Chapter 44
Tonight, Damien was ready to set sail for the Q we need our sponsors.’
‘Don’t give me that crap,’ Damien hissed. ‘You knew he was coming all along. Just didn’t want to tell me in case I stood you up.’
Castle arrived. Sauntered onto the stage all fancy dapper with his blue suede loafers and velvet jacket.
‘So sorry I’m late.’ He patted Alan’s shoulder. ‘My, you look red. Where’s your make-up girl?’
‘This is a lecture theatre not a film set,’ Finnigan said.
Damien flicked Castle an icy glance. He retaliated with a smug smile.
‘Actually, come to think of it, you could do with a bit of a touch-up too,’ he drawled.
Here we go , said the Voice. Mr Lah-di-dah is pitching for another scrap.
The two men had fallen out in a very public way and the war wasn’t over.
It was the preview of Writing in the Sand that had been a gut punch. Castle was known for encouraging improvisation. The actors had gone rogue, Damien’s words tossed aside in the climactic scene.
After the film, Damien had grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall. It was all snapped by the paps; in the papers and online gossip blogs the next day.
Come on , Damien, let it go. It’s show time , said the Voice.
Finnigan stood up and addressed the auditorium. I hope you all enjoyed the film this evening. So now let’s kick off the Q a harsh, steely atmosphere that not even the warm rays of autumn sunlight could penetrate.
‘Frances, please put your mobile away,’ Damien said. ‘What are you tweeting about now? It’s really very rude to be on your phone while we’re eating.’
‘I’m not tweeting. I’m posting on Instagram.’
Why the hell did she choose this dump? the Voice said. I think you’re on to a loser. She’s too young for you. So obsessed with her phone, probably doesn’t notice where she is.
Damien jabbed the grey slab of meat with his fork. ‘This burger is disgusting. Cooked to buggery. Not even fit for a dog.’
Should have gone to Gauchos , said the Voice. At least you can have a medium-rare steak there. Absolutely delicious, soft as butter, not like these dried-up cow pats that you can bet your bottom dollar taste like shit.
‘Anyway, what are you posting about this time?’ he said to Frances.
‘I’m a lifestyle influencer, Damien. I have 20,000 followers. I’m going to bring culture to my brand, and you are my poster boy.’ She pinched his cheek and gave him a beautiful smile.
‘Great.’ He bit into the burger and tried to swallow. ‘Ugh! I can’t do this.’ He spat it into a paper napkin. ‘I should imagine that prison food’s better. I know the soup kitchen in Brixton is.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’ve cooked there at Christmas.’
‘That’s good of you.’
‘Not really. Just relieves me of my guilt. You still haven’t said what words of wisdom you are sending to your loyal followers.’
‘Give us a smile.’ Frances took a picture.
She showed him the photo and then typed a short message that read, Damien Spur loves a burger, but not this one. There will be no return visit to Mitch’s Diner.
She tapped the icon with her index finger. ‘There you go – you’re posted on my Insta.’
‘Frances, I’m a serious writer. You are trivialising my life.’
‘Come on, Damien. It’s the new way.’
‘Well, I’m flattered that you’ve taken it upon yourself to promote me, but I do actually have a publicist.’
‘Not that I can see,’ said Frances.
‘That’s because you’re so obsessed with social networking.’
‘True. As far as I’m concerned, everything else is a side show.’
‘Maybe so, but I really don’t need your help.’
‘You do if you want to create a platform for the next generation of readers. Look, I know you have a huge number of devotees. The video I uploaded of your academy talk on Facebook had 8,000 views, which I cross-linked with my blog, Twitter and Instagram account, which, combined, had another 20,000 views. And that was only till yesterday! Pretty impressive, I’d say. But I guess your fans are post-thirty. So, let’s widen your audience to a younger demographic.’
‘Really, Frances, you’re obsessive.’
‘Okay, but let me show you how it works.’
She sat close to Damien. Her hair smelt of roses.
‘I reviewed your book this morning. So now we take a selfie.’ She moved closer.
‘I wish you wouldn’t. The lighting’s terrible here,’ he said.
Frances ignored him. ‘Here we go.’
‘No, really, stop! I’m not some mindless idiot. I’m leaving. This is so undignified. I think you should play with someone your own age.’ He called the waiter.
‘Okay, okay…’ Frances had lost her happy face. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll just post the text.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Please, it will only take a second.’
Lucky me chatting to Damien Spur , she typed rapidly. His new thriller, Writing in the Sand, is a mind twister. Visit my blog Spreadtheword.com to read my review.
She clicked submit. ‘Now we wait for the hits.’
Damien pushed his plate away.
‘Look, I know you have the best intentions, but calm down. Why don’t we go to my place and you can try to convert me over a cuppa and a sandwich.’
***
Back at Cheyne Walk, Frances sat in the kitchen and continued her mission.
Damien wasn’t sure what he’d let himself in for.
What’s the problem? said the Voice. Let her talk. She might say something useful .
***
Frances couldn’t stop. She was animated like a wind-up toy.
‘Social networking is a digital shout that can go viral, shared by people like me. It’s key to have endorsements from celebrities and some juicy gossip to boost your profile. That’s how to create a trend.’
‘Trends go out of fashion,’ Damien said. ‘Best to be a classic. Writers find their audiences through the merits of their books, not their personalities. I’m not an actor.’
‘Please, Damien, this is my field. Let me show you how it works. Next time you do a talk, why don’t I film it and upload it on my YouTube channel?’
Damien took a coconut biscuit and popped it in his mouth. ‘Mmm, these are good. Very crunchy and naturally sweet. I made them last night. Try one?’
‘No thanks – I’m on a diet.’
He broke one in half and teased her lips open.
‘Really, Damien! I get the message.’ She pushed his hand away. ‘You’re trying to stop me talking.’
‘Yes.’
Frances giggled as she let him pop the biscuit in her mouth.
‘Mmmm, very good,’ she said crunching rapidly and swallowing hard. ‘So about my channel. It’s called Sassy Yankee. I do a virtual tour of London, but it’s not about places of interest – it’s about people. I chat to the demographic of a particular area and get their POV on a variety of topics. I ask the same question to a woman in Knightsbridge as I do to a woman in Dalston. It’s interesting to see how their opinions vary.’
‘Yes. Always fascinating,’ Damien responded with feigned enthusiasm.
Frances had exhausted him with her relentless digital evangelism. He stifled a yawn.
Come on, Damien. Don’t fall asleep , the Voice said. The poor girl is trying her best to impress you.
‘Am I boring you?’ she asked.
‘No! Not at all,’ he lied.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘So, I start by asking light questions such as, “If you could spend the night with a celebrity who would it be?”. Things like that. A bit cheeky. But the advertisers like it. Pulls in the views. Then I tackle deeper issues; politics, social injustice: “Do we need the royal family?”, etc. Anything that seems relevant at the time. Nothing really planned.’
‘That’s great,’ Damien said sarcastically. ‘Any little buzz that comes into your head that you can ask to random strangers. And just a few clicks away it’s transmitted to your followers. Hail, Frances, Queen of Trivia.’
‘That’s not true. I have a deep sense of justice and empathy for people who are struggling in this difficult world and I try to educate my followers. Tell them what I have experienced. Give them my views. Bring them closer to the truth.’
‘Yes, Frances. Your truth. Just so long as it brings in the sponsors.’
‘Come on! You have to admit the web is a fantastic marketing tool,’ Frances said taking another biscuit. ‘These really are moreish. Why don’t I post your recipe on my blog and we could do a little info on your hobbies as part of your bio? And I can help you set up your own Insta profile. Damien Spur, Renaissance man. I bettya you’ll sell a ton more books.’
‘No, no, no! Frances, stop! I don’t want or need an Instagram, Facebook or Twitter account,’ Damien snapped. ‘Every time I publish a new novel it sells out worldwide in three months online with multiple reprints, and first editions go for hundreds of pounds. I don’t need your social-media puff.’
Damien wondered why he had hooked up to a crazy American who spent her life with her head in an iCloud.
‘Can I tell you something?’ She leant forward and gave him one of her fixed listen-up looks.
‘If you insist.’
‘Whatever you say, social media is where it’s at. There’s no point in you hiding your head in the sand. Don’t you want to pull in new blood? That’s who’s going to keep the fire burning!’
‘Frances, I’ve had enough of this. You don’t have to tell me how to run my professional life. And to be honest, I don’t give a damn about my legacy. I couldn’t care less who reads my books when I’m dead.’
‘I will,’ she vowed, like a bride at the altar.
Well, that came out of the blue , murmured the Voice.
Damien was touched. She had expressed her loyalty to him with such sincerity. He felt a pang of regret that he’d been so cruel, unravelling her passion and dedication to the New World.
You have to be careful , said the Voice. This girl could be easily hurt. And if it doesn’t work out, there may be trouble ahead. Never trust a blogger.
‘I think I should go now,’ she said. ‘I have a lot of work to do before the morning.’
‘Well, thank you for a sparky afternoon.’ He walked her to the door. ‘See you soon,’ he said.
Damien watched her leave, swinging her bag on her shoulder. For a brief moment, she looked back. He gave her a wave and shut the door.
‘Okay, what shall I do?’ he asked himself.
You’ve only known her for a few days , the Voice said. I suggest that instead of you doing the seduction bit, let her make the moves. You play hard to get. That way, if things don’t work out in bed, you won’t feel guilt y.
***
Damien was quite happy to coast along without any fireworks. Play it cool. He still wasn’t sure he fancied her.
By week three, Frances had decided to change the status quo. Hitherto, the dates had ended with a friendly peck on the cheek. And even though Damien insisted on paying the tab, Frances did manage to squeeze in a gift. Namely a pair of Vilebrequin swimming shorts. He had planned to stay with Justin and Anna for the weekend in Antibes and had pointed out a pair on display in the window as they passed the shop in the Burlington Arcade after a visit to the Royal Academy.
She gave them to him over lunch at La Famiglia.
‘What a lovely surprise!’ He took the patterned blue and yellow shorts out of the bag. He leant forward and kissed her softly, sweet on her lips. Frances held her breath. She was floating.
‘Let’s go back to yours and you can try them on just to make sure they fit,’ she said all breezy casual, with just a tiny hint of “what if he says no?” in her eyes. ‘Okay?’
‘I look forward to it,’ he said.
***
After they had made love, Frances traced her finger across his chest and said, ‘You’re such a terrific guy, I can’t believe we met in such a random way. It must be in the stars.’
Ah , the Voice said. Is this your kindred spirit? Are you finally twinned with your ever-after? Claudia’s cards, the traveller from abroad?
Damien wound a strand of her blonde hair round his finger and stroked her soft cheek. ‘You’re such a sweet soul, Frances, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘Well then, I’d better go.’ Frances pushed his arm aside. ‘Don’t want to rush you. Make you feel pressured.’
‘Please… don’t take it the wrong way.’
‘Is there a right way? Let me translate. It means that you’re not really interested. Well, okay, I’m going to have a shower and then I’ll be off.’ She got up and made her way towards the bathroom.
Damien leapt out of bed, put his arms round her waist and kissed her neck.
‘It’s okay.’ She pulled away from him. ‘My fault. I was the one who seduced you. I really don’t know why I’m so angry.’ She choked back her tears and wiped her face with the back of her hand, calmed herself and after a few breaths said, ‘It’s just that I don’t normally make the moves. But I thought this time it was going to work.’
Damien caught her arm. ‘Stop, stop, stop! Frances. I can’t bear to see you like this.’ He swung her round to face him. ‘I just get nervous because I always seem to make the wrong choices. Please stay.’
***
Ten o’clock on Sunday morning Damien was in the kitchen rustling up breakfast, while Frances, wearing his pink Turnbull and Asser shirt and nothing else, sat watching him.
‘It’s all to do with the pan,’ he said, waving the crêpe griddle in the air. ‘The eggs cook quicker in a shallow pan and I don’t fold the omelette. So it’s more like a tortilla.’
‘It’s such a turn-on when a guy cooks you breakfast,’ she said, standing behind him, hands on hips.
This one could be a winner , the Voice whispered in his head. She likes you. In and out of bed.
Damien had placed each ingredient in little white bowls on the marble worktop.
‘First, butter – more flavour than olive oil.’ He gently moved her out of the way and dropped a knob into the pan.
‘Sauté the tomatoes.’ He tipped them in. ‘And wait for them to soften. Then pour in the whisked eggs. Burford browns are the best. Deep golden yolks, and a much richer taste than the usual ones.’
He moved the mixture around in the pan, occasionally prodding the edges of the omelette with a spatula.
‘Let them cook for a few minutes, covering intermittently with a lid. There,’ he said, running the spatula across the surface, ‘nice and firm.’
‘Smells good,’ Frances said.
‘Now for the grated cheese.’ He sprinkled the cheddar on top with a flourish, let it melt and finally added some spinach leaves.
‘Lovely,’ she said, ‘and so simple. I’m going to buy a griddle pan and if you come to stay at mine, I’ll make you one.’
Damien caught that look in her eye.
Fair warning , the Voice said, she’s very enthusiastic. Already writing the scenario and it’s feature length – she’s hooked.