8
At 4 a.m. the following day, Jack and I are up, dressed and waiting to travel to a TV studio for a breakfast interview. To add insult to ungodly hour, it’s raining. Hard. And we arranged to meet our driver around the corner from the hotel. And he is running late. And I left my umbrella in my hotel room.
Jack extends his, keeping his usual safe distance of a few metres away from me, and I can’t help but glance towards him.
‘Do you want to—’
‘No,’ I say, immediately, folding my arms as the downpour increases.
‘Suit yourself,’ he says. I last approximately thirty seconds until I feel the rain starting to soak through my jacket. He looks over at me and gestures subtly, offering his umbrella as shelter again.
‘Fine. Yes. Please,’ I say, moving to stand next to him.
The proximity is immediately uncomfortable. I can feel the warmth of him next to me; the rise and fall of his breath. I tense up and turn my back to him, busying myself scrolling through emails on my phone, then reach one that makes me exclaim aloud.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘You’re number one on the New York Times bestseller list!’ I say, excitement building inside me despite myself. I’ve never had an author go to number one before.
He looks bewildered for a moment, then his bewilderment disperses into a smile so dazzling it stops me in my tracks for a second. ‘You are kidding me,’ he says.
I shake my head, swept up momentarily in his joy, and before I know it he’s pulled me into a hug. For the briefest of seconds I lean into it instinctively, then I come to my senses, my stomach dropping. Oh God. What the fuck is happening?
I immediately stiffen, and he does, too, seeming to realise his mistake. He pulls away and I extricate myself, stepping out into the rain again.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Got a little carried away there.’
I choke slightly, still struggling to find words.
‘I just – I’ve never had a number one, before,’ he says, and his tone is so soft and vulnerable it gives me pause.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, eventually. ‘No harm done,’ I reassure him, even as mortification moves through me. ‘And – congratulations.’
‘Thanks, Andie.’
The TV studio is in central London, and we make it there in good time – 5 a.m. is not exactly peak time for city traffic. The building is flashy, its glass exterior jutting out onto the street below. It’s the only one on the street that seems awake, so far.
The studio is busy, runners and producers bustling around us and shouting instructions at each other. For the second time this morning, I feel a thrill of excitement. Another first: my first time in a TV studio with an author. Though I’d much rather be here with anyone but Jack, this is a career highlight for me. We sign in and they whisk Jack away to the make-up department almost immediately. I wait, soaking in the atmosphere for a few minutes, until Jack reappears, scaring the living daylights out of me.
‘Here,’ he says, holding out a takeaway coffee cup.
‘What’s this?’
He looks at me like I might have lost my mind. ‘Coffee, Andie. I had the runner pick one up for you, too.’
‘I don’t want it—’ I start, but he presses it into my hand.
‘It’s 6 a.m., and we have a long day ahead of us. Take the caffeine.’
‘But—’ I go to protest again, but it dies in my throat. I am exhausted. ‘Fine,’ I say, closing my hands around the cup. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he replies. ‘Besides, it’s the least I can do—’
These words send a ripple of dread through me.
‘—after jumping you this morning.’
Oh. That. A wave of nausea comes up my throat at the memory, my face heating with embarrassment. I could have done without that reminder.
‘Well, thanks,’ I choke out, mortified. ‘Again. For the coffee.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says, scratching the back of his neck. ‘Again.’
Lord please save me from this conversation.
A producer comes and grants my wish a few moments later, taking Jack to the green room. I wait in my allocated area to the side of the set, watching Jack’s performance live. He’s impressive: clearly well-honed from the documentaries he’s done. I should be pleased and proud that my author is doing so well, but instead I can’t help but feel the injustice of it all. That he should have turned out so attractive, so successful. Could karma not have given me a bit of a break?
I’m so lost in thought that when someone taps me on the shoulder once Jack’s segment is over, I jump and throw my coffee half over them. Fuck.
‘I am so sorry,’ I say, surveying the damage: the man’s crisp white shirt is now a shade of brown. He looks down in slight horror, before returning his face to a polite expression and reaching out to shake my hand.
‘I’m Aaron, the director of the show. I thought I’d introduce myself.’
Oh good. I’ve just thrown coffee over the most important person in this room.
‘Andie,’ I say, shaking his hand and realising a moment too late that mine is still damp from throwing my coffee everywhere. I watch him notice this, then pretend not to notice this, and subtly wipe his hand on his trousers before pulling out his wallet. If a hole in the ground could open me up and swallow me into it right now, that would be great.
‘I wanted to give you my card,’ he says, handing it to me. ‘We’d love to have Jack back at some point.’
‘Back?’ I ask, still reeling from how catastrophically I’ve screwed up this interaction.
‘Yes,’ he says, slowly. ‘We do a book segment every week. I think he’d be great for it.’
I stare at the card for a few seconds. ‘That’s, uh—’ I say, eventually. Words, Andie. Use your words. ‘Great. Lovely. I’ll be in touch.’
He nods, looking slightly bemused. ‘Wonderful. Now if you’ll excuse me,’ he says, ‘I’m going to go and find a new shirt.’
After the TV segment, we travel back across London for a print interview. We’re meeting the journalist in a local cafe, about ten minutes’ walk from the hotel. I spend most of the taxi journey recovering from my interaction with the director – at this rate I’m not feeling hopeful that he’ll reply to my follow-up email.
The café is fairly classic for central London: plastic tables that customers have to squeeze past to reach the counter, music playing just a little too loud and pastries that are on the pale side of cooked.
We cram around a table in the corner, almost knocking a bag off the back of someone’s chair, and I make the introduction. I’ve been in touch with this journalist for the last few weeks: she seems nice, if a little green. She’s written a few think pieces, but nothing to write home about. As far as I can tell, this will be a fairly standard interview.
She opens with a few questions about Jack’s writing process, and the differences between fiction and non-fiction. I watch him relax into the interview, turning on the charm. I silently praise myself for the briefing I gave him on the way here – he’s already asked her about a book she gave a rave review a few weeks ago, and this seems to have created a great rapport between them. So far, so good , I think, zoning out briefly while they discuss the intricacies of plotting a historical novel.
But then, all of a sudden, Jack tenses up opposite me and I return abruptly to the present, the conversation coming into focus again.
‘Your father,’ she says, looking at him pointedly, ‘is a well-known historian and regularly writes reviews of historical literature. Is there a reason why he’s never reviewed any of your books?’ My stomach curdles, my attention suddenly and inescapably on them both, praying that Jack somehow finds a way out of this and doesn’t accidentally rise to the bait.
‘We, uh,’ Jack falters, suddenly looking lost. ‘We prefer to keep things separate. Nepotism and all,’ I flinch internally. Oh god.
‘Interesting you say that,’ she says, leaning forwards with a triumphant expression on her face. My stomach drops to the floor. ‘When your father is close friends with your UK non-fiction editor, George Richards. Is there any connection between that relationship and your route to publication?’ Jack has, at this point, turned a shade of puce. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
‘No,’ he says, slightly stammering now. ‘My father and I – our relationship – it’s complicated,’ he falters again, sinking, and guilt seeps through me. I am suddenly reminded of Jack’s response to George’s speech. Judging by that, and his reaction now, his father is a no-go zone for him. So not only is this interview going south for the purposes of the campaign, it’s ventured into a personal sore spot. Excellent job, Andie. Normally, I’d have asked an author more carefully about any pressure points they specifically wanted to avoid, and helped them with strategies to do so. But in this case, I’ve been so focused on keeping Jack at arm’s length that I’ve not done my due diligence.
‘Complicated how?’ she asks, with the look of someone that’s about to get the scoop she wanted. A flash of protective anger suddenly kicks in. She doesn’t get to pin an author of mine to the wall like this – even if that author is Jack Carlson.
‘That’s enough,’ I say, before Jack can answer the question. ‘We made it very clear in our briefing that you were not to ask personal questions outside what had been agreed. Jack’s father was not on that list.’
‘But—’ she protests.
‘I think that we are done with this line of questioning,’ I press, my tone firm. I watch her shift in her seat, her assuredness slowly dissolving into light panic. While I might have underestimated her desire for a scoop, I did read her correctly earlier: she’s too green for this. She doesn’t have a plan.
‘Now,’ I say, leaning in to drive it home. ‘Do you have everything you need, or would you like to ask Jack any further questions about his book?’ I say, enunciating the last three words carefully.
‘No,’ she says, gathering her papers and standing up. ‘I think I’m done here.’
‘Thanks very much for your time,’ I say, shaking her hand. We might not be getting the best coverage from this journalist, but I’d like to at least try to leave on civil terms. From experience with these situations, it could be the difference between a three-star review and an absolute disaster. I look at Jack and plead silently that he understands that now is the time to put on a show and turn the charm back on.
‘It was wonderful to meet you,’ he says, standing up and now successfully knocking the stranger’s bag off their chair. Smooth. He puts it back apologetically and reaches across the table to shake her hand: he’s trapped in the corner, and it would be too awkward at this stage to extricate himself. It’s not quite the put-together performance I was hoping for, but it’s strangely more than that. A glimpse at his human side, which might endear him to her.
The journalist takes his hand, breaking into a slight smile. She then slings her bag over her shoulder and nods at us both, her posture now more closed, and heads out of the café. As soon as she’s gone, Jack lets out a long sigh, his composure crumpling. He puts his face in his hands, and looks at me through his fingers.
‘How bad was it?’ he asks.
‘I’ve seen much worse,’ I say, looking down at my phone to hide how flustered I am.
‘Come on, Andie,’ he says, removing his hands from his face. ‘Hit me with it. Scale of one to ten, with ten being a one-star review?’
Despite myself, I smile a little. ‘Solid five, I’d say.’ I relent, and he relaxes. ‘But let’s not hold our breath about that write up being glowing.’
His face falls, slightly. ‘I’m so sorry, Andie. I don’t know why I got so flustered—’
I hold up my hand to stop him. ‘Jack, stop. It wasn’t your fault. It’s mine. I should have seen that coming, or prepped you better. It’s on me.’
‘But—’
‘Stop, or you’re going to annoy me,’ I say, in a warning tone.
‘OK,’ he says, sitting back in his chair. ‘It’s just – I’ve had questions like that before, just none quite so—’ he pauses, bewildered, and I watch him shake his head briefly as if trying to rid himself of the last ten minutes. When he looks up at me again, he’s smiling tentatively, the Jack Carlson veneer mostly back up with only a small crack through to the vulnerability underneath. ‘Usually I’m very charming, you see.’
I suppress an eye roll, ignoring the flash of something else that lights up inside me at his words. ‘I can tell you’re feeling better,’ I say, my tone laced with sarcasm.
‘Maybe. Anyway, thanks for saving me out there, Andie,’ he says, leaning towards me with an expression suddenly so earnest it makes me squirm inside.
‘I was just doing my job, Jack,’ I remind him, gesturing for a passing waiter to bring me the bill. They bring it over, and I pull my company card out of the bag to pay. ‘It’s why I’m here, after all.’
‘Right, of course,’ he says, and when I catch his eye he looks strangely disappointed.