Chapter 3 #3
They had the gangway down and secure in a minute, and a steward escorted her onboard.
They stopped at a basket where she could leave her shoes, and she followed the steward barefoot up the stairs.
She had a notebook and her laptop in her Hermès bag, and as soon as they reached the deck above the one where she had boarded the boat, she saw a man with salt-and-pepper hair, lounging on one of the couches, with a glass of champagne in his hand.
There were cleaning crews busy all over the boat, wiping off the salty spray and shining the chrome.
The deck furniture was beautifully designed for the boat.
Ben Sharpe stood and smiled at her, and held out a hand to shake hers.
“I’m Ben,” he said with a broad smile, and she was shocked for a minute to see that he was even more handsome at close range.
He had perfect features, a cleft chin, and movie star good looks.
She could feel him appraising her as they sat down, despite his casual style as he lounged on the couch.
“Would you like breakfast?” he offered her.
“No, thanks very much,” she said, trying not to look impressed by him.
She found his looks more distracting than appealing, since she had come to hear about his life, not on a date.
But he was without a doubt a beautiful man.
She found men who were that good-looking disconcerting.
They were too perfect, and usually narcissists, which had been the case with her married lover, who had also been extremely good-looking.
She’d had a prejudice against handsome men ever since, and always said she wouldn’t date one again.
She was more interested in character and intelligence, morals and values and integrity, and a sense of humor, than looks.
“Champagne?” he offered her and she declined again. She finally accepted a cup of coffee and he filled his glass of champagne again.
“Your boat is spectacular,” she said. It was impossible not to comment on it. “It must be wonderful to own a boat like this,” she said sincerely.
“Are we on the record, have we started?” he asked her, looking faintly unsure of himself for a minute.
“Life is on the record, Mr. Sharpe, but I wasn’t saying that for the interview, it wasn’t a trap. It’s a very, very beautiful boat.”
“I’ll give you a tour later, if you like.
When we finish. Thank you for coming down here, by the way.
I hope I didn’t ruin your holiday plans,” he said politely, and he almost looked sincere, but not quite.
He was just saying the right thing. He wanted to impress her so the article would be favorable and support his book.
It had taken him three years to write it with a ghost, which was in the biographical material his publicist had sent.
He had given the ghost credit on the book cover, making him seem like a nice guy, which was his intention.
Charlotte took out a notebook and pen. She didn’t record her subjects. She had a photographic memory and an amazing ability to recall conversations. She just jotted down details or key phrases to remind her of what her subjects said, and as a rule, she made few mistakes.
“Where would you like to start?” she asked him.
“Wherever you like,” he said congenially.
“Tell me about the period of time when you were homeless on the streets. How did that feel? Was it freeing or fun, or sad, or scary?”
“It was hard, scary even. I tried to focus on the good things, the blessings, to keep my spirits up.” He went into a long monologue then about how it had taught him to love his fellow man, and be part of a community.
He had a thorough, rapid answer for everything she asked him.
She wondered if some of it was straight out of the book.
It was his party line, to be sure. Everything that came out of his mouth sounded canned and rehearsed, or coached by his publicist.
Charlotte stopped taking notes within a half hour of starting the interview. “Can you really remember all that?” he asked, impressed. She was quiet and serious as she listened to him.
“I can remember what I need to. It’s a sifting process.
I have pretty good recall.” She usually wrote her pieces with an attitude of “innocent until proven guilty.” She wanted to like Ben Sharpe, but everything he had said to her sounded fake.
She felt discouraged, listening to him. The interview was worthless.
It was too rehearsed and sanitized. He was just an obscenely rich guy who had been lucky, at the right place at the right time in history.
There was nothing more to him than that.
He made his billions sound like blind luck.
Two hours later, when Charlotte closed her notebook, there was almost nothing in it.
Her special interviews of extraordinary people lasted four or five hours, and sometimes she stayed with the subject all day, or for a couple of days if she thought it was warranted.
Going by his answers to her questions, Ben Sharpe was an empty shell with nothing to say to the world.
His book was going to be a disaster. Normally, she would have read his book before she met with him, but it was too early and the publisher didn’t have the advance copies ready before Christmas.
She thanked Ben Sharpe very politely for his time, and he showed her around the boat before she left. It was absolutely amazing, and he was justifiably proud of it.
“You see, size does matter,” he said with a grin, allegedly referring to the boat, and she nearly choked.
“Not always,” she said under her breath. “But it’s a gorgeous boat. You’re very lucky to have it.” Then she corrected herself. “No, that’s wrong. You’re not lucky. You’re obviously very good at what you do, or you wouldn’t have achieved a success of this dimension.”
“I invented a lot of the technology everyone uses today. I’ve been working on it for years.”
“I wish you had told me more about it in the interview,” she said wistfully.
“Most people wouldn’t understand it, and it’s hard to explain. My publicist gave me some ideas of what to talk about.” In fact, he had quoted her verbatim throughout. That was the tinny fake sound Charlotte had picked up immediately. It didn’t sound like him, because it wasn’t his own thoughts.
“She shouldn’t have. I wanted to get to know Ben Sharpe, not your publicist,” she said gently. It had been a wasted two hours, and a fruitless trip. She had nothing to write, no sense of him.
Ben had an uncomfortable feeling when she left, and he wished her a merry Christmas. Her driver took her back to the hotel, and she called Henry, who was spending time with his children.
“How was it?” Henry asked her when he picked up.
“A total waste of time,” she said honestly. “His publicist prompted him and told him what to say. It was pure crap that no one will want to read and I won’t write, but you still owe me two days down here. I love it here, and his boat is the best thing about him.”
“Shit,” he said, out of earshot of his kids. “The guy has made fifty billion dollars, and some people say he’s a genius, and he can’t give you an interview?”
“I have no idea who he is. I hope his book is better than what I heard today.”
“Do you want to take another crack at him?” Henry hated to see the opportunity go up in smoke. Sharpe did very few interviews, and he was only doing it now because of his book.
“There’s nothing else to crack. The guy is an empty shell. He’s just a money machine. I’d rather interview my refrigerator. It would be more interesting. There’s more in it than in Ben Sharpe. He was a parrot for his publicist for the entire time.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie. Well, enjoy your two days off. Three, since I assume you don’t want to go back tomorrow.”
“I don’t. It was all lies and manufactured garbage. Superficial. No depth. You know how I hate that.”
Henry thought about it after they hung up.
He was going to call Sharpe’s publicist and tell her, and then he had an idea.
The guy was smart. He’d get it, if he was as brilliant as people said.
He called Sharpe himself and told him as gently as possible that the interview had been a bust and that he couldn’t give rehearsed answers, especially to a writer like Charlotte Ramsay.
“She goes deep. She wants real,” he said to Ben.
“You have to shoot straight from the hip, and tell her the truth. She’s not the kind of writer who would do a puff piece. ”
“I could tell. I knew it was going wrong but I didn’t know what to do about it. My publicist insisted I stick to the script we rehearsed.”
“She’s wrong about Charlotte. She knew it was rehearsed. If I can get her to come back, would you do it again? But you have to give her straight, real answers. Not what someone told you to say.”
“I’d love to give it a try. I knew it was crap when I said all that stuff to her. And I could tell it wasn’t working for her. She was very polite, but it sounded like it was all over when she left.” Ben was being honest with Henry.
“Let me talk to her. She’s staying in St. Barth for a few more days, and you’re already booked for tomorrow.”
“She may not want to work on Christmas,” Ben said, disappointed. He knew he blew it. Interviews weren’t his strong suit. He either came across as aggressive or disinterested, or too technical, which was why he’d asked his publicist’s advice.
“That’s what she’s there for. I want you to give it another shot.
I’ll call you back,” Henry said, and promised to try.
He told his children he’d be there in a minute.
Henry called Charlotte as soon as he hung up with Ben.
She was changing into a bathing suit to go to the beach.
It didn’t feel like Christmas in a tropical climate.
“He says he’d like to try again,” Henry told Charlotte, and she groaned at the thought.
“He has nothing to say, he’s like a pitcher with no balls to throw. The guy is empty.”