Chapter Forty-Six Jemma
Chapter Forty-Six JEMMA
My heart is beating too loudly for me to actually hear anything. There’s a roaring noise in my ears and I honestly think I’m about to vomit across this table.
I need to calm down. This man has already seen too much of my vomit.
OK, you can do this, Jem. You were absolutely brilliant out there, talking to that guy George with the clipboard about hand soap and the Queen.
You can hold your own in here, too. It’s just a matter of believing in the story.
I am Louise Theroux. I am the younger sister of legendary TV journalist Louis Theroux, who initially resented her big brother’s success and wanted no part of his career in journalism, but the pull was too strong.
Louise is a born freelance journalist! She was born for interviewing TV stars about their acting skills and then selling those interviews to magazines.
I am Louise Theroux! I can do this – I believe in my character!
My heart rate slows down as Milo-Eliot takes a seat at our table.
He looks tired and waves everyone a generalized hello, taking none of us in.
I think of the endless enthusiasm and excitement in those notes he left me.
Can this really be the same person? What if we’ve got all of this wrong? Maybe it isn’t Milo at all.
The people around the table introduce themselves one by one, naming the publications they’re from. OK!, New, Closer, Heat , and then the freelancers. Clara and I are last, and when his eyes arrive on mine, they narrow with shock.
‘Wait, hold on.’ He recognizes me immediately.
‘What are you—’ He looks to Clara next. ‘And you—’ He swallows, glancing back towards the publicist on his right.
Thank god Katies must finally be on her maternity leave.
I wonder if this new publicist has managed to get Milo lost and trapped in a vomit-covered lift yet?
I hold my breath waiting for Milo to give us away, for us to be ordered out of here. Instead he continues smoothly. ‘Erm, yeah, I recognize you guys from that other… interview I did a while ago, right? You’re from…’
He swallows and I say as quickly as possible, ‘I’m a freelance journalist – born to it actually and would’ve made a success with or without my brother’s help – but yes, we’ve um, totally interviewed you before, El— er, Milo.
Great memory! I’m Louise Theroux and this is my colleague—’ I stop because I’ve forgotten the amazing pseudonym I came up with for Clara.
She sighs, looking defeated, then mutters into her own lap, ‘Andi Leibovitz.’
I catch the rest of the journalists exchanging looks, but Milo just nods with understanding. ‘Of course, I do remember now.’ His mouth twitches and I smile at him as professionally as I can.
‘So how are you, Milo?’ I ask and the stern publicist gives me a look.
‘We’ll start at this end of the table, if you don’t mind, Louise. We’ll go one question at a time. We only have fifteen minutes.’
Tiny recorders are thrown into a pile on the table between us, and I retrieve a note book and pen from my bag. Milo watches me do it with curiosity.
The real journalists begin asking about the show and Milo’s process, as I panic. It’ll be my turn in a minute – what can I ask?
‘Louise?’ the publicist prompts as the whole group turns to stare.
‘Um,’ I begin slowly. I can’t just ask him outright, can I? ‘Um, Milo, have you ever been… ghosted?’
He raises his eyebrows and the publicist frowns. We’re supposed to stick to questions about the show, but he answers before she can interject.
‘I have actually.’ He looks at the table. ‘Quite recently, as it happens. It’s not the nicest feeling, but some people just find it easier to close the book, right?’ He offers a short, unhappy laugh and I fight an urge to grab his hand across the table.
I didn’t ghost you! I want to shout, desperate to explain.
‘OK.’ The publicist sounds bored. ‘Andi? Next question?’
Clara leans across the table. ‘Oh my god, Milo, did you, like, totally get a boner doing all those sex scenes on the show?’
Milo gives a shocked laugh as the publicist angrily tuts. ‘Can we keep things appropriate, please?’ She waves at the next journalist. ‘Let’s move on.’
When it comes to me again, I swallow. ‘So, Milo, this question was an email from a, er, reader and they were wondering—’ I pretend to check something in my notebook.
‘How forgiving are you? For example, if someone forgot to let you know they were going to America for a few days when you were waiting to hear from them about something really important, would you, like, hate them for ever, or would you get over it pretty quickly?’
He frowns, then regards me curiously. ‘That’s a… reader question?’
I nod enthusiastically.
‘Well, er’ – he searches for an answer – ‘I guess it would depend on the situation. But I do think open communication and forgiveness are hugely important in any relationship, romantic or platonic.’
I nod quickly, as Clara sits up straight, ready for her turn. ‘So, Milo, babe!’ She sounds really professional. ‘From all the sex scenes you look like you’d be super good at IRL sex. Is that something they taught you at drama school, or were you already, like, naturally amazing at shagging?’
The publicist pushes her chair back furiously, scraping the chair legs loudly against the floor. ‘Andi! That is not appropriate!’
Clara adds quickly, ‘And how many people have you had sex with?’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to need to ask you to leave,’ the publicist snaps, striding around the table to Clara, who looks delighted. She leaps up, then shoots me a look. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’
‘Out, please!’ the woman says loudly and Clara waves a goodbye to our group.
‘Laters, everyone! This was fun!’ She beams at Milo and reaches out a hand to shake his. ‘See you soon, dude!’
He grins at her. ‘You bet.’
We all watch Clara being escorted out and the publicist returns quickly. ‘Right, can we continue? One more question each now, and we’ll have to move on with the next interview.’
This is it, my last chance. My stomach flips over and over as the group powers through more tedious questions that feel straight out of the press release. At least Clara was asking fun things.
‘Final question,’ the publicist barks at me and I look down at my shaking hands.
‘Um, Milo.’ I clear my throat, knowing it’s now or probably never. I have to be braver than I’ve ever been in my life. ‘Have you ever, um… have you ever… left a note – or, um, like twenty notes! – in a library book?’
I feel the tension shift at the table. There is a mix of confusion and intrigue.
Milo stares hard at me, his dark eyes searching mine.
Then – as if in slow motion – he looks between my face and the notebook I’m holding.
I realize in that moment that of course this is the paper I’ve been using for my messages.
Pretty much everything I wrote to him came from this notebook.
The pages are fairly distinctive pale blue sheets, with a green border of ivy.
His eyes return to mine and we stare at one another for a long few seconds.
My heart is racing hard once again and I find myself swallowing away tears.
‘You know I have,’ he says at last, softly, in a voice meant just for me.
I shake my head. ‘I didn’t!’ I exclaim, then add, ‘I only found out today, honestly! I wasn’t sure… I…’ I frown. ‘But you knew? You know ? How?’
He cocks his head. ‘I think I knew that first day we met, at that awful party. When you were drunk and falling about, stealing drinks from other tables. When you attacked me with such passion about your favourite book. Something in me said it’s you .
’ He laughs sweetly. ‘Then I picked up your note the next morning – where you told me your name – and I thought, it must be her . I wanted to ask you at the kickboxing class, but’ – he pouts playfully, then laughs – ‘you pretty much threw up every time I tried to speak to you.’
I burn with shame at the memory. He’s known all this time. How is that possible?
We stare at each other, my heart in my mouth. Beside Milo – Eliot – the publicist frowns. ‘Er, Milo,’ she mutters, ‘is everything… shall I?’ Her eyes dart between us but we keep staring at each other, the rest of the room falling away.
At last, I drag my eyes away. ‘I’m so sorry for not replying,’ I say, ‘y’know, I mean, to your last message. I wanted to – and I wanted to say yes to your question – but there were… distractions.’
He shakes his head, smiling. ‘Don’t apologize, I understood.
’ He laughs again and it’s such a nice sound.
‘To be honest, I thought you’d realized who I was, too, and that you couldn’t handle the whole’ – he makes a face, waving his hand at the room – ‘fame thing.’ He sighs, adding hastily, ‘I couldn’t blame you. It’s a lot to ask of anyone and—’
‘No!’ I cry. ‘It wasn’t that at all. I just had to go and save Clara! She needed me.’
He glances at the empty seat she recently vacated. ‘That makes sense. You’re sisters, you’ve got each other.’ His eyes find mine again as he adds shyly, ‘And hey, sorry I’m not wearing tiger print. I didn’t know you were coming.’
The publicist stands up. ‘We need to move on, Milo.’ She looks confused by our exchange, as do the rest of the table. ‘Um, thanks everyone for your time. I’ll be in touch to talk embargoes and run dates.’ She looks at me, then at him. ‘Come on, Milo.’
‘One more minute?’ he pleads. She shakes her head.
He stands up at last, looking at me apologetically.
‘I have to go.’ He shrugs lightly. ‘Work, y’know.
’ He grins. ‘But leave your number with the front desk? Or with the team?’ He nods at his confused publicist who nods back slowly, still baffled.
He smiles one last time, staring at me intently.
‘We’ll go for that dinner of one shortbread—’
‘Two chocolate Hobnobs,’ I interject.
‘Three digestives,’ he says solemnly.
I make a face. ‘I can’t remember what’s next.’
‘Four jaffa cakes,’ he smiles widely. ‘Then five custard creams.’
I snort. ‘You mean Viennese whirls!’
‘Fine!’ he laughs. ‘Then a whole box of chocolate fingers—’
‘And one Garibaldi,’ I finish for him, smiling.
He holds our eye contact as he whispers, ‘For all those healthy currants.’
The publicist sighs as we stare at one another. ‘Come on, they’re all waiting. Say goodbye.’ She pulls him away and the journalists around me shout in a chorus, ‘Thanks, Milo! Bye!’
‘Bye, Milo,’ I call out last and he turns around, smiling from ear to ear.
‘Eliot,’ he reminds me, and I nod.
‘Eliot.’