CHAPTER TWO
Special Interests
RAINA: We’re discussing all things special and interesting on today’s episode.
My current special interests are obscure Saturday Night Live sketches, Marilyn Monroe, humpback whales and, as ever, mermaids.
Because I, a watery autistic, identified with the moment in Splash when Daryl Hannah is hunched over in the tank.
That’s kind of what it feels like to be an autistic woman.
That and Ariel, the little mermaid who saved every rock she’d ever seen.
Across town, Tom Branimir woke to the sound of his landline shrilly ringing next to his head.
It was his own fault for being a pretentious arse and insisting on having a retro-style telephone, one that most people didn’t bother to call.
However, when they did, it would shriek and shriek until its needs were met.
‘Hello?’ Tom croaked into the phone, pressing a palm against his bleary eyes. He’d fallen asleep in front of his laptop again and his neck felt as if someone had been jumping up and down on it.
‘Oh, Tom, please tell me I didn’t wake you.’
His agent. She got up at five every day for a jog and fifty brisk lengths of the pool. He was in awe of her for it. ‘You woke me, Tori.’
‘Well,’ she sighed, and he could hear her grappling to turn his horrific sleep schedule into a positive. ‘You have to be up late tonight anyway, so better that you slept until’—he could hear her checking the time—‘noon.’
He frowned. ‘I’m not going out tonight.’
‘Yes, you are, Tom!’
‘No, Tori,’ he said, while glugging some lukewarm water. ‘I’m writing.’
‘You’re a non-fiction writer, Tom. You need to go out.
Fiction writers are allowed to hole themselves away and hibernate or go on retreats to the Highlands where they can undergo a vow of silence for a few weeks, but you’re not a fiction writer.
You write about real people. So, you need to go and meet real people. ’
Tom glanced up at his work board. He sometimes thought it looked like a prop from a detective show. Something a conspiracy theorist might obsess over. Too many Post-it notes and scribbled ideas. A picture of his family pinned to the very top, reminding him why he wrote the stories that he did.
‘I write about people’s fuck-ups,’ he corrected quietly.
‘Tom!’
‘Tori!’
‘I don’t want to make this a contract thing.’
‘I don’t want you to do that either.’
‘But the publishers aren’t happy with rerunning the articles and the pieces. They want new material, remember?’
‘They’re getting new material!’
‘Exclusive material.’
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘What will that involve, then?’
‘Find one subject to write about who can be a completely new case. Brand-new.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Well, it would be easier if you went to the gala tonight.’
The Hathaway Dinner was an annual literary event held at the V a vlogger who’d pretended to live in a van while failing to disclose his six-bedroom mansion; a dog owner with a prize-winning poodle that didn’t exist.
A woman who’d promised her followers a guaranteed cure for cancer.
He was the writer that no influencer wanted in their mentions.
If they were trying to sell some kind of dangerous weight-loss tea without transparency, he would call them out.
If they were spouting political dogma without any interrogation or connection, he would call them out.
If they told people ‘good vibes’ were more important than modern medicine, he would not only call them out, he would bury them in rebuttal.
Tom’s eyes landed on his family’s picture once more. His mother was blinking in the photo, which he’d always found so sweet.
The photo was so full of life it sometimes made him forget that she was no longer around.
‘All right, Tori, I’ll go.’
There was an exalted sigh of relief on the other end of his fuzzy landline. He felt a stab of guilt, knowing he was far from her easiest client to manage. ‘Good! Your name is on the list; you’re at our table.’
‘Great.’
‘Eight o’clock?’
‘Looking forward to it.’
‘Dress nice, please. Find a nice tie for that one suit you always wear.’
He hung up. It was true, he only owned one suit. He was frugal that way – a result of his upbringing in Scotland. The occasional designer tie was all he would splash out on in his attempts to fit in with a crowd he didn’t belong to.
Tom’s flat was in Fulham. Parsons Green to be specific, where some of the neighbours liked to pretend that they lived in a small village, despite the fact they were right in the heart of London.
He didn’t share the flat with anybody and it was far too small to host any kind of party or gathering.
Not that he would want to. Work had been his constant and loyal companion since moving from Dalkeith in Scotland to large and loud London.
He had acquaintances. People he would do a favour for, if they asked.
People like Tori, or Ben, his editor. Sebastian, his old flatmate from Cambridge. Ottie, Seb’s girlfriend, at a push.
Seb was the guy who got into fights in the taxi rank and Ottie called herself an empath . . . but took great pleasure in telling other women that they had food in their teeth, especially if they did not.
Tom would occasionally bring women home to bed, but he’d become jaded with one-night stands and he knew he wasn’t cut out for the apps.
His mind was never able to get off in the same way his body could.
It was nobody’s fault. He was searching for something he couldn’t fully articulate, an intellect that could wrestle with his and leave him a little breathless, for once.
He wanted that more than anything. An opponent. A sparring partner. Someone who, in a world of polite cookie-cutter sameness, was unafraid of picking up a verbal sword and readying for battle.
When evening drew in, he put some gel in his curly black hair, lint-rolled his one good suit and polished his shoes.
Keys, phone, wallet. He quickly checked on his elderly neighbour before leaving the apartment building.
Mrs Clerk reminded him of his late mother and he enjoyed living next door to her.
‘You look nice!’ she called as he made to leave. ‘Hot date?’
‘No,’ he said, laughing. ‘Quite the opposite, really.’
He stood on Munster Road, examining the bottom of his shoes.
They’d been extortionate, but an investment.
Every spot had been polished away, each scuff soon covered up.
He’d bought them while at university. They’d felt tight and pinching at the time.
He’d assumed with time and breaking in, they would grow comfortable.
They were still his most expensive item, and they’d never become easy to wear.
‘You!’
Tom recognized the owner of the shriek. He knew it well. He’d heard it wheedle, whine and simper. He had virtual folders that bulged with recordings of that voice.
‘Caroline,’ he said stiffly, taking in the forty-something woman with her pale-grey fur collar and brassy blonde hair with dark brown roots.
Her Chloé sunglasses weren’t able to conceal the fury in her eyes.
She’d clearly been waiting for him to appear.
‘I thought you were only going to speak to me through a lawyer.’
To any of his neighbours, this scene might have appeared to be a lovers’ tiff. Two exes warring in the street. However, they’d never been anything close to partners.
‘I’m a pariah,’ snarled the woman as she slammed the door of her car. ‘You’ve made me a fucking leper!’
Tom frowned at the insensitive comparison.
Fuck you, lady. ‘Oh, really? Maybe you can cure yourself with one of your homemade oils then?’
Caroline had been the subject of one of his hit pieces, and even he had to admit, he’d been meticulous about categorizing her faults.
The largest of which was her success in building a multi-million-dollar empire upon the backs of frightened people by claiming her wellness brand could cure incurable diseases.
Tom had disliked her then and he disliked her now.
The only thing that had changed between them was the story.
She’d been expecting a fluff piece about her Girl Boss legacy.
He’d taken her to the virtual gallows, where, after a careful documentation of her entire list of atrocities and actions, her sentence had been left in the hands of his readers.
‘You’re a bastard.’
As she spat the words, Tom caught the strong scent of cigarette smoke. He’d always found that to be a curious thing about her. The wellness girl who smoked a pack a day.
‘You could have killed people,’ was all he said. ‘If you’re going to use misinformation to buy your third home, I get to write about it.’
He knew people didn’t like him, knew what they thought of him.
Colleagues and people in publishing whispered about him being ‘frosty’.
He wasn’t breezy and chatty like other men in media, and he had no intention of being a friend to all, which ultimately made him an ally to none.
Tom Branimir didn’t smile unless he meant it.
He was direct and to the point. He cared too much about the truth to worry about people calling him a bastard.
‘If anyone actually believes my stuff can cure their mother’s cancer, they’re too stupid to be on the internet,’ sneered Caroline, and it was such a blatant thing to say, such a cruel and snarling admission, Tom no longer felt any flickers of guilt about her situation.
‘Your circumstances are unfortunate but they’ve come from your own actions. People would give or take anything to keep their loved ones for longer. You and I both know that. And you exploited it.’
He thought of his mother again. Blinking in pictures. Collecting coupons. Always needing help with her ancient mobile phone.
Don’t worry about me, Tommy. They find new treatments every day, son. Now write me a nice story. Something romantic for a change.
Tom suddenly needed to blink. There was a kernel of sleep in the corner of his eye.
‘You had me cancelled, you self-righteous prick.’
‘Your true zealots will keep you in caviar, Caroline, don’t worry.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re cold-hearted. You know that, right? You’re going to die alone.’
It stung. ‘Better that than to die from believing the kind of lies you spin.’
‘Fuck you, Branimir. You’re an executioner.’
‘No, you’re just a parasite. One who’s already dead inside, I think,’ he said quietly. He hailed a cab. ‘Have a good evening.’
He left her standing in the dusky West London street as he got inside the car and shut the door with a tight and final snick.
‘V&A, please, pal,’ he told the taxi driver. He softened his Scottish accent, because if he didn’t, he would be bombarded with questions about his origins and what he was doing in London.
Even strangers could tell he hadn’t found a real home in the city.
The driver glanced at Caroline in the rear-view mirror. ‘Fight with your lady?’
‘No,’ Tom replied with a tired laugh. ‘She’s not my lady.’
He felt a sudden pang. He wondered what it would be like to have someone to text in this moment.
You’ll never guess what just happened! And she would respond immediately, concerned in case something serious had happened.
He would assure her that he was fine. She would understand.
She wouldn’t need him to explain why lying about cancer cures was wrong.
She’d be two steps ahead of him. For once, someone would finish his sentences because she’d be so much smarter than him and it would turn him on to the point of being painful.
She’d make fun of his misanthropic tendencies, and he’d find an excuse not to work so they could stay in bed. And she’d make fun of his shoes.
‘All right?’ the driver asked.
‘Yeah,’ lied Tom. ‘All good, sorry.’
The car sped towards South Kensington, and Tom forced himself to think about work.
He was off to hunt down another story.