‘I don’t want an image as the bad guy. I’m not the bad guy.’
‘You’re a serious broadcaster, why does it even matter?’
‘Because it’s not true.’
Right. He’s an idealist.
‘Can you fix it?’ he asks.
It would be tough. The public adore Ruthie. They were really sad they had to be cross with her for moving on so quickly. They appreciated having Matthew to blame for their sweetheart being a little slutty. The public mood is now firmly behind Ruthie, as far as I can tell, and it’ll be hard to switch their allegiance again.
In addition, you can’t prove a negative: Matthew and the nanny can deny until they’re blue in the face, but it will never be beyond doubt.
‘Can you get something into a broadsheet by this weekend?’ Dan asks. ‘A big, huge interview with Matthew, where he gives his side of the story?’
‘That would be a mistake.’ A terrible mistake. ‘That would turn this into a “he says/she says” slanging match, Matthew. You’d be “tabloided” and that’s a toxin harder to shake off than napalm.’
He looks stricken.
‘But issuing an official press release is vital,’ I say. ‘Denying everything and asking for privacy, especially for your children. Simple and dignified.’
‘That’s all you’d do?’ Dan is furious.
‘No, but previous experience, of which I have plenty, is telling me to play a much longer game.’
‘So what would you do?’ Matthew asks.
That’s a huge question and, to be blunt, it depends on how many of my hours he’s prepared to buy. ‘I’d have to look at everything – the current coverage, which journalists Ruthie owns, what precisely you want your outcome to be – but I can definitely change the conversation. Medium-term, I can work to alter your public profile.’
‘People will still think I’m a cheater.’
‘If they do, it won’t matter.’
‘Oh! I get it. It’s not binary,’ Matthew says.
‘Exactly!’ I could kiss him. ‘A quiet, steady denial that you cheated with Sharmaine, if the subject ever comes up. And eventually it won’t.’
‘Give us an example of what you’d do to alter his public profile,’ Dan demands.
God, I’ve only known Matthew Carlisle ten minutes, how am I meant to come up with a plan of campaign? And then inspiration hits. ‘Children in Need!’
Matthew Carlisle covered in custard, standing in a bucket, a glass bowl at a jaunty angle on his head, trifle dripping down his beautiful face – ‘Serious Political Journalist Shows He Can Take a Little Humiliation’. People love that stuff.
‘Children in Need?’ Dan Gordon’s scorn is epic. Matthew places a restraining hand on him.
‘Give me a few days, I’ll put together a comprehensive plan,’ I say. ‘Send out feelers, see who’s interested in working with you.’ Hastily I add, ‘Which is everyone, of course.’ Never forget how fragile famous egos are!
There’s a small conspiratorial smile behind Matthew’s black-framed spectacles. Clearly he’s not as narcissistic as most.
‘What can I do?’ he asks, then takes off his glasses, rubs his beautiful, tired eyes and says, ‘For you.’
He really shouldn’t go round phrasing questions in that manner when he’s as ridey as he is. It’s not decent.
‘I mean, you know, to help you do your job?’ But there’s a hint of a twinkle, almost an apology, as if he realized, too late, how his question had sounded.
I smile to convey silently that I understand. This is good, we’re communicating. ‘First of all, I’d need you to trust me.’
‘Why should we trust you?’ Dan Gordon says.
Irritably I turn on him, ‘What’s your role in all this?’
‘I’m his brother.’
‘Whose brother?’
‘His.’ With a jerk of his head, he indicates Matthew.
In amazement my eyes flash from God-like Matthew to angry-but-dull Dan. Then I have to clamp my lips together to stop the laugh escaping.
‘What sort of brothers?’ Perhaps he means close-friends-style brothers.
‘Full siblings,’ Matthew says, with a glint of warning in his voice. ‘Children from the same parents. Those sort of brothers.’
What comes to mind is that film where Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito are twins and, once again, I’m afraid the laughter will rush out of my mouth and blow this gig. ‘But you have different surnames?’ That’s the best I can produce to explain my far-too-evident astonishment.
‘My name’s not Dan Gordon,’ Dan Gordon says, ‘Needed a fake name until you’d signed the non-disclosure. Name’s Dan Carlisle.’
‘Actually Dante Carlisle,’ Matthew says. ‘Italian mother.’
‘But I don’t look like a Dante,’ Dan says.
You can say that again. Dante sounds dark and dramatic, like he should be striding about, swirling a long, black cape.
Now is as good a time as any to produce Hatch’s basic contract, for ten hours of my time.
Matthew reads through it, with Dan breathing down his neck, then Matthew signs it, and it’s all too much, and I want to quietly bite my knuckle with the thrill of it. Matthew Carlisle! My client! Matthew actual Carlisle!
I’m star-struck – star-struck as fuck!
‘I’ll compose a press release and send it to you later. Once we’ve made any amendments you might want, it’ll go to all the news outlets.’
‘It can’t be a secret he has a publicist?’ Dan asks.
‘No!’ Cheeky bastard. What am I? A prostitute?
‘You know I’m in London only on Tuesday and Wednesday,’ I remind Matthew. ‘My colleague Alastair is here every Thursday and half of Friday. You should meet, he can work with me.’
‘Happy to,’ Matthew says. ‘But I want my primary contact to be with you.’
Well, I mean – how EFFING BRILLIANT is that! ‘Certainly,’ I murmur, trying to hide my red-with-pleasure face in my iPad. ‘So, shall we meet next Tuesday? I’ll have a raft of ideas for you.’
‘Come to my house,’ Dan says, ‘where Matthew’s hiding right now. I’ll email the address.’
It takes a lot of work to compose myself for my four o’clock.
51
Out in the bar, who do I come face-to-face with? Only Alastair! ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Meeting a maybe client,’ he says.
Suddenly a very bad feeling creeps over me. ‘It’s not Sharmaine King, is it?’
‘Yep.’
‘No, Alastair, you can’t. I’ve just signed Matthew Carlisle.’
He stares. ‘I thought you didn’t want to touch this story.’
‘It was Tim’s decision. Trying to protect me,’ I add quickly. ‘But I’m fine. It’s all fine.’
‘Oh-kaaay. Nice work, though. Matthew Carlisle – that’s impressive! Is he as much of a babe in real life?’
‘Oh, Alastair, he’s a total babe. Look, sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘Ah, shur, what harm? Heathrow is always charming at this time of year. Hey, maybe I’ll stay in London tonight and we can get dinner. Are you staying in Druzie’s? Can I bunk in with you?’
‘No. No to everything. I am staying in Druzie’s but I’ll be doing a crash-course in Matthew Carlisle, so no dinner, no bunking.’
‘Grand so. Christ, here she is. Talk to you later.’
The arrival of Sharmaine King is causing a right frisson even among the Home House media types, who’re well used to famouses. She’s lovely – blonde, vibrant and not-skinny, just all-round beautiful, the way healthy young people are always beautiful. She’s in rolled-up jeans, brogues and an oversized tweed boyfriend coat, which she removes to display a boxy raggedy-edged jumper.
The press is wrong: she doesn’t look like Ruthie at all. Yes, they’re both blonde and they’re both wholesome but I’ve always found Ruthie a bit watery and this Sharmaine is radiant.