Eight
I am thoughtfully munching through my porridge (69p for a whole bag that will last months! See? I am trying) the following morning when Adam breezes into the kitchen, whistling cheerfully.
“What’s got you so happy?” I ask, both suspicious and slightly jealous.
“Met a girl last night. Called Jessica,” he says, in a dreadful simpering tone I haven’t heard before.
“Where is she?” I ask, looking around as if she’s about to pop out of the pedal bin.
“Not here. I didn’t take her home. I just chatted with her at the bar, and then we swapped numbers and made plans for this evening after we’re back from meeting your psycho politician, Lord Fenton. She’s amazing.”
“Sir John,” I automatically correct him. I’m impressed. Maybe Adam has finally found a girl he doesn’t just see as a sex object.
“I can’t wait to take her home…that body,” he continues.
Maybe not.
“Well, I’ll look forward to meeting her in the morning.”
“You’re not going to get all prudish and play lame music at top volume again, are you?”
“Shut up, please. I need to prepare for this interview.”
I usher him away and get back to my portfolio. I’ve included a couple of my more interesting pieces over a slightly random career, a smattering of film reviews from my old film blog, and even managed to dig out a history of St Winifred’s Castle I wrote for the National Trust four years ago. I throw in a few pieces from Gardener’s Weekly for good measure. That seems like the sort of thing he’d be into, from a quick Google, although, to be honest, I couldn’t find too much about him that in any way overlaps with Galactic Unicorns or Reptiles Monthly . He doesn’t seem like someone who has much of a sense of childish wonderment, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Two hours of constant doubt later, and I’m off, zooming along the Northern Line to Hampstead with my self-appointed bodyguard. Adam is wearing a tie and has insisted I wear a dress and jacket, as “Lord Fenton’s probably one of those old-fashioned old farts who won’t like ripped jeans.” I don’t know where Adam’s getting his ideas from lately.
“Shouldn’t I be showing Sir John my real personality if we’re to see if we’ll work well together?” I’d protested.
“Steady on,” Adam had replied before rummaging for my most sensible-looking shoes.
Anyway, it’s too late now. We leave Hampstead Underground, and Adam pulls out his phone.
“It’s right by those ponds on the heath!” he pronounces. “Hmm. Maybe we should have dressed more nautical.”
“For God’s sake, Adam. It’s a pond, not the Atlantic. And he wants a writer, not a cabin boy.”
When we arrive at the house, it’s intimidatingly grand. A tall Victorian townhouse, on one of those tree-lined streets that could be from a Richard Curtis film. On closer inspection, the house in question looks like it’s been less loved than its neighbours. Chipped and faded paintwork curls beneath crumbling window ledges, and uncontrolled ivy has taken over the facade. Inwardly, I thank Adam for insisting on coming with me and nervously approach the front door. It’s got one of those ornate lion knockers, and I feel like I’m from another time when I give it a gentle rap. There’s only deafening silence. After a few minutes, I try again, another light rap, nervous that Sir John is just slow to get there and if I knock too impatiently, I’ll just irritate him. As usual, Adam has other ideas.
“Oh, let me!” Adam grasps the knocker and gives it three loud whacks.
After what seems like an age, the door opens, and a figure, presumably Sir John, emerges from the shadows. The hallway is definitely faded grandeur, but grandeur nonetheless. He glares at us briefly. “Alexandra?” he barks.
“Oh, call me Alex,” I tell him. “This is my flatmate Adam. I hope it’s OK that he’s joining us. He can sit in another room during the interview if you prefer. I left a message with your housekeeper that he’d…”
“Yes, yes,” Sir John snaps. “You’d better both come in. A circuit judge lives next door, by the way, if either of you are a fraudster or a hustler.” With that warm welcome, he leads us past the elegant spiral staircase towards the sitting room, and I catch sight of a beautiful, albeit old-fashioned, kitchen with a massive island and a double Aga nestled along one wall. It’s always been my dream to live in a house with an Aga. I prod Adam in the ribs and point to it.
“So?” He whispers. “You can’t cook for shit. Watching Grand Designs and Saturday Kitchen has given you notions.”
“I can still appreciate a good kitchen!” I hiss back.
Sir John guides us towards a worn-looking sofa and summons the housekeeper I’d briefly spoken to earlier.
Mrs Jenkins, a formidable-looking older woman, comes in and asks us if we want anything to drink. I ask for a cup of tea, milk, and no sugar. Adam requests a fresh lemonade. I look at him, aghast. “Adam, we’re not at a restaurant. I think Mrs Jenkins means, “Did you want tea, coffee, or water,” I say, glancing at Sir John to see how he reacts to his demanding guests.
“Oh no, it’s quite alright,” Mrs Jenkins interrupts. “I can easily whip up some fresh lemonade.” She scuttles off, and Adam looks smug.
“Right,” Sir John says, dispensing with small talk. “We’d better start with your portfolio.”
I dutifully hand it to him, and he makes several “harrumph” noises while he ruffles through (too quickly, in my opinion). “You certainly have some very peculiar interests,” he says.
Adam disloyally bursts out laughing, and I glare at him.
“I, er, do have significant experience of working with publishers. You’ll see from my CV that I was a ghostwriter for Wilson’s Media for four years, working on a book series.”
Sir John doesn’t look at me and continues shuffling through the paperwork. “Oh yes? And what was that series?”
Damn. “It was… er… speculative fiction rather than fact. Though there was quite a bit of research and getting to understand the… err… tone and detail. It was called, er, Galactic …”
I’m mercifully interrupted mid-answer by the arrival of the drinks. I gratefully take a sip of my tea, and Adam takes a huge glug of lemonade before gasping and spitting it out all over Sir John. He leaps up faster than I thought someone of his age could and exclaims, “What in the bloody hell, man!”
Adam is still gasping like a fish out of water, Mrs Jenkins looks stricken, Sir John appears thunderous, and I’m just frozen.
“Salt! Salt!” Adam eventually manages to splutter.
“What do you want with salt, boy?” Sir John asks, furious.
“Full of salt. Water. Please,” Adam whimpers (in my opinion, slightly melodramatically).
Mrs Jenkins looks devastated. “Oh, the sugar… and the salt… were next to each other on the counter… and…” She rushes off to the kitchen for water. Sir John, however, has started guffawing. Huge, belly-rumbling laughs are rolling over his portly frame. Then Mrs Jenkins comes back with the rescue water, and even Adam manages a wry smile through his frantic sips of water.
Now that Sir John has laughed, albeit somewhat sadistically, at Adam’s near-death choking, the ice is broken, and the rest of the meeting passes in a relatively happy blur. The secret, I discover, is to deflect from my CV by asking a few admiring questions about Sir John’s career and even his childhood. He’s actually had quite an impressive career, spanning several cabinet positions and influential roles in global summits I remember reading about in history class.
He looks at me earnestly at the end of his summary, “Well… you think there’ll be enough to write a book?”
“Oh!” I’m slightly taken aback. “Yes, I think there’s definitely enough in terms of content, but I do wonder if you need to add a bit of a personal touch for the adult years. You know, make it a little warmer, a little more human. The childhood bit is great; I just wonder about your family and friends during your adult years?” I trail off, suddenly noticing that there are no family pictures dotted around the sitting room or on the extravagant mantelpiece.
Sir John’s expression clouds, and I immediately regret delving into such private territory.
“This is a political memoir, young lady. Not some kiss-and-tell. Anyway, in terms of family, it’s just me now – so you’ll need to find some other way for it to be ‘more human’.”
Mrs Jenkins’ eyes betray her, and I suspect there is more to this than Sir John is letting on, but I decide against pushing further. For now.
Adam, as ever, is far less sensitive. “You can’t just have no family! No cousins or siblings, or nieces or nephews? What happened to your parents?” Sir John’s face darkens, but Adam, genuinely intrigued, pushes on. “A man like you… I refuse to believe you didn’t have a handful of women on the go at all moments when you were younger. I know a fellow Don Quixote when I see one.”
Slightly charmed, Sir John relaxes briefly. “Well, yes, I suppose when I was young, I was considered… rather a catch. There were, ahem, bedfellows.” He looks perplexed and pointedly ignores Adam’s attempt at a fistbump before continuing, “But anyway – the point is – this is about my career. That’s the interesting bit. Not shenanigans when I was younger.”
Mrs Jenkins blushes and starts aggressively plumping the cushions on one of the armchairs.
“Well Alexandra… Alex, I like you. And I like the cut of your young man’s jib. If you want the job, it’s yours. I don’t particularly warm to some of your reptilian pieces, and you have terrible taste in film, but you can clearly write. I’ll just have to train you in the correct voice.”
I’m so delighted by this news that I choose to overlook the training and boyfriend comments. Adam does not, “Oh, John,” he dispenses with formalities, “Alex isn’t a bedfellow; she’s my cousin.”
Moving swiftly on, I accept Sir John’s offer.
“Excellent news!” he seems genuinely pleased. “Can you start on Monday? As I said, I can’t offer a lot. The writing fee has to come out of the publisher’s advance, but you’ll be able to live here rent-free until the project is finished.”
I give Adam a sad glance. This means that’s it for us. We won’t be flatmates anymore. He gives me an encouraging nod, and I look at Sir John.
“Yes, please, I’d like to stay here.”
I dread to think what my mother will make of this if she finds out. I can only imagine. Her beloved, hapless only daughter, staying with an ageing parliamentarian in Hampstead, whiling away the best part of her youth in a dishevelled mansion. It’s like a North London Sunset Boulevard . Oh dear… or maybe something more Hitchcockian?
As Sir John ushers us out, I’m lost in thought, sad about leaving Clapham and even my dopey cousin. Despite all the times he’s frustrated me with his cavalier attitude towards dating, his constant monopolising of the TV for any and every football match, and his telling tales on me to my mother, I’m really going to miss Adam. He really has been there through it all – he picked me up off the floor – literally, on occasion – after Chris broke my heart. He has encouraged me through every single job I’ve applied for, even if I clearly didn’t stand a chance, and of course, he even stood in for me during the Ladditude interview. And he found me this opportunity, which is the only reason I’m not scurrying back home to live with my parents for a while, tail between my legs.
On the walk back to the Tube, I turn and express this to him. As sensitive as ever, he laughs, “I wouldn’t worry about me. I am going to turn the flat into a sex palace.”
I don’t know why I bother.