A little bit of a much longer  short story.

I love wirting dialogue, but I struggle with the stuff you have to wrap round the dialogue....so any help welcomed 

 Hove park was looking particularly green today, the morning light gave everything a pleasing sharpness that brought out the best in the outdoors. Simon Peters, however, was distracted by the little ray of gloom that sat opposite him. He peered at Kirsty over the top of the Telegraph sports section. He hated the paper, but it was the only one in which he was guaranteed not to find any pictures of him. He was fairly sure she was dischuffed. He had noticed she was staring intently at one of the Sunday red top supplements written for ‘women’. This was not good. They’d got her again.

 “Hon?” tentative contact initiated. Unfortunately no response was forthcoming. He hated this, apart from anything else; she looked so bloody dour when she sulked. She looked good in the sunglasses mind, and the new bob set her off a treat when she smiled. He sensed they were quite some distance from a smile this morning though.

 “Kirst ? Hon? You all right_^?”

 She tossed a look at him that indicated that she was pretty far from alright, thank you very much.

 “Oh look Kirsty –“

“’Look Kirsty’ ? Look-bloody-Kirsty. No Simon, this is not a situation where ‘Look Kirsty’ is going to get you any bloody where.” Okay, it was clear he hadn’t realised the gravity of the situation. It was a shame, by and large he liked Kirsty. They’d kicked about together now for a couple of weeks now and he thought it was going pretty well. Clearly not.

The good thing about recognition from the tabloids and glossies, he was punching well above his weight with the ladies. Take Kirsty, well above average looking, pushing a nine on the Dudley Moore scale. Three months ago, the closest he’d get to a conversation would be making nuisance phone calls.  Get  a couple of photos of him on about page seven with an arm drapped round the bassist of a pretty good indie band or coming out of one of the smarter designer shops in town and he was a hit. That whiff of recognition was proving quite the turn on.

See, he was a pretty average looking thirty something, he kept his head shaved close to hide the bald patch, had enough cash to kit himself in pretty good clobber and at a push could generate a good moody look over the top of a cigarette. But take away the gossip columns and he’s Barry Average. Something about the fame though. He figured that women assumed he had his pick of the ladies, therefore were flattered when he spoke to them, therefore he’d end up with his pick of the ladies.

Thing was, these three or four week flings were losing their lustre and he was into Kirsty. She looked damned good, and they seemed to be into the same movies and Pubs and stuff as well.

If he couldn’t talk her round then he was going to personally get on a train to London and punch the editor of the Star right in the face

“Kirsty, in all honesty, is it really that bad?”

She tossed him a withering look that would have made a girder go floppy.

“Simon. They’ve got a picture of me in my bra.” She held the picture at him while looking into the horizon.

“You look good”, he said hopefully.

“In my sodding bra Simon!”

“They are bastards aren’t they.” But she wasn’t really listening. She said it almost as if she’d just realised it and was articulating the words as they formed in her mind
“I can’t do this.”

“Oh come on Kirst, I know it’s a pain, but-“

She looked at him and put her hand on his knee “No Simon, look, I’ve had a lot of fun these last few weeks But, look, I really can’t be waking up with a hangover in your tiny flat and walk down the shop to see this kind of thing. I’m sorry sweetie, I’m out.” Damn, that was cold of her. As an after thought, “Why is your flat so tiny anyway ?” she stood up, put her funky new Prada bag on her shoulder and walked off. She dropped the tabloid in the bin and as she did so, turned and gave him a smile.

Simon was dumbstruck; he was looking forward to a nice day of reading papers in the park, maybe a pub lunch, and hitting the sack before Midsommer Murders. Now he was on his own with a headache and a bad paper.

Bloody tabloids, they were turning into a right pain. He couldn’t scratch his bum without the three am girls popping up and taking a picture. Literally. Page nine of the Sunday Mirror two weeks ago - “‘Rash’ decision to scratch it in the street Simon.” Bastards.