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look very British to me,’ I commented, taking the mouse and clicking through a few more pictures. ‘Where’s he from again?’
‘Uh, his Wikipedia entry says London.’ Mary took the mouse back and flicked through to what was obviously her favourite shot, halfway down the page, James staring directly at me, dark brown hair tickling his cheekbones, bow tie loose, top two buttons of his shirt undone. ‘So you fly on Saturday.’
‘Sorry, what?’ I snapped back from the pretty pictures and looked at Mary. She had her, ‘I’m really not kidding’ face on. Not a favourite of mine. ‘But, it’s Monday?’
‘Which gives you almost a whole week to prep.’ Mary started to click at other things on her screen. A sure-fire sign that the meeting was all but over. ‘So, Cici will book your flights, your car, hotel and organize all the other stuff. Cash, credit card, BlackBerry, whatever.’
‘But, seriously, is this a good idea? Maybe I don’t have the experience for this. I’m not a professional interviewer, I’m a talker at best –?and, when I’m lucky, people talk back. That’s really not a qualification.’ I leaned over the desk. Was Mary not feeling well? ‘And I’ve never been to LA before. What, I mean is, really, this doesn’t make that much sense, surely?’
‘Look, Angela,’ Mary’s eyes flickered across her screen. ‘Here’s the thing. I’m not supposed to tell you but they asked for you.’
‘What?’
‘Hey, I’m as surprised as anyone else.’ Mary pulled a face. ‘Not that I don’t think you’re great but, like you said, you’re not a professional interviewer: we both know that. But James’s people wouldn’t have anyone else. It was the only condition of the interview.’
I didn’t know what to say. What could I possibly have done that could attract the attention of James Jacobs’s ‘people’? I didn’t think they would have been that impressed with my critically acclaimed series on which Manhattan department store was the best to hit for a free makeover before you went out (Bloomingdale’s, Soho).
‘If you’re not going to do it, just say,’ Mary went on. ‘The entertainment team on the magazine are already incredibly pissed off. They can get someone else like that—’
‘No!’ I said quickly. ‘It’s not that. I absolutely want to do it. It’s amazing. I just – I just don’t get it.’
‘Me either.’ Mary really didn’t believe in sugar-coating anything. Even when I would have preferred it. ‘I can only tell you what they told me. James’s team doesn’t want a polished, super celebrity reporter who is going to stiff them with some horrible sordid Hollywood exposé. They want someone who is going to help show James as – you know – a fantasy guy. The whole point of the article is it needs to be fluffy, not scandalous, sort of a “My Dream Week with James Jacobs”. Almost like it was written by a reader.’
‘So basically an amateur not experienced enough to weasel out the details of his secret love child?’ I surmised, slightly relieved and slightly offended at the same time.
‘Yeah, pretty much.’ Mary had either missed or chosen to ignore the part where I was slightly offended. ‘The entertainment editor thought it was maybe because, you know, you’re British so he’ll trust you.’
‘Britain isn’t just this little quaint village where everyone makes jam and says good morning to their neighbours, you know,’ I grumbled half-heartedly. ‘Margaret Thatcher was British and no one trusted her.’
‘So, like I said, Cici will get you everything.’ Mary pointed towards the door, where Cici stood, clipboard in her hand, hateful look on her face. ‘And you’ll blog from LA, OK? You can say you’re doing an interview but it’s probably best not to give too much away. Save it for the magazine. It’ll be good for you.’
‘And people weren’t that mad on Tony Blair towards the end,’ I added thoughtfully. ‘And Sweeney Todd. Was he real?’
‘No, Angela, he wasn’t,’ Mary looked back across the desk. ‘Angela, they have asked for you. We are sending you. Against the wishes of the editorial team. Against the wishes of the publishing team. Do not fuck this up. You don’t want to lose your visa, do you?’
I bit my bottom lip. It was like getting told off by my mum. ‘Lose my visa?’
‘This is a major interview for the magazine and, if you do it right, could even go international,’ Mary explained. ‘If this goes wrong, the publishers are hardly likely to want to continue with your blog, are they?’
‘No,’ I said, suddenly feeling very sick.
‘Look, no one’s expecting a Pulitzer prize-winning article, just go out there and talk to this man. There are a lot worse ways to spend a week in March. You’re getting an all-expenses-paid trip to LA, plus you’re getting paid. Suck it up, go buy a bikini and interview the handsome man.’ She waved me out of my seat. ‘I’ll see you in two weeks. And don’t screw it up.’
I felt a bony grip on my shoulder and rose tentatively out of my chair. Please let it be Death, I prayed silently, gathering up my sweaters, gloves and coat.
‘Can we please hurry this up?’ came the snide voice attached to the Vulcan death-grip. ‘I have other things to do today.’
‘Oh, Cici,’ I said, trying not to be disappointed. She might be as bony as Death but Cici was a lot more dangerous.
‘And then, as if I wasn’t freaked out enough, she basically said they only want me because I’m an amateur.’ I dropped my head onto the table in Scottie’s Diner, across the street from our apartment, toppling the tomato sauce into Jenny’s fries. ‘Shouldn’t I be insulted?’
‘OK, firstly, you kinda are an amateur, aren’t you?’ Jenny gulped her Diet Pepsi and shrugged. ‘I just mean you’ve never interviewed anyone before, right? And uh, hello, you’re going to LA on Saturday?’
‘Yes,’ I started, ‘but—’
‘Shut. Up.’ Jenny held out her hand. ‘You’re being paid to fly to sunny, hot LA from cold, fugly New York. In March. To interview one of the hottest men in the entire world. Who has specifically asked for you. And they’re paying you for it. I see no bad here. It’s a massive step for your career, you’re interviewing one of the hottest men in the world. And you’re going to LA. With one of the hottest men ever. In LA.’
‘I can see that you’ve found a couple of positives.’ I frowned, sipping my hot chocolate. ‘But – and I know I sound like a whiny cow, but the more I think about it, it just doesn’t feel like a good idea. I don’t want to take on such an amazing opportunity and then cock it up because I don’t know how to interview someone, let alone some Hollywood super-stud. Plus, I don’t really want to disappear off to LA for a week on my own. Not at the moment …’ I tailed off and looked into my hot chocolate, painfully aware that I had said absolutely the wrong thing.
Jenny shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. You are not doing this: it could be my only chance to meet James Jacobs. And, you know, it would be nice to head out to LA again,’ she pointed with a floppy fry. ‘If you even suggest turning this down because you’ve just got back into Alex’s shorts, I will be so angry with you.’
‘Firstly, that’s not what I meant,’ I lied, pulling the fries across the table. Most days, I loved that Jenny knew exactly what I was really thinking, no matter what actual words made it out of my mouth, but sometimes it was just irritating. ‘And secondly, when were you last in LA? And thirdly, you’re coming with me?’
‘Firstly, yes I am, secondly a few years ago, I’ve so told you before and you never listen and, thirdly, that is exactly what you meant and it’s bullshit.’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to go, or at least not because of Alex. I–I don’t know. I’ll miss him. Is that the saddest thing ever?’
‘Yes, it is.’