Chapter 23
Aida
This hot-non-boyfriend thing is pretty addictive. There’s a gorgeous guy who’s brought me to orgasm in a club, and pinned me up against a bar and kissed me, and whose way with words is apparently as dirty on camera as it is when his mouth is brushing my ear.
I have to admit, the dynamic is a little like being back in high school. When will I see him? Is he thinking about me? Will he send me a dirty text this evening?
(Okay, I’m way too old to have had a cellphone in high school, but you get the picture.)
It’s exciting. Distracting.
Especially given how great he did on camera this morning. I could tell he was, by Cal standards, a little nervous, but he was perfect. There’s no way a guy can be that smooth talking in real life and not deliver some great banter to the camera, but he smashed my expectations.
I tell myself the reason for my pleasure is purely professional.
This is my show. My name on the title. My reputation on the line.
It’s personal. I want it to inspire people, to make them uncomfortable, to pose questions they’d rather not think about.
I want it to stretch them and, maybe, even alter their worldview a teeny bit.
So when Cal sits in front of me and Lizzy and delivers his lines like he’s been writing TV soundbites all his life, it’s a good thing.
It bodes well for the success of the programme and for its uptake on social, especially TikTok and Twitter.
If we’re all to be reduced to a meme, if the documentary of my heart will live and die by a one-liner on social, then those soundbites may as well be good.
But he nailed it. I snicker to myself as I recall his answer to my jokey question about whether Alchemy has celebrity members.
We do now, baby.
The killer moment, though, the part that gave me purely professional goosebumps, was what he said to me at the end.
The only thing that matters is that you come out of that first session feeling like the beautiful, powerful goddess you are. The only thing.
Yeah.
That’ll get a girl all types of flustered, because come on.
I already know the nation will fall hard for Callum Sinclair and his ridiculous good looks and ability to speak straight to a woman’s vagina.
No judgement here, ladies.
We’re shooting the interviews in the drawing room of a suite at the gorgeous Lanesborough Hotel by Hyde Park.
The location is in keeping with the aspirational vibe of the programme, and the hotel has agreed a sensible rate for the suite when we need it, which will be once a week for the next eight weeks.
Because if I’m gonna sit next to a relative stranger and calmly discuss why I intend to let him fuck me in a totally premeditated, almost choreographed way, then I’m sure as hell gonna do it on a fancy couch in a four-figures-per-night hotel with a crystal glass in my hand.
And the suite is gorgeous. There’s a bookshelf behind us with old leather-bound books and an oil painting of some lady with a powdered wig and a virginal blush on her cheeks.
It’s there non-ironically, too. It’s like we’re hoping that if we make our surroundings as elevated as possible, our viewers will forget to sex-shame us.
Sex-shame me. I doubt Cal cares. And men don’t get sex-shamed, anyway. Not as much as we do.
The major risk, obviously, is that all these attempts to elevate our subject matter makes the programme feel elitist and out of touch.
And it probably is. After all, Alchemy membership is affordable for only a fortunate few in our society.
The entire creative team and I are well aware of that, and we’ve made peace with it.
Our lengthy, circular dialogue on the topic has converged to a level of agreement on one thing: that this peek into the world of elite sex clubs will be as alluring for many as the discourse around female sexuality itself.
I’ve compromised; I’ve made concessions.
But I’ve stayed unwavering on one thing.
We have this single window of opportunity to reframe our society’s attitude towards going after sexual gratification in a self-loving and self-indulgent manner. I absolutely will not have the backdrop for that search for pleasure painted as an underworld.
I’m not interested in shining a furtive flashlight on dark, seedy corners and darker, seedier secrets.
I’m throwing a switch and shining a fucking floodlight on the glorious, carnal circus that awaits people who are ready to grab their sexual birthright with both hands.
And this world that my floodlight will bathe in gorgeous, dazzling light? It’ll be as luxurious and fabulous and aspirational as a Gatsby party.
It’ll be unapologetic as fuck, because there’s nothing to apologise for here.
I feel like Hemingway would’ve approved of this sumptuous suite.
It’s so divine, so opulent, that I find myself wishing I could stay here after the crew has packed up and spend a night here, alone with a good romance novel.
There’s a marble tub in the bathroom that has my name written all over it.
Though Cal has already suggested in a low, sexy voice that we should make use of this suite together when we’re further along in the process, which is also, you know, not a bad call.
I’ve directed myself so many times in the field that I’m wearing my director’s hat and my editor’s hat and my interviewer’s hat all piled on top of the only hat I’m supposed to be wearing right now—that of an interviewee.
When you’re put on a last-minute flight to DC or Eurostar to Paris to report on breaking news or a catastrophic bombing, you often end up doing everything. I can’t count the number of times it’s been me and a hastily-arranged camera operator from wherever the BBC could pull one.
Often, there is no producer. Even more often, there’s no time for editing, because if we’re not broadcasting live then we may only have an hour or two to get our footage to London in time for the news.
In these situations, I’m my own editor. Every line I spout, every question I ask, is with the hyper-focused goal of achieving our objective from this broadcast.
What is happening here, at its very essence?
What is the the most important message the public needs to hear?
And, if my broadcast involves an interviewee: What is the message I want to have this person say?
I’m editing as I speak. As I question. As I listen.
Is this useful? Is this just filler? Have we gotten to the crux of the matter yet?
Has this person said what I want them to say?
Have they divulged anything new or interesting?
Have they clarified their position? Given their agenda away?
Have I been too tough on them? Tough enough?
Have I been too conciliatory? Why aren’t they sweating as much as I am right now?
And always, always: Have I gotten the soundbite yet?
It sounds like that last question risks the temptation of encouraging salacious reporting. Oversimplifying staggeringly complex issues. But it’s less about finding a salacious headline and more about achieving clarity. About distilling an event to its essence.
I always know when I’ve gotten it. My body tells me. The goosebumps that race over my skin, under however many layers of clothes I’m wearing. The quickening of my heartbeat.
And I can never relax in a field broadcast until I know we’ve gotten that soundbite.
Today’s interview isn’t live, obviously.
And yet, my editor’s brain is working. Whirring.
It’s taking in every optic of every detail in a way that I hope will preempt how the viewers perceive us.
It’s assessing this set. The proximity of my and Cal’s chairs to each other.
Our body language. It’s doing all this when, really, it should just be focusing on answering the damn questions.
I’m glad we’re in chairs. A couch would have been awkward.
Cal’s relaxed, back straight but legs at ease.
I’m the one who has to remind myself to chill the fuck out.
I’m fresh out of hair and makeup, my shoulder-length bob immaculately curled under and my makeup perfect.
To differentiate from Newsroom Aida, I’ve opted to go heavier, smokier, on the eyes.
I’m in a red sheath dress that matches my lips and heels.
It’s long enough to be classy, short enough to show off my legs in the chair.
‘So.’ Finished with her warmup, Simone turns to me. ‘Tomorrow is your first session with Callum, correct?’
She emphasises session slightly in a way that acknowledges what an inadequate word it is for what lies ahead.
I nod and make myself smile. ‘Yep.’
‘How are you feeling about it?’
‘Terrified.’ I bark out a laugh as I glance over at Callum. He’s grinning at me, and, God bless him, his smile is sexy and fond and perfect, and I mentally note that we should focus in on that smile in the edits.
He leans sideways on his chair and grabs my hand. ‘You’re allowed to be terrified. But I’ve got you.’
Even as I smile gratefully at him, I’m noting how our body contact in this moment will go over on camera. His touch is spontaneous. Warm, friendly, almost brotherly. Not flirtatious, even though he’s running his thumb over my knuckles.
‘You’re going to be great,’ he says. I lay our joined hands on my thigh. It’s part calculated move and part driven by the comfort I get from his touch. Obviously what the good folks watching at home won’t know is that we’ve already been intimate. He’s already made me come.
And while I don’t want to suggest to our viewers that our relationship is further along than it’s supposed to be, I do want to demonstrate a level of connection.
Of chemistry, though it’s more than that.
I want heat, yeah. I want tension. If I’m being honest, I want everyone urging us on to fuck right out of the gate.
But, more than that, I want to show a human connection.
I want to show that this isn’t calculated or awkward or excruciating.
It’s okay for me to show vulnerability. To show how nervous I am.
More than okay—it’s crucial to the authenticity I’m trying to bring to this programme.
But I don’t want anyone thinking that the idea of Cal and me fucking is weird or uncomfortable.
His hand stays on my thigh. There’s something familiar about this touchy-feely dynamic between us. It’s right there at the back of my mind, bothering me, evading me.
Until it isn’t.
Of course! The way we are together reminds me a little of the relationships between the professional dancers and the celebrity contestants on Strictly Come Dancing. It’s something that’s always given me a kick, seeing how physical those relationships get.
I’m not the only one—the British tabloids are always rife with speculation about which couples are fucking for the entire three months each year that the show airs.
And, while dancing Argentine tangos with someone day in, day out is entirely likely to make you more likely to want to fuck them, the intensive daily dance practices tends to make every single couple physically relaxed with each other to an extent that’s pretty extreme.
These guys know their way around each others’ bodies, they trust each other with their bodies, and it shows more and more as the competition goes on. Which leads me to wonder if Cal and I will be openly making out in a few weeks from now, having ditched these chairs for a two-seater couch.
‘You still don’t know what Callum has in store for you tomorrow, is that right?’ Simone is asking me now.
‘That’s right.’ I squeeze his hand playfully. ‘He’s been playing his cards close to his chest.’
‘Okay, Callum,’ Simone says. ‘Time for the big reveal.’
When she says that, like a Strictly host, I have the most uncharacteristic urge to giggle right there. Because instead of saying, well, Simone, next week we’ll be performing the foxtrot, what can he possibly say?
Well, Simone. Tomorrow we’ll be exploring the reverse cowgirl style. This is a tough one. Aida’s going to need to work on her rhythm, as well as all the quad work that style involves.
Oh my fucking God.
Thankfully, Cal doesn’t say any of that. He takes a deep breath and smiles straight at me, and I realise that even if he’s not exactly nervous, he’s hoping that what he says next will please me.
‘Tomorrow’s all about Aida,’ he says. ‘Obviously, this entire process is all about Aida. So you’re welcome to veto this, sweetheart.
But it’s really important that we start slow.
I actually got some advice from a pretty stressed-out mum I know who gave this idea a big thumbs up, so I’m hoping it’ll sound good to you. ’
He asked a female friend? My nervous system floods with some kind of feel-good hormone as I realise how intent he is on making this a positive experience for me.
‘Go on,’ I prompt, grinning goofily at him.
‘Tomorrow I’ll be giving Aida a full-body massage,’ he says, glancing to the camera before turning his attention right back to me.
He shifts in his seat so his body is facing me.
‘It can be as clean or dirty as you want to make it. I’ll be led by you.
Tomorrow is about you getting used to me touching you.
It’s about you relaxing, and feeling indulged and cared for, and it’s about getting you to trust me. You’ll call all the shots.’
He clears his throat and places his other hand under mine so he has my hand in a kind of sandwich between his palms.
‘It’s about making you feel great, and getting you to be present in that gorgeous body of yours, and—this is very important—it’s about showing you exactly how much I’ll enjoy touching you. Because I know I will.’
His face is so intense now, those huge, dark eyes fixed on mine. His expression is as genuine as his tone, and I drink it in. I drink it all in.
‘How do you think that sounds, sweetheart?’ he asks.
I don’t think it’s just the recognition that this is TV gold that has me swallowing before I can answer him.
My daily experience throughout my career has been of shouty white men. Of entitled guys ignoring me. Talking over me. Talking over each other around newsroom desks or across political debates. Intent on making their own voice heard, on furthering their own agenda.
But this guy listens. He’s listened to everything I’ve told him. And while that may seem like a low bar, it’s everything to me.
‘It sounds perfect,’ I tell him, and I don’t need to fake my smile.