Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Katie
The makeup artist—Stephanie—applies another coat of lip gloss to my already caked lips.
“Makeup needs to be strong for TV,” she tells me for the tenth time after I question the volume she’s been applying.
“The camera detracts so much; we need to ensure you stand out.” The chances of me being missed are slight as I look at my bright red lips in the mirror.
“You’ve a quirky look, Kate. We should capitalize on that. You need to be memorable.”
“Katie,” I correct her, though I doubt she notices. So much for memorable. I can’t even correct my own name loudly.
Quirky is the description a lot of people use to describe me. My agent says they find my crazy curls and thick glasses appealing.
I call it my chaotic librarian look.
Since my book’s release in December, life has been a whirlwind.
I got lucky. My publisher’s social media department released the right post on the right day, and it went viral.
Sex with Satan became an internet sensation with people dressing up in devil horns and posing provocatively on all social media platforms.
In return, my book sales went through the roof—who knew there would be so many women out there fantasizing about fucking the devil? I certainly didn’t.
What was once just my dirty book is now a both loved and hated title in the literary world.
Today, I’m appearing on an American TV show to discuss my book and my further titles due for publication.
If this goes like any of the other chat shows I have taken part in, the conversation will be directed toward my own sexual preferences and private life.
Why do all journalists think all authors of erotica are whores?
They would be awfully disappointed to find out about my lacking sex life.
Since Lance…
There was one guy—in his fifties and successful.
On paper, we would be a good match. But after a few dates, it was clear he only wanted me for sex. Conversation was lacking and my interest in him was minimal. Every time he touched me, I waited for a spark that never came. Lance ruined me for lukewarm chemistry.
I think of Lance often: how he is, if he’s still deployed somewhere far off. The temptation to look him up is so great that I deleted his number and blocked his social media profiles. It doesn’t stop the ache but muffles the need.
“Katie.” Celia’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Darling, how are you? Are you all set for the show?”
I smile at my agent, now friend. She has been a huge support to me these past seven months since everything went crazy. The success of my book was as much of a surprise to her as it was to me.
She admitted she thought the book would do well but saw me as a long-term prospect.
Someone who could have a loyal readership that would follow them and hang on their every word.
Not the debut author sensation, which I am apparently.
Even though I’ve self-published in the past, I’m still considered new in the traditional publishing world.
“I’m fine. I’m always full of nerves before these things. Doubt I will ever get used to them,” I say. She quiets me with a pat on the shoulder.
“Just remember to tell them as little as possible. Keep your private life to yourself. And don’t tell them the name of the new book, just that it’ll be released in August.” I nod.
This little pep talk is growing old after having listened so many times that I know it by heart.
It’s so hard to answer a question while not actually answering the question.
Goosebumps spring up on the back of my neck as my anxiety rises a few more notches.
“Yes, Celia,” I say blandly. Her eyebrows shoot up, and a frown crosses her face.
“Don’t speak to me like a school headmistress, Katie. I only tell you these things to help you,” she snaps.
“I know,” I mumble. “Sorry.”
A production assistant knocks on the door and appears around it in one smooth move. He has a clipboard plastered to his chest and is wearing a harassed look. Without saying a word, he signals for us to come with him.
We follow him down the corridor toward the studio. I have to jog to keep up, which is difficult in four-inch heels. Lance always teased me for choosing style over substance. The thought punches hard, a blow to my chest.
He gestures for us to take a seat outside a door with a sign telling us that this is Studio 4. The voices on the other side are instructing people to go here and stand there. I hear a countdown begin as a man opens the door, closing it softly behind him.
“Katie Clark?” he asks.
“Yes.” My eyes meet his, my heart skipping a beat. He’s gorgeous.
He holds out his hand, and I take it. Electricity pulses between us, and my stomach flips—pure reflex, desire.
Fuck, it’s been a long time since someone has had that kind of effect on me. Not since Lance. Never since Lance.
“My name is Bradley Thomson. I’m delighted to meet you. You’ve been quite a sensation on this side of the pond.”
He has the most brilliant blue eyes, with cropped silver hair and rugged good looks, probably in his late fifties. The taut muscles beneath his shirt tell me he looks after himself, and the smattering of graying-dark hair where his shirt lies open at his neck is sexy as hell. This is a real man.
“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Thomson,” I stutter.
“Please call me Brad,” he says. “When I heard you were doing a promotional tour in the states, I simply had to have you on the show. Women are going crazy for your book over here. I haven’t seen anything like it in a decade.
” The confusion on my face must show—who is this hunk?
“My production company owns The Morning Show.”
Now it makes sense. The effortless confidence radiating off him. The kind of man who expects people to jump when he speaks.
He owns the bloody TV show.
I suddenly remember Celia standing beside me.
“Brad, please let me introduce my agent, Celia Miller.”
Pulling herself up to her full height, she looks incredible.
She has dressed to impress today, wearing a fitted cobalt-blue dress to the knee with fishnet stockings and sky-high heels.
Her hair is pinned high and fixed with a diamante clip.
Dark eyes and lips complete her temptress look.
How men don’t fall at her feet, I will never know.
He looks her up and down from head to toe, and Celia pants a little. It’s not only me that this man’s presence influences. He gives her a soft smile.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Miller. Quite a talent you found here.” The way he says talent, I’m not a hundred percent sure he’s talking about my work.
His attention returns to me. “Will you follow me, please? You’re on air in ten minutes.”
The set is very relaxed, with two huge red sofas placed in a V-shape and a heavy wooden coffee table in the middle.
The walls are made to look like anyone’s living room, with a fire on the back wall and bright, flowery wallpaper.
Kes and Lynn sit on one sofa, dressed in jeans and casual shirts, coordinated but not matching.
Both are older and certainly not glamorous. They have a wholesome quality to them.
“Okay, Katie.” Brad takes my elbow. “You’re up next.” He leads me to the side of the set, and the production team calls for an advert break. “Just this way,” he says, and I follow him to the other red sofa.
“Kes. Lynn. This is Katie Clark, the erotica author. This girl writes dirty books.”
What an introduction. My cheeks flush.
“Good luck, Katie.” He kisses me on the cheek, taking me by surprise, before sauntering off stage. The whole process seems completely natural to him.
“Just relax.” Lynn smiles. “We will lead you through it.”
10, 9, 8...
You’re on the air.
“Welcome back to The Morning Show.” Kes looks like his lips barely move as he speaks with his false smile plastered across his face.
“Now, Lynn, I know you’re going to enjoy speaking to our next guest. She’s taking the erotic fiction world by storm.
Katie Clark is with us to discuss her best-selling book and her future plans. ”
I wring my hands together; they are slippery with worry. My breathing quickens, and focusing on what they’re saying is difficult as my nerves peak. Just answer their questions simply, without too much detail.
“So, Katie,” Lynn begins. “Tell me, do you get inspiration from your past lovers for your characters?”
My eyes pop wide. A flash of Lance hits, so vivid my pulse trips. Hell, not now.
If this is the first question of the interview, heaven help me. Normally, hosts will ease into these things. A soft laugh escapes. Celia told me that laughing is a good strategy to buy yourself some time in an interview.
“You crack me up, Lynn. As much as I’d like to have a lover like Satan, unfortunately, no man’s up to his standard.” I give her a withering look, and she smirks.
The interview only lasts ten minutes, but I’m glad when it comes to an end.
Overall, it went well, and after my initial shock at the opening question subsided, it was fine.
Standing on cue, I pat down my technicolor skirt.
It is held out with a tulle petticoat that swishes as I walk, teamed with a white blouse and kitten heels.
My look is 1950’s librarian—all that is required is a pile of books to carry.
My followers like my eclectic taste in clothes: the brighter the better.
Brad is waiting for me as I walk off the set. He flashes me a megawatt smile and pretends to clap. Taking my hand, he leads me to a room at the back of the set. Celia follows us, scampering along behind.
“Well done,” he declares. “Would you like a coffee?”
I nod, and he hands me a small white teacup filled with strong black coffee. My stomach lurches as our knuckles brush.
“Sugar? Milk?” he asks, and I smile gratefully.
“Both, please.”
Celia clears her throat. Brad’s eyes slide to her as if he forgot she was there. He hands her a cup of the tar-like substance without a word, then turns back to me.
“Katie, what are your plans while you’re here?” he says.
“You’d be better asking Celia. I just turn up where I’m told.”
He lifts his eyebrows, and a sexy smile plays on his lips. “Okay, Celia, would Katie like to go out to dinner with me? Is she allowed?”
I practically spit my coffee out. He laughs, deep and jovial.
“She would be mad not to. Give her your number, and she’ll call you,” Celia purrs.
Brad passes me his card, winks, then struts out of the room.
I stare at it.
And all I can think is… why do I feel nothing?