Suddenly the rage had a hold of me again. ‘Did you orchestrate this?’ I asked. ‘Letting Marie run that shitty piece so your paper gets a juicy exclusive?’
‘No.’ His voice was polite, his face like stone.
He sounded convincing but he was hard to get a read on.
‘What are you even doing here?’ I asked.
He went to say something, then stopped, and in that hiatus, those unuttered words, I felt the … something, the whatever-there-was between us.
He shrugged. ‘I want to make things right.’
I nodded, but that wasn’t the truth. Or, at least, not the whole truth.
Out we went, and the interview recommenced, but now Chrissy was pleasant and Premilla visibly relaxed.
Josh Rowan resumed his original position, propped against the wall, watching us, and again I wondered why he was there.
‘Excuse me.’ My tone was cold. ‘Would you mind leaving?’
‘He needs to stay,’ Chrissy said. ‘He’ll be finalizing copy.’
Suddenly all was clear: her name would be on the by-line but Josh Rowan would control the content. Okay, so he stayed.
After an hour Chrissy disappeared to write her copy and it was time for the photoshoot, which was at least as important as the interview. The stylist had set up three racks of clothes in the bedroom and, with a gimlet eye, I flicked through them. ‘No. No. No jeans. No denim.’
‘How about this?’ She held up an amazing Roksanda shift, but it was red and red was too celebratory.
‘It’s beautiful.’ There was real longing in my voice. ‘But no red, yellow, pink or orange. No bright colours. Think atonement.’
‘The movie? I’ve got a green bias-cut –’
‘Not the movie.’ I couldn’t help a laugh. ‘The emotion, the noun, whatever it is.’
Something made me look up. Josh Rowan was in the room. He’d overheard and, without him smiling or making any kind of noise, I knew he was amused.
No. No in-jokes. We couldn’t be complicit in anything. I wasn’t having it.
After several false starts, Premilla’s look eventually met my approval – tailored black trousers, a floaty Chloé blouse, and the dullest shoes you’ve ever seen (black leather, rounded toe, two-inch heels). She looked like a slightly stylish headmistress.
Next I stuck like glue to the make-up artist as she did Premilla’s face, making sure the red patches of psoriasis were covered, nixing too-bright lip-glosses and insisting that her hair be tidied away into a neat bun. Throughout this the photographer was giving me hard looks and he was correct to be worried: as soon as the shoot started, I was right in there.
‘Don’t put her behind a desk,’ I said. ‘She stands, she’s got nothing to hide. Okay, smile, Premilla, but no teeth.’ It was a fine line, she couldn’t look like she was delighted to be a drug addict but the ‘tragic Premilla’ poses had also to be avoided. ‘Think “tentatively hopeful”.’
The photographer handed me a camera. ‘Great idea – why don’t you take the shots?’
‘I know.’ I held up my hands and shrugged in a what-can-you-do manner. ‘I’m a nightmare.’ Yes, he hated me but it was my job to protect Premilla.
And all the time this was happening I could feel Josh Rowan’s eyes on me. It made me feel … self-conscious. Resentful. Confused. Excited.
By the time the photos were done, it was gone seven. I put Premilla into a cab to her sister’s.
Josh Rowan said, ‘Chrissy’s filed. Emailing it to you.’
‘Thanks – yeah, okay, bye-bye, thank you, bye.’ The stylist and the rest of them were leaving.
I clicked on the attachment and my heart sank at the first sentence: ‘Curled up in the tasteful upholstery of a luxurious London hotel …’
Josh was reading it too, sitting opposite me in the living room, which was suddenly very quiet now that everyone was gone.
‘No,’ I said.
‘I know.’
I looked around. ‘It is luxurious …’
‘But hardly relevant.’
‘There can be no hint that she’s profited in any way from this.’
‘On it.’ He quickly typed something.
‘A disclaimer she wasn’t paid for this?’
‘Done.’
‘So let’s strike that opener and –’
‘Describe how upset she was when she arrived?’
‘Don’t overdo it. Make clear it was emotional distress, not physical withdrawals.’
‘Okay.’ He started typing again. Little flurries of words, followed by deletions, and long stretches of him just staring at the screen before the flurries started again. ‘How about this?’ He read out, ‘ “This wasn’t what Premilla Routh had planned for her life. All her years of hard work, playing draughty theatres in provincial towns, followed by the bootcamp ethic of Misery Street shooting four shows a week, only to be catapulted into the headlines for buying prescription medication on the streets. She’s devastated.” ’
‘A bit tabloid-y,’ I said. ‘But good. Excise “on the streets” and keep going.’
Over the next few hours Josh and I back-and-forthed over copy and entirely rewrote the profile. Chrissy’s original piece hadn’t been mean – she’d got the brief – but this new one was much more insightful, focusing on the horrors of accidental addiction. The actual drug purchase was barely mentioned. Josh had obviously listened intently to everything that Premilla had said. It had been worth letting him stay in the room.
As the piece took shape it became clear that this was much, much better than a mere mop-up operation – it could even act as the pivot for Premilla’s new future. A benzo addiction group would probably snap her up as their spokesperson and she’d be considered for darker, more serious acting roles, seeing as she’d endured and survived her own mini-hell.
‘Premilla will come out of this looking good,’ I acknowledged.
‘Best thing that ever happened to her,’ Josh said.
My head snapped up.
Then I saw that he was joking.
‘Our greatest crisis is also our greatest opportunity.’ His tone was mockingly solemn.
I replied, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’
‘Sometimes it takes a wrong turn to get you to the right place.’
‘My personal hate,’ I said, ‘is “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” ’
‘Mine is “Don’t run from your bad feelings. Instead –’
‘– dance with them”,’ I finished.
The mood had lightened. We were both smiling, his a one-sided, reluctant-looking affair.
‘Instagram is the worst for that inspirational crap,’ I said.
‘Yep. Nothing is too banal or too obvious that it can’t be posted.’
‘Pinterest is bad too. I hate-follow loads of asshats just to see the platitudes they post.’
‘I’ve never really got on with Pinterest. Too much tapestry.’ He looked at his screen. ‘So.’
So. Back to work.
‘To finish this up,’ he said. ‘For the shoutline, how about “My GP Prescribed It”?’
‘Great.’ It was making the piece about the drug, not the person.
‘Read it through one more time and, if you’re happy, I’ll send it in.’
I scanned it again. Perfect. I gave him the nod and the moment he pressed Send, the exhaustion hit me.
‘What time is it?’ I checked my phone. ‘Christ. Quarter past eleven. Missed the last flight home.’ And too late to arrive round to Druzie’s. ‘I’d better get a hotel.’
‘You’re in a hotel.’
‘Are you delusional? No normal person could spring for a joint like this.’
‘But the Herald have already paid. You should stay. In this luxurious suite.’
That made me smile. ‘Well, it is luxurious … but me staying here would be all kinds of wrong. You should stay.’ Suddenly giddy, because a tougher-than-tough day had finally ended, I exclaimed, ‘Hey, why don’t we both stay?’
At his expression my face flared with heat. ‘I just meant …’ What had I meant? ‘I was only … joking.’
He stared at me for a long, long moment. ‘That’s a shame.’
29
Saturday, 17 September, day five
Saturday morning … the gorgeous, dreamy realization that today is the day I can stay in bed for as long as I like …
Then I remember.