Never met a guy l like you before

Confusion reigned. My email address book lists two people with the same name. And I'm normally too busy/tired/useless to make sure I'm communicating with the right one.

So over the past two months, Steve A has learned more about Steve B than he might ever have dreamed imaginable. Steve knows Steve like the back of Steve's hand. He knows his favourite books and films, his likes and dislikes, his favourite food and drink and the destination for his dream holiday. Steve feels as though he's spent a lifetime walking in Steve's shoes. Which, in many ways, he has.

In my spare time, I write books. It keeps me out of trouble and means I don't have to spend time doing other things that are less enjoyable; like grouting tiles, cleaning guttering or painting garage doors.

This involves spending an inordinate amount of weekends and evenings pouring over text, querying facts and making sure that I know the name of Steve B's second-cousin-once-removed. Because those are the sort of things that matter.

Steve B will have a book out in October. I know, I've written it. There are 80,000 words in it, including a vast section of autobiography. But Steve A knows that too. Because during the past few months, he's received emails containing pretty much every last word.

Every time I've wanted to check a fact I've sent Steve B a quick email. They are pal-ey, mate-ey and joke-ey. They speak the universal language of blokes. They are irreverent and full of wit. Except, of course, they rarely reach their intended target: Steve B.

Instead, they reach Steve A, a man who drives a posh car and works in sales: a man who's never even dreamed of being in the sort of situations that Steve B has found himself in – but who's learned about them nonetheless.

In recent months, Steve A has read about ridiculous deadlines, extra-marital dalliances and all manner of dust-ups. He has politely resisted the temptation to comment on my stupidity; though it has been clear to both of us. Instead he has simply returned my emails with a virtual cough, a sort of 'clearing-his-throat-ahem' and left me to send it on to the right Steve.

But now we're heading to the end of the book and soon I will be emailing Steve and Steve no more. The airwaves will go quiet and Steve A will resume his driving-selling-posh-car life without interference from misdirected emails. He will ride the highways and byways of the West Midlands, Manchester, London and beyond without worrying about whether or not Jacintha will mind us telling the story about what really happened in 1987. Or whether it's defamatory to include the tale about Christmas Eve on Regent Street. (And the answer to that is a very simple: 'yes' – nobody will hear about that.)

Though Steve and Steve have little in common except for their name, I like to think I've fostered a virtual friendship between them in recent months. I've shone a light on the human condition that they share. Their successes and failures have become known to one another through the power of the internet and a writer's dodgy mis-application of an email address bar. It'd be nice to think that Steve A might buy Steve B's book when it's out. Though I don't suppose he will. Over the past two months, he's already read it.