I drag myself back to the present, where Dan Carlisle is giving me the full sarcasm. ‘Let me guess,’ he says. ‘You’ve signed him up for Strictly Come Dancing?’
Frankly, that would be bloody fantastic. Something tells me that Matthew can’t dance but would try very hard to learn – the combination of leading man looks, clodhopper feet and earnest, furrowed diligence would get him as far as Hallowe’en, maybe even to Blackpool. I could see Bruno in convulsions at Matthew’s salsa, saying, ‘My darling, you are truly terrible, but you gave it your all!’ Then collapsing into more paroxysms and awarding him a six out of pity.
He’d be the darling of the nation by the end of week two.
‘It’s nearly the end of October,’ I say to Dan. ‘Way too late for Strictly. Now, please sit down.’
Dan Carlisle’s kitchen, a super-sleek white lacquer and steel affair, is my worst nightmare. It’s cold and hard and repellent. Just like Dan himself, in fact.
Gently I say to Matthew, ‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. It’s not my plan to dumb you down.’
He looks at me gratefully.
‘You enjoy cooking,’ I say. ‘In your comfort zone? How about Celebrity Masterchef?’
He nods. ‘That might be all right.’
‘Great.’ I smile broadly. ‘So you’d be okay if I contacted the producer?’ No need to tell him I’ve already been on to her.
‘I’d better start practising.’ Matthew is suddenly energized.
‘No need, you don’t want to be too good – people don’t like that. Being okay, then improving, that plays a lot better.’
‘This is all so cynical,’ Matthew says, once again mournful.
‘Coming from the man who spends his time with politicians.’ I smile.
‘Yeah.’ He grins back with unexpected cheer. ‘This is far worse.’
‘What else have you got?’ Dan interjects.
Addressing Matthew, I say, ‘You love dogs.’
‘But Ruthie’s allergic.’
I fight the urge to sigh. ‘A dog might be a comfort to you now.’ I’ve already made contact with a production company to gauge their interest in making a half-hour documentary about Matthew Carlisle and his new puppy.
‘If I get a dog, won’t it look like a sign to Ruthie that we really are over?’
Matthew may as well treat himself to a pack of full-grown huskies – from the way Ruthie has thrown him to the media vultures: she obviously wants nothing to do with him ever again.
Unless I’m wrong. Isn’t every relationship a mystery, which reveals itself only to the two people who are in it? ‘Think about it,’ I say lightly. ‘It would be heart-warming.’
‘Heart-warming? He’s the cleverest man in Britain!’ Dan sneers.
Why was this asshat even here? ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ Attached by a long rattly chain outside a remote warehouse, tensed to bark at intruders?
‘You know what, I should. But taking care of my brother is more important.’
‘I can take care of him.’
‘Can you?’
‘What other ideas have you?’ Matthew asks. I’m guessing this happens a lot, him having to pour oil on waters that have been troubled by his brother.
‘Okay, hear me out.’ This is going to be a harder sell. ‘Have you heard of a show called Deadly Intentions?’
It’s a late-night comedy on BBC2, a dark subversive thing, which features a character called Matthew Carlisle, who says stuff like ‘I’m Matthew Carlisle and under my suit I’m wearing Angela Merkel’s knickers.’
Matthew says, ‘I’m Matthew Carlisle and when I come I shout out, “Bernie Sanders!” ’
Right. So he knows the show. That, at least, saves me the very awkward task of explaining it to him.
‘You want him to go on that?’ Dan almost combusts. ‘It’s offensive!’
‘Just light-hearted silliness.’ More confident smiling from me. ‘But if Matthew could out-Matthew the Matthew character, people would love it. Showing you can laugh at yourself is very endearing.’
‘Okay,’ Matthew says. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Well, great!’ I hadn’t expected this to be so easy.
‘ “I’m Matthew Carlisle and I’m prepared to humiliate myself on national telly if it means clearing my name.” ’
‘Ha-ha-ha, good one, funny.’ Actually it was quite funny.
‘So what do I have to do?’
‘They start filming the new series in November.’
‘November?’ Dan pounces. ‘So when will it be on telly?’
‘Early next year. Remember what I said to you when we met last week? This is a long-term project, a slow, careful recalibration of how the public perceive Matthew.’
‘But what’s going on now, people thinking he’s a nanny-shagger, is killing him. We insist you do something today.’
‘Matthew,’ I say. ‘We can end this here. I’ll refund you for the unused hours and you can find another publicist.’
‘Oh.’ Matthew seems startled. ‘Are we that bad?’
‘This relationship needs to work for both of us.’ I’m pleasant but firm.
‘Oh. Well. Yes, but …’ Matthew turns to his brother. ‘I want to stay with her.’
Dan closes his eyes. He looks a little sick. And I feel – because I’m only human – triumphant.
‘Dan is just looking out for me.’ Matthew is earnest. ‘We’ve only ever had each other.’
‘I sympathize.’ Which isn’t true. I neither sympathize nor not-sympathize, I just want to do my job. ‘But all this aggro isn’t helpful.’
‘Sorry,’ Matthew says. ‘We’ll be more cooperative.’
‘Thank you.’ I’m gracious in victory. Apart from the side-eyes I flash at Dan, but it happens so quickly, you’d barely notice. ‘A few more things. You should ally yourself with a charity, so think of one you’re passionate about. And you support Fulham, right? Start showing up at matches. Eat pies. Look approachable. Now, Twitter. I need access to your account to supplement your content.’
‘Videos of cats dancing.’ Once again Dan is sneery. But, to give him his due, he immediately mutters, ‘Sorry.’
‘Puppies,’ I say. ‘Puppies dancing. Matthew is a dog person.’ I engage Matthew in intense eye contact. ‘I cannot emphasize this enough – no romance. Not a one-night stand. Nothing.’
And, you know, there’s the tiniest flicker, a barely visible blink-and-flick, that I can’t decipher.
‘It’s vital,’ I say.
‘Okay,’ he says.
‘We’re clear?’
‘Clear.’
‘One final thing, the Media Awards on Friday week – congratulations on being shortlisted. But no plus one allowed.’
‘Ruthie always came with me to these things.’
‘I know.’ I make consolatory noises. ‘But you can’t bring a female companion this time.’
‘Not even Mara Nordstrom? She’s a colleague.’
‘Matthew, no.’ Mara Nordstrom is one of the most lusted-after presenters on telly.
‘You’ve got to think how an ill-timed photo of you and Mara would look to the Great British Public. If you really want an ally, bring Dante.’
Matthew throws him an aggrieved look, and Dan says, ‘Charming.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I say. ‘You’ll have lots of support.’
‘Oh. Oh-kay. That’s all right, then.’
‘Good.’ I gather my stuff.
‘I’ll see you out.’ Dan follows me down the hall and says, over my shoulder, ‘Nice move back there. Offering to jump ship. Now he really trusts you.’
‘Because he can!’ Out of Matthew’s earshot, I vent some frustration. ‘What is your problem with me?’
‘Just trying to take care of my big brother.’
‘He already told me that.’
He looks appalled. I’m pretty appalled myself. This is unprofessional. ‘You know what?’ His face is furrowed with shock. ‘You’re like one of those snappy little dogs.’
‘Actually, you’re like one of those snappy little dogs!’ I step out into the street and feel the door slam shut behind me.
‘Nice kitchen, Dante,’ I say out loud. Then, much louder, ‘Not!’
57
Thursday, 27 October, day forty-five
‘Mum,’ Neeve says, when I get home from work on Thursday, ‘is your phone off?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Because Dad rang.’
My heart jumps almost out of my mouth – Hugh rang?