-It's a pleasure to work with you. I was expecting three days with a young woman full of fantasies and I end up with a prison door who comb her hair every two days. You aren't a gay romance author: you are barely a woman draft. If you don't want to eat, it's your business but you won't show up at the second signing session like this. And certainly not at the press conference.

Dirty pig.

She drags me at a hairstylist' to turn me into something easier to sell and make me look like "Hugh & Co" 'new recruit. I just need to meet Hanouna when I'm back in Paris and I am ready to record a sex tape.

At Foyles, the queue is even longer today. Worse than yesterday. After a few signatures, I finally understand why the readers are getting crazy this afternoon.

The twitter effect.

#Dylan&Saah and #Dylaah are proliferating all over the web. During the entire session young women can't stop asking me: "How is he in real life?", "Do you know him?", "Are you friends now?"

First, I don't know him. Plus, he's not even my friend. And, in real life he's...he's...

Worried by my own person and my crappy romance ends I realize something quite surprising: I spent a few seconds analysing our picture but I absolutely have no memories of the man I had a drink with last night. At the signing session, I was too surprised to look at him and last night, lost in the darkness of my worries and the bar's I stayed focused on my IPA. I didn't look at him.

This revelation confuses me. I continue to sign and ask for a five minutes break. In the restroom I use my pressed powder' mirror to check if my face is still ok.

-You never refresh your makeup. Well, you don't even do your makeup, I don't understand what you are doing. You are waiting for someone?

-No. I...I want...I have to...

-No. You hope and you desire. You want him to come just like yesterday.

-You need to spit your fire somewhere else. You are wrong.

-I only wake up when you are battling against your desires and your anger. Your frustrations. If I'm talking to you right now, it's because I'm right.

I insist on the T zone and go back to my table. I'm just stressed because of the conference. This is it. The news conference is stressing me. I sign, I smile and I spend the afternoon telling that "Dylan O'Brien is really nice" At six o'clock the guards close the doors despite the protest.

The journalists are boring. If I was a male writer, I would have done coke in the restroom and half fucked the press officer behind the comics' shelf. But I'm a polite woman and I answer each and every question with a smile, my back is straight and I'm not playing with my hair.

-They say your character is inspired by Dylan O'Brien, is it true?

-It is.

-Did you meet him?

-Yesterday. He's very nice.

-Would you like to discuss about your novel with him?

-Not really but if he has an opinion I would like to hear it.

-Did Dylan read your book already?

-I don't have this information.

-Did you think about him for the cover?

And it goes on and on for the next ten questions. They only talk about Dylan O'Brien. Nobody cares about the fact that I address the issue of masculine homosexuality and most of the readers are women. They don't care about the sexual frustration a lot of gay people are facing because it's still complicated. About the problems age difference can cause or that George Michael have been unhappy his entire life because he had to stay in the closet. They don't talk about wattpad, my style, my plot. They don't care. The only important thing is Dylan O'Brien. Anger is building inside of me and I can't control it.

-Why him and not someone else? Why not Thomas Brodie Sangster or Kit Harrington for example? Games of Thrones is a phenomenal success compared to Teen Wolf, don't you think? You'd have reached more people!

I did my best to stay in control but I can't take it anymore.

-Because he got that damn ass from hell, calmly answers the Dragon through my voice.

I see Anastasia drop her pen and her smile at the same time. An awkward silence fills the room and I bite the inside of my cheeks to retain my laugh. The kind new romance author is gone: and aunty fan fiction just made her come-back.

When we are done, my editor doesn't know if she has to tear me off a strip or congratulate me for the buzz it will create on the web. Every second a nervous laugh threatens.

-You couldn't avoid this one? For real?

-They were harassing me with O'Brien! We are supposed to talk about my book, my story, about "Bromance" and stuff but we only talk about Dylan. They annoy Ana Todd this much with Harry Styles?

-I guess and she's handling it like a boss since book one. Maybe she's more professional.

-Or maybe his ass is flat? I tell her laughing like crazy.

The madness of the situation is contagious. We stop next to a wall to free our giggles.

-But, did you see the guy from ET! ? He could have eaten his beard!

-Stop! I can't! The Foyles' director looked at me like you were a wild animal.

-He's probably right somehow. Well, I'm hungry. We eat something?

Ramen replace the Fish & Chips and we spend a good time thanks to the actor's buns. They actually break the ice between us. A waiter brings us two glasses of an expensive but no so good wine. Anastasia relaxes a bit, she talks about her three children and about her husband who's sometimes a musician but always a stay-at-home dad. I find something human behind her Nordic blond locks and her flawlessly sharp cut. We take a cab to go back to the hotel. The day has been tiring.

In my room I mentally turn the situation again and again before I choose to go downstairs and have a drink at the time the big cats are out. Just to see if what I said about his bottom is true.