9
The next day I wake up to a voice note from Sara. It could not be more welcome, after the night I’ve had: one of my other authors got themselves into a social media controversy yesterday, and I was up until three in the morning detangling it. It took me a good hour of back-and-forth to eventually convince them that our suggested strategy of going dark for a few weeks was for damage control purposes rather than a personal attempt by me to limit their free speech. Eventually I won them round, but I got about three hours sleep as a result.
‘Hey, champ! Checking in. How are things?’ she chirps, her voice a balm to my exhausted mind. Hearing her speak is like the sun shining through curtains, immediately brightening my day. I drink it in: her descriptions of New York in the summer – too hot and crowded, but alive with people – and an update on her job. She’s been offered a promotion. The news buzzes through me like caffeine.
I send a voice note back, telling her how thrilled I am and how much I miss her, promising her a celebration when I’m home. But when I get to myself, to the question she asked at the beginning of her message, I find myself stumped. ‘Things are, objectively, fine,’ I say, thinking out loud. ‘But there’s not much more to say than that. Jack annoys me, we get through the day. It’s – fine.’ The word sticks in my throat as I say it. I lift my thumb off the recording button and hit send, then press it again. ‘Love you! See you soon,’ I say, then drop my phone on the bed and lie back, staring at the ceiling.
I turn my answer over in my mind, an unexpected heaviness falling over me. I should be pleased that things are going OK so far – my expectations for this trip were on the floor. I haven’t yet pushed Jack into traffic, or screamed at him, or ruined any of the events we’ve attended. Aside from a few slip-ups, which are to be expected considering I’m mostly focused on not losing my mind, there haven’t been any disasters yet. So I’m not sure why I feel disappointed. But I don’t have long to mull on it. I have to get up and get ready for the day.
After dragging myself out of bed and throwing on a pair of my most comfortable shoes, I meet Jack outside the hotel and run him through the schedule. Today is a bookshop tour, which means I spend the day as Jack’s chaperone – transporting him safely to each venue and keeping us on schedule while he meets booksellers and signs books. No driver, today: it would be inefficient with London traffic. Just us, our feet, and the tube.
Unfortunately, the day doesn’t get off to a good start. I’m so sleep-deprived and focused on getting into professional-Andie mode so I can keep it together around Jack that the tube journey ends up being two stops too long. We have to travel back in the other direction, and show up to our first stop ten minutes late, throwing off our schedule for the rest of the day. Fortunately, the booksellers are understanding, but I have to rush us slightly, leaving five minutes early so we can make up some time and calling ahead to the next shop to tell them we’re running late.
The rest of the day goes mostly smoothly, from an outside perspective, at least. I manage to make it through the morning, fuelled by caffeine and vague delirium, but by the afternoon I’m barely standing, and not just because of the hours of traipsing around London: everyone, without exception, loves Jack, and it‘s a special kind of hell to hear so much praise about someone you hate. By the afternoon, I’m really having to work hard to hold a smile while a seemingly never-ending convoy of booksellers, all of whom appear to be Jack’s biggest fan, talk about how great he is. ‘You write so presently,’ one bookseller says. Another compliments his form, a third his smooth transition from the more serious tone of his non-fiction to the engaging style of his fictional prose. The worst, though, is when a female bookseller compliments his intimate understanding of the female psyche. At that, I grip the book I’m holding so hard my knuckles turn white.
‘Andie?’ he says, waving a hand in front of me.
‘What?’ I look up, sharply, and realise that the bookseller has drifted off, and we’re alone on the shop floor.
‘Thanks for today,’ he says, and I flinch at his gratitude. ‘I know it’s been a marathon.’
‘You’re welcome.’ I say, but I can’t help but add. ‘Though, as I have told you a few times now, it is my job.’
‘You’re good at it,’ he persists.
‘I don’t need your praise, Jack.’
‘I know you don’t. I just wanted to say, I’ve had a lot of publicists over the years, and for one who absolutely hates my guts you’re very professional. The booksellers loved you, today.’
I want to tell him to shut up, but something about what he’s said doesn’t sit quite right, giving me pause before I respond. I think back through the day. All I can really remember is trying to keep my mood in check, but I suppose I did put on a good performance: keeping us firmly on schedule, introducing him to the booksellers by name, handing out up-to-date press releases. Making sure each book was open at the right page for signing, keeping a supply of pens going. And, generally, looking after people – the most important part of the job. It’s all become second nature to me now, such a familiar routine that I don’t really notice when I’m doing it. But then, all of a sudden, a thought comes out of nowhere and hits me like a punch in the gut. Jack is wrong. I might be good at my job, generally. But I’m not good at this one.
On tour, your job is to be the eyes and ears of the trip, the source of calm and composure. So far, I have neither been calm nor composed: I’ve been jumpy and irritable, far below my usual standard of professionalism. Yesterday, I threw coffee over a TV director and missed a key point of preparation for Jack’s interview. Today, we were late. Minor mistakes, perhaps, but rare ones by my usual standards. And they’re multiplying. Besides, if that’s just the first few days of the tour, what might happen in the next few weeks, in Berlin or Paris or Dublin?
And then it clicks: the reason I felt heavy this morning when I told Sara things were ‘fine’. Momentary shame floods through me: until this moment, I thought my priority for this trip was just to get through it without causing a huge disaster. But I can see now that it’s more than that: I’m disappointed in myself, in my performance so far. I don’t want to just scrape by for the next few weeks, content that I only made a few slip-ups here and there. That things were ‘fine’. I want to do a good job. I want to feel proud – of myself, of this campaign. Quite apart from anything else, if I’m going to spend three more weeks with the person I hate most in the world, the bare minimum I want from it is some job satisfaction. And to achieve that, I have to actually find a way to be around Jack without wanting to tell him to get fucked every five seconds.
After a few seconds of silence, Jack clears his throat, bringing me back to the present. ‘Did I say something wrong?’ he asks, with a slight furrow in his brow.
‘No, you didn’t,’ I say, shame suddenly hardening into resolve, an idea forming in the back of my mind. I might hate Jack, and that’s not changing. But I’m here, and so is he. If I want this trip to be a success, to meet my own standards of professionalism and prove to myself that I deserve this job, that I’m capable of doing it well, no matter the hurdles – I need a new plan. ‘Listen, Jack – we’re done for the day, can I buy you a coffee?’
‘So,’ I say about twenty minutes later, sitting opposite him, awkwardly staring into my latte. We’re in a coffee shop a few doors down from the bookshop, and he still looks absolutely bewildered as to why I’ve gone from leave me alone to let’s go for coffee in the space of an hour. ‘I don’t think this is working.’
He sits back in his chair, his expression hard to read. There is a long pause. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks disappointed. But that can’t be right.
‘Okay,’ he says eventually, nodding slowly and stirring some milk into his coffee. I hold my breath as I wait for him to continue, and eventually he looks up at me, his eyes startlingly blue, and breathes out a small sigh. ‘So we’ll need to work out how to spin this, I guess. Any ideas?’
I frown. ‘What are you talking about?’
He looks at me sideways, confused. ‘You’re leaving, right?’
‘For God’s sake, Jack. Would you stop trying to kick me off your trip?’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘I’m not leaving.’
Another indiscernible expression passes across his face – relief? But that would also be ridiculous.
‘OK,’ he says, carefully, as if he doesn’t want to make another misstep. ‘I’m confused.’
‘What I’m suggesting,’ I say, leaning forwards, ‘is a truce.’
‘What sort of truce?’
I take a deep breath. Here goes. ‘I think you and I need to agree to actually act as if nothing ever happened between us. Like, for the purposes of this trip, we have a clean slate. You have nothing to make up for, I have nothing to be angry about. We’re just two people who have never met, on a tour together for the first time.’
He sits back, processing what I’ve just said. ‘Isn’t that kind of what we’re doing already?’ he asks, eventually. I shake my head.
‘Do you think I normally tell authors to get fucked this often?’
He laughs. ‘Well, probably not.’
‘And you can’t honestly tell me this is how you usually behave around your publicists, Jack,’ I say, raising my eyebrows slightly. ‘You’re jumpy as fuck.’
He smiles, his expression turning slightly sheepish. ‘Perhaps I have been a little skittish around you,’ he says.
‘Exactly,’ I say, my assurance that this is an excellent plan increasing with every word. ‘Every interaction we’ve had so far has been setting me on edge, and I realised today that it’s because we haven’t set the terms of this trip clearly enough.’ He purses his lips, slightly and I continue, leaning on my resolve from earlier. ‘So let me be clear now. I don’t want to discuss what happened. I don’t want you to apologise, or try to make anything up to me. I want – I need us to agree to act as if there’s no past between us, and you’re any other author. It’s the only way I’ll get through this trip.’ My voice grows a little thick – this is the closest we’ve been to talking about Edinburgh since the first night in that bookshop. I feel suddenly vulnerable, exposed.
‘OK,’ he says, eventually. ‘I guess I hoped—’ he pauses and runs a hand through his hair, then changes track, his jawline setting. ‘But that doesn’t matter, now. You have a right to keep the past in the past, if that’s what you want. I’m willing to agree to whatever terms you ask for.’
At his words, relief washes over me. I hadn’t realised how exhausted I had been until this moment. From the moment I saw Jack’s name on Jessica’s list, a part of me has been on edge, worried one wrong move might send us irrevocably back to that night five years ago – the article, and the car park, and everything unravelling around me. By agreeing to these terms, he’s promising that’s not going to happen, and I see the sincerity on his face and hear it in his voice. Against all odds, I believe him.
‘OK,’ I say, taking a sip of my coffee. ‘So I’ll stop being so hostile, and you’ll stop being so weird. And we’ll just get on with the trip as if everything is normal. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ he says, and I let out a long breath, exhaling all the tension from my body.
‘Thank you,’ I say, the first genuine words I’ve spoken to him since we left New York.
Unfortunately, though, when I call her that evening, Sara doesn’t seem quite so on board with the idea.
‘Hmm,’ she says, when I’ve finished explaining the truce to her and asked her what she thinks.
‘I thought this was what you wanted!’ I say, incredulous. ‘You told me this would be good for me, that it would help me find a way to be free of this.’
‘This wasn’t what I meant, A.’
‘What did you mean?’
‘I thought you’d talk to him about it maybe. Finally address what happened, finally put this all behind you. Instead you’ve just buried it even deeper than before.’
‘I haven’t buried it,’ I say, hurt. Why can’t she see what a great plan this is? ‘I’ve just – put it to one side, for a while. I need to be able to interact with Jack without being one comment away from kneeing him in the balls the whole time.’
She laughs at this, but it’s ever so slightly forced: she still doesn’t agree. A knot of doubt forms in the pit of my stomach. Her disapproval stings more than I thought it would – I thought she’d be proud of me for sorting something out on my own for once. Besides, it’s not like I’m not addressing the problem – I’m acknowledging our past is there, still. But it’s better, for the purposes of this trip, that we don’t drag it into the present.
I take a deep breath. It’s Sara. She loves you. She just wants what’s best for you , I remind myself. She’s your best friend.
‘How are things with you?’ I ask, changing the subject. ‘How’s the promotion?’
‘Oh it’s so great, A. I’m working harder but the work is fun, and we had a party the other day to celebrate. I wish you could’ve been there.’
‘Me, too,’ I say, guilt seeping through me for missing it. ‘Promise we’ll celebrate when I’m back,’ I say, and a brief silence falls. I hesitate, feeling suddenly and inexplicably awkward. I never run out of things to say around Sara, but I find myself scrambling in this moment, unsure how to close this weird distance I’m suddenly feeling between us – how to ask her the question I really want to ask, without making it sound loaded or strange. ‘And how’s James?’ I say, finally, my voice coming out a little overenthusiastic.
‘Um, fine, thanks,’ she replies, her tone shifting slightly into the one she uses when James is in the room with her. My suspicion is confirmed a moment later when I hear him shout from the kitchen in the background, letting her know that their DoorDash delivery has arrived. My stomach drops – I can always tell when she’s lying.
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ she calls back, holding the receiver away from her. Then her voice appears in my ear, soft and Sara-like again. ‘Listen, A – if you think this is a good plan, then I think you should go for it. Just – be careful, OK?’
The knot loosens slightly at her words. ‘I will,’ I say, feeling suddenly and inexplicably tearful. I want to be in New York, not here. To reach for her hand and ask her what’s really wrong. ‘Love you,’ I say, willing the force of it to reach her through the phone.
‘Love you more,’ she says, then hangs up. I imagine her walking over to the kitchen, sitting down to eat with James, the city lights blinking around them through the sterile glass walls. I stare at the wallpaper of the London suite – a William Morris print, I think – and try my best to stay in the present. A flower here, a leaf there. Don’t cry, don’t cry . For a fleeting second, I find myself deeply and inexplicably missing my mum. I wish I could hug her, right now. I scroll through our recent texts, and find one I’d somehow missed – checking that Jack is still happy to come to her book club on Friday. Fuck. I’ve been so caught up in my job the last few days, I almost forgot about it.
‘Andie?’ Jack’s voice comes from outside the door, quiet and tentative, jarring me out of my feelings. His sudden arrival makes me jump, but it’s perfect timing – if there’s a time to ask him this, it has to be now.
‘Yes?’ I call, desperately trying to plan how I’m going to ask him at this short notice to give up his only free night in London.
‘I, uh – I ordered way too much room service. Do you want some fries?’
‘That would be great, thanks,’ I say. I’m not hungry, but it gives me an excuse to open the door. I walk over to it, nerves swirling in my stomach, and find him standing outside in his pyjamas, his posture awkward. The sight is startling – vulnerable, somehow. I recognise the plaid of the trousers from a pair he offered me to sleep in, a million years ago, and my heart stutters for a second. Fuck. Not the time to be thinking about that. I shove the image out of my mind and fix my gaze firmly on his face. He hands me the bowl, and moves to turn away.
‘Jack, wait—’ I say, trying to dredge up some courage. I curse myself for not being a better daughter, so I wouldn’t have to ask this of him. The irony does not escape me that after all my talk today of not wanting Jack to do me any favours, I’m about to ask him for one.
‘Yes?’ he says, turning back towards me.
I blurt it out all at once, suddenly feeling incredibly nauseous. ‘Would you come to my mum’s book club tomorrow?’
He looks momentarily startled by the question, which deepens my embarrassment. ‘As a guest of honour, I mean. It’s just – she’s a big fan of yours—’ I start, stammering, to fill the silence. But he cuts me off.
‘Sure. Tell her it would be my pleasure.’
Thank God for that. I let out the breath I was holding. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, relief flooding through me.
‘Of course,’ he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘I like your mum. She seemed lovely on the phone the other day.’
Ah, right. They’ve sort of met. I roll my eyes and, despite myself, start to smile back, but as per usual he immediately ruins any charitable feelings I have towards him. ‘And you should know,’ he smiles at me, a glint in his eyes, ‘being fawned over by older ladies is my forte.’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll believe it when I see it,’ I say, waving him away. He shrugs and starts back down the corridor. I pause, watching him walk away. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ I call after him.
‘You’re welcome, Andie,’ he says, then disappears into his room.