12
When we get to the airport, I’m a wreck: wracked with guilt about how I handled things with Mum. When we’re through security and Jack goes to get himself some food for the journey, I try to do my dad’s breathing exercise to calm down, but it only pulls me deeper into the memories, into the vast sense of loss spreading through every part of me within reach.
I pull out my phone and call Sara. I need the solid feeling I have when I hear her voice, the sense of coming back to myself. I need her to tell me what to do. But it rings through to voicemail: it’s still early morning in New York. I send her a text asking how she’s doing, and if she can call me when she has a moment, followed by seven flower emojis – our code for ‘love you’. For a fraction of a second before I put my phone away, my thumb hovers over my mum’s number, but I find myself blocked from calling her, unsure what I’d even say.
I start when I feel a hand on my shoulder, whipping round to see that it belongs to Jack. Where, usually, my response would be mild irritation, now something surprising happens. His sudden presence jolts me into my emotions, and before I know it, they rise up my throat and release into tears. Fuck. It’s mortifying, and exactly the opposite of the new standard of professionalism I was aiming for. But I can’t seem to stop it.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks, looking slightly terrified.
I shake my head, the tears still falling, because I can’t reasonably tell him that I’m fine. I go for a half-truth: ‘I haven’t been sleeping well,’ I sniff, wiping the tears from my face.
He nods, with an understanding expression. ‘I’ve been really struggling to adjust to the time-zone change, too.’ He looks down and we both notice his hand is still on my arm. He gives my shoulder a brief squeeze, drops his hand and takes a slight step backwards. ‘It’s hard, functioning on so little sleep.’ I nod, glad that my excuse has been accepted.
‘Our gate number is up,’ he says, pulling out his passport and fiddling with it, to give me a moment to compose myself. ‘Are you OK to go?’
I take a deep breath, willing myself to get my emotions under control, and after a few seconds the waves are more manageable, the flow of tears beginning to abate even as a tightness settles in my throat. I nod, not trusting myself to speak in case it starts again, and grab the handle of my luggage, following him through the terminal. The plane, as it happens, is already boarding when we arrive, and we catch the back of the queue. Jack keeps quiet as we wait, his back to me – I sense he’s giving me some privacy, and I’m grateful for it.
By the time we’re seated, I feel mostly normal, the worst of it past, the tightness in my throat gradually fading into a lump that I can ignore. I’m glad to be on a plane, taking me away from London and all the memories it holds. About half an hour after we take off, once the seatbelt signs have been switched off, Jack pulls two sandwiches out of his bag and places them on his tray table, followed by two packets of crisps. I frown, calculating. Two of each item. The maths is clear: one of each is for me. A second later, I spot a familiar blue and squint – one of the crips packets is salt and vinegar. The same flavour Jack brought me once, a million years ago in a lecture theatre I’ll never visit again, because they were my favourite. A shiver moves up my spine at the memory, at the thought that he might have remembered such a small detail, after all this time.
He looks up at me, slightly sheepish. ‘I don’t exactly know where sandwiches fall in the terms of the truce,’ he says, ‘but I figured an author getting his publicist some lunch for the plane wasn’t too much of a stretch.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, shaking off my emotions. There’s no way he’d have remembered a detail so small as my favourite flavour of crisps. I’m sure he just grabbed the first two bags he saw. In any case, my hunger wins over. I take the sandwich and eat it quickly, then almost immediately fall asleep, not waking again until the announcement that we are landing in Berlin. I feel better: I slept deeply and my emotions feel further away than they did before.
After a taxi journey through the centre of the city, we arrive at a hotel built inside an old factory, its interior all open space, clean lines and exposed concrete. Artful triangular cushions are strewn over industrial-looking leather sofas. Not for the first time, I have the sense that I am reaping the benefits of travelling with a priority author. The last tour I went on, through the US, we stayed in budget hotels only: one had bed bugs, forcing us to relocate at 11 p.m. – not exactly the four-and-five-star standard I’m getting on this trip.
The elevator is in use and we’re on the first floor, so Jack wordlessly picks up my suitcase as well as his, carries them both upstairs before I can protest, and drops mine outside my room. ‘I hope you get some sleep,’ he says, with a brief smile, before disappearing into his own room.
We have Sunday off to recuperate and prepare for the following week, which will be busy – it’s split down the middle between Berlin and Paris, so we’re only here for a few days before flying to Paris early on Wednesday morning. Jack knocks on my door at about 8 a.m., to briefly tell me he’s heading out sightseeing, and there’s a pause that’s a little too long before I tell him to have a nice time, and that I’ll see him tomorrow. It’s only after I’ve shut the door that I wonder whether he was about to ask me to join him. Either way, I don’t see him for the rest of the day, spending it mostly holed up in my hotel room catching up on emails, only emerging to eat in the hotel. I’m incredibly behind – the constant onslaught of things to deal with in a different time zone is really starting to pile up, but I do my best to clear it, taking advantage of the fact that it’s a weekend so at the very least no one is likely to be emailing me, today. By the time I glance back up from my screen, it’s 9 p.m., so I decide to get an early night.
I wake up early on Monday morning, feeling suddenly terrified of spending the day with Jack again after my outburst in the airport on Friday. The point of this truce was to solidify that I should be buying Jack lunch, I should be the one to call the gate number, I should help him with his bags. Not cry at him in the middle of the airport, like some pathetic loser who can’t keep it together for more than a day at a time.
After a few attempts to go back to sleep, I get up and pull some clothes on, deciding instead to wander down the street in search of a cafe. It’s 7 a.m., so Jack will be up soon – I’ll pick us both up some coffee. That feels like a fair exchange for the lunch he bought me yesterday – and it’ll make me feel better. The streets in Berlin are such a welcome change to New York and London: wide, tree-lined. There’s so much space, and the pace is different. In New York, I often feel compressed, funneled forwards through the streets of the city by crowds all moving towards their destination. Here, I can stop and breathe; it’s a nice feeling. I find one almost immediately, open for the early morning commuters, the sound of soft techno music spilling through its doors into the street.
I pick up two flat whites and a pastry, and on the way back to the hotel I run through the day’s itinerary in my head: this bookshop at 11 a.m., that one at p.m., break for lunch, interview at 3 p.m., occupying my mind until I reach Jack’s room. I raise my hand to knock on his door, but feel unexpectedly nervous about seeing him. What if he’s asleep? I don’t want to wake him up. Perhaps I haven’t quite thought this through. I hover for a few seconds, then decide to leave them outside his door, with a short note: ‘Thank you for yesterday. I don’t normally cry like that in front of authors. Won’t happen again. A.’ I knock quickly before I go, then head back to my room.
Two hours later, I’m browsing the large selection of books in the hotel lobby and waiting for Jack to arrive so we can get going on our bookshop tour, when a voice sounds from behind me, scaring the hell out of me.
‘Interesting hotel we’re staying in,’ Jack says. I whip round.
‘I suppose so?’ I agree, still a little alarmed. It’s a weird opener, but I suppose we’re still working on the whole small talk thing.
‘Have you noticed that the doors to our rooms open outwards?’
‘Uh – I hadn’t given it much thought,’ I reply. What is he on about? If this is normal for Jack, he’s weirder than I thought. Then his meaning hits me all at once. Oh. The coffee I left outside his door .
‘Mine got stuck this morning, actually,’ he continues. ‘I had to really shove it open.’ He leans towards me. ‘Hard.’
‘Did you?’ I ask, still affecting ignorance.
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t save the coffee,’ he says, his expression faux-serious, with a hint of a smile underneath. ‘The receptionist was not happy – something to do with the carpet recently being replaced.’
‘Ah,’ I say, struggling to suppress my own smile now.
‘The pastry was lovely, though it did have some carpet fibres attached.’
I smile at this, a laugh bursting out of me unexpectedly. ‘I don’t accept any liability for carpet-fibre poisoning.’
‘Thank you,’ he says, returning my smile. ‘It was a nice gesture.’ Then he pauses, twisting his hands, and looks up at me, his gaze surprisingly intense. ‘But you have nothing to apologise for, Andie.’
I look down at my feet, my face burning.
‘Thanks,’ I say, my voice suddenly quiet.
I look back up at him, expecting the intensity of his gaze to still be there, but it’s gone, fading into a smooth, neutral expression that gives the impression that he’s already thinking about other things. I breathe out, relieved that the moment is over. He clasps his hands together. ‘Now, where are we heading again?’
We leave the hotel and make our way to our first stop on the tour this morning: a bookshop called Another Country. The door rings with the sound of vintage bells when we open it, tied in a tangle to its back. I feel immediately at home, like I’m in someone’s home. Its interior is eclectic, filled with objects which wouldn’t be out of place in an antiques shop, a mixture of second-hand and new books strewn across colourful shelves.
I greet the shopkeeper – a gentle older man, who shakes Jack’s hand with great enthusiasm and gestures him towards a pile of his books they have stacked at the back of the shop, ready for him to sign in advance of an event they’re holding this evening. Jack organised the event himself: a writers’ discussion group he’s leading, so he’s given me the evening off. But having entered this shop, I’m almost tempted to ask if I can come – it’s so warm, so comforting. Like a well-worn pair of shoes, or a conversation with an old friend.
I browse the shelves as Jack chats away to what I have assumed is the shop owner, leaving them to their conversation, but pause in my tracks when I hear something that makes my heart stutter: the man tells Jack that he is not, in fact, the owner of the shop, but it belonged to his friend, who passed away last year. He is a member of a community of volunteers, who have been keeping it afloat in her absence. I stand still, my ears suddenly and inescapably attuned to what he’s saying, my heartbeat in my ears. The shop got a little messy, he says, when she was sick, and they’ve left it this way to keep a piece of her alive. I think of my home, my dad’s armchair. My mum’s quiet vigil to his absence. A vice clamps across my chest. She was trans, the owner. She started this shop as a community space for the people of Berlin who just wanted to read. It was more than a shop for her, it was a safe haven for those that needed it. She’d rent people books for two euros when they couldn’t afford to buy them, or even lend them out for free, sometimes. She gave people jobs, gave them somewhere to go. Somewhere to belong. No wonder it’s so special in here , I think as I hear the man’s voice catch.
‘Thank you for asking,’ he says to Jack, referring to a question I didn’t hear. ‘It’s good to talk about her again.’
The weight of loss in his voice is almost too much to bear, and a wave of grief moves up my throat, tightening it. I hear Jack say something softly, something like ‘Thank you for telling me about her,’ and I turn away so he can’t catch the tear that’s escaped as he moves back towards the front of the shop. I wipe it away, close my eyes and take a quick breath to steady myself, just as his footsteps reach me.
‘Andie?’ Jack asks, and I open my eyes.
‘Let’s go,’ I say, quickly, saying goodbye to the shopkeeper and stepping out onto the street.
The rest of the day passes without event, through bookshops and sampling of some of Berlin’s excellent coffee, which Jack lightly teases me about not having tried yet due to most of his first sample still being soaked into the hotel carpet. We get an early night, still both exhausted from travelling so much, and the next morning, we head out on a press day, starting with a radio interview at the Haus des Rundfunks – a purpose-built broadcasting house, dating back to the 1930s. Inside, red and white angular light fittings hang from a giant skylight, latticed balconies running along each of the four floors. Its architecture is unlike anything I’ve seen before. I’m so caught up in its appearance that it’s a second before I can get my bearings and find the right floor for Jack’s interview.
When we get up there, there’s a bit of a drama unfolding – the radio is on-air, and we’re about fifteen minutes out from Jack’s slot, but the host appears to be having a heated argument with his assistant. I leave Jack in the waiting room, and try to find someone who can tell me what’s going on. After a few seconds the assistant spots me and waves, and the argument stops. The host sits back down in his chair, returning to air after a music break, and the assistant escapes from the booth and comes to talk to me.
‘You must be Andie,’ she says, introducing herself as Anneliese, the person I’ve been corresponding with about this interview. ‘I’m afraid we have a bit of a problem,’ she says, and I baulk – from the tone of her voice and the scene I’ve just witnessed, this doesn’t sound good. She explains to me that the host got his schedules mixed up and thought Jack was arriving next week, and that this week he was interviewing a romance author. Consequently, he has not done his research and knows nothing about either Jack or his book. Excellent , I think, as her facial expression grows more and more concerned. ‘He’s going through a terrible divorce,’ she whispers to me. ‘A lot of mistakes at the moment. And he is never in a good mood. He shouts, a lot.’ Oh, good. Even better – not just an unprepared host, but a hostile one, too.
‘How long do we have before he’s on air?’ I ask.
She looks at her watch, then grimaces at me. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘OK,’ I say. It’s clear this assistant is too young and inexperienced to come up with a solution to this, and I’m sure the host will be useless. So this is on me. I think of Jack, waiting in the corridor to be thrown into a situation that will likely be disastrous, if I don’t act fast. Think, Andie. Think. I frown, taking a breath and forcing the switch on my creative brain. A few seconds later, an idea comes to me – it could be insane, but it also might just work. ‘Right,’ I say, turning to Anneliese, who looks up at me with an expectant and hopeful expression. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do.’
After I’ve explained my idea to the assistant, I step out into the corridor to retrieve Jack and give him a very brief run-down – that this interview might be rough, but he’s just got to stick to his aim of promoting the book, and do the best he can to illustrate his work and sell it to the listeners. Everything else, I’ll keep under control.
‘But how—’ Jack starts, but I interrupt him, pushing him towards Anneliese, who is waiting to lead him through.
‘No time to explain,’ I say. ‘Just trust me.’
He looks panicked for a second, but then he locks eyes with me and a calm comes over his expression. ‘OK,’ he says, then turns and enters the booth.
I take a deep breath and ready myself as Jack settles in the chair and the host speaks to him briefly, introducing himself while the music track plays. I catch Anneliese’s eye and she gives me a subtle thumbs up, telling me she’s prepared the host and let him know the plan. The notepad and pen I asked for are in front of me, and I position myself behind the glass in the host’s eyeline.
I count down from ten in my head as the song finishes, and the host readies himself in his chair to introduce Jack. I write down the first question, my hand moving fast across the page. The host glances towards me, and I give him a nod.
‘Good afternoon, everyone!’ he says, swiveling back towards Jack. ‘I am delighted to welcome Jack Carlson, a bestselling author, to our studio today for our afternoon interview. Welcome, Jack.’ I breathe a sigh of relief that the host got Jack’s name right, and ready the paper.
‘Thanks very much,’ Jack says, ‘I’m delighted to be here.’
‘Now, tell me, Jack,’ the host says, glancing sideways and quickly reading the paper I’m holding up against the glass. Jack clocks him and glances at me, too, surprise passing across his features before he turns back to the host. ‘You are a celebrated non-fiction author,’ the host continues. ‘How was it, writing your first novel?’
I let out another breath as Jack starts answering, his flow miraculously un-disrupted by the weirdness of this situation. Thank God for his professionalism , I think, quickly scribbling down the next question. I’ve worked with many authors who would have completely choked in a situation like this, but Jack seems to be handling the pressure fine.
The next question is a little stilted, because I’m not in a position to follow on from the previous answer – I just have to get them out as fast as I can. But it’s better than nothing. ‘Place is a very important aspect of your book,’ the host reads, frowning slightly to decipher my handwriting, which must have become slightly scrawled. Luckily it doesn’t trip him up: his tone is smooth as ever. ‘– its own character, almost,’ he says, turning back to Jack now he’s finished reading. ‘What inspired you to set the book in Ireland?’
Jack leans in, enjoying the question. He flashes me a quick glance, smiling as he’s talking. But I can’t get caught up – I have to focus on the next question. I write down and hold up a few more in quick succession, all focused around the subject matter of the book – its exploration of family dynamics (obviously steering away from the father-son angle), the discovery of the self, the way present blends into past. And, to finish, a question that’s open enough to allow Jack to say anything he might have missed so far.
‘And if you could summarise the book for a reader picking up your work for the first time, what would you say?’
‘It’s about love,’ Jack says, eventually. ‘How it fills the gaps between people. The distances that emerge without us realising. The past we hold on to, that weighs us down. And how you find your own way out of that.’
As he speaks, for some reason my mum comes to the forefront of my mind, and then Jack looks up and catches my eye. For a second I’m frozen in place, my breath in my throat, eyes locked on him. But a second later he finishes the interview, the host thanks him for coming and shakes his hand.
‘Well done,’ Anneliese whispers, from the other side of the booth.
‘Thanks,’ I say, putting the pen down, the last of the adrenaline fading and being followed by a familiar and welcome feeling, one I haven’t had so far this trip. The satisfaction that I’m performing at my best, that I not only avoided a disaster but did a good job. And so did Jack: the interview was excellent. Nuanced, interesting and engaging. Even the host, who at the beginning looked less than thrilled to be there, seemed to want to read his book by the end. Hopefully it will have had the same impact on anyone listening.
‘Good job,’ I say to Jack, after we’ve left the studio and are descending the steps outside. The sun is out and the city is vibrant. I feel lighter than I have so far on this trip – buoyant, almost.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘You, too. I didn’t realise you moonlit as a radio interviewer.’
‘Very funny,’ I say, following him down the steps.
‘“Location is almost its own character”,’ he says, with air quotes. ‘A brilliant line, by the way. Inspired. They should give you a job.’
‘Shut up,’ I say, but I can’t entirely hide my smile. I was pretty proud of that question.
‘Seriously, Andie,’ he says, placing his hand on my arm. ‘Thank you. That’s the most interesting interview I’ve had about the book so far. I felt like you really understood what I was trying to do with it. And I know it’s just because it’s your job. But I’ve not had that level of understanding from a publicist before. I’m grateful.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘It’s no problem,’ I say, because what he’s saying is kind and might be true, but I’m overwhelmed by it, even as a part of me tells myself that this is why I do what I do – for moments like this, especially with someone I wouldn’t have expected it from. ‘You’re welcome, Jack.’
He gives me a quick, final smile, with an edge of some concealed emotion beneath the surface. But before I can consider what it might be, he removes his hand from my arm and we continue down the steps, my heart still beating a little faster in my chest.
That evening in my hotel room, I pull out my phone to find a text from my mum in bold at the top of my messages. I realise with a jolt that I forgot to call her when I landed, yesterday – too focused on sleeping off my emotions.
Hello, love. Tried calling, but you must have been on the plane. Just to say Nigel loved meeting you, and I hope it was all OK that I brought him along. Would love to call in the next few days. I love you very much. Missing you already. Lots of love, Mum xxx
She always signs off her longer texts like emails, and the sight of it almost makes me cry. I momentarily consider calling her, but the same instinct from the airport earlier stops me. I push through it and tap my thumb to her name anyway, my breath catching as I listen to it ring.
‘Andie, love!’ she says, answering after two. My heart contracts at the sound of her voice.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say. ‘Sorry I forgot to call yesterday.’
‘No worries, my darling,’ she says, her voice warm. I lean into the warmth, even as the sadness starts to reemerge.
‘Nigel seemed lovely,’ I say, working to keep my voice as steady and calm as I can.
She breathes out what sounds like a sigh of relief, sending a wave of guilt through me. ‘I’m so glad to hear that, Andie,’ she says. ‘I was afraid – well, that doesn’t matter now.’
‘Really, Mum,’ I say, pushing through the tears that are threatening. ‘I’m happy for you. I’m sorry I had to leave in such a hurry. Perhaps –’ I pause, gathering myself. ‘Perhaps we can all have dinner together, next time I’m in London.’
‘That would be wonderful, love,’ she says, and I hear a voice call from behind her – Nigel’s voice. ‘I’m so sorry but I have to go, pet,’ she says. ‘We have a lunch booked, and I don’t want to be late. Talk soon?’
‘Sounds great,’ I say, a boulder landing in my stomach.
‘Bye, love.’
‘Bye,’ I say, and hang up, the tears starting to fall.