Mickey’s flat is at the end of the corridor. When they press the buzzer, a man who introduces himself as Josh opens the door, also wearing a ripped white T-shirt.
‘Hey. Come on in.’
‘Hey,’ Richard says, trying not to feel self-conscious about the fact he’s just said ‘hey’. He enters a spacious drawing room. Huge windows overlook an expanse of the Thames. The walls are hung with framed photographic blow-ups of pieces of silver machinery: an aeroplane wing; a racing-car bonnet; a hub-cap. The room is dominatedby a lacquered black circular table which seems to leak towards the perimeter like a pool of blood. On either side of the table are two microphones and two white bouclé chairs. A bank of cameras and sophisticated recording equipment has been set up along the kitchen island. There are at least twelve people fiddling with knobs and setting up lights and sound booms.
‘Goodness,’ Richard says to no one in particular. ‘I hadn’t realised it was such a production!’
‘Yeah, Mickey takes it really seriously,’ says another young man, also wearing a white T-shirt. ‘Hey, I’m Josh.’
‘You’re Josh?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Oh, sorry, I thought he was Josh.’ Richard points to the man who opened the door, who is now pressing buttons on an espresso machine.
‘We’re both Josh.’
‘Got it.’
Next to him, Gary is looking intently at his phone. Richard glances at the screen and sees that Gary is ordering a hair regrowth product on Amazon. Richard nudges him.
‘Anything you want to brief me on?’
‘Nah, mate. You know what you’re doing.’
Josh 1 offers them a coffee. Josh 2 says Mickey will be along in just a moment. There is a skittering sound from around Richard’s feet and when he looks down, he sees a French bulldog frantically running in circles across the parquet. The dog comes to a halt next to one of the bouclé armchairs, then raises a leg and urinates. A yellow stain seeps into the upholstery.
‘Ronaldo!’ They hear Mickey’s voice before they see him. ‘Stop that, you naughty boy.’
Josh 2 rushes to clean up the piss with a wad of kitchen roll. The dog dashes towards its owner who, at this precise moment, is walking down a chrome spiral staircase from a mezzanine floor. Mickey stoops to pick up the dog. The trademark fedora wobbles precariously, then falls to the floor, revealing a bald spot at the centre of Mickey Minton’s scalp.
Mickey drops the dog in favour of the hat, which he places back on his head at just the right tilt.
‘Alright, bro?’ Mickey says, a slight flush to his cheeks.
It takes Richard a moment to realise he is being addressed.
‘Oh, yes, very much so. Thanks so much … um … dude.’
‘Sweet, sweet.’
Mickey speaks with a transatlantic twang despite the fact that Richard knows he grew up in Milton Keynes. He doesn’t shake Richard’s hand but instead accepts an espresso from Josh 1, served in a shot glass, then takes his seat on one side of the black table. A leather-bound notebook sits in front of him. He moves it one millimetre to the left with the tip of his finger. A woman with make-up brushes appears and starts putting powder on Mickey’s face.
‘Right then, party people, let’s get started, yeah?’ he says once she’s finished. The room bubbles with a haywire kind of energy.
‘Richard, you’re going to sit here. Do you prefer Richard or Dick, by the way?’
‘Er, Richard. Definitely.’
‘Cool, cool. No stress.’
The armchair is less comfortable than it looks, and Richard is aware of the smell of dog urine still lingering. He wonders if his face is shiny and if he could ask for the make-up artist but she is nowhere to be seen, so he surreptitiously pats his cheeks with his sleeve. The room lights dim without warning and then, after a series of clicking noises and some activity from the Joshes behind the kitchen island, a spotlight is fired up, casting a strong beam over the table. Richard blinks. His stomach gurgles. He skipped breakfast.
‘It’s beginning to feel like an interrogation, ha ha.’
Mickey looks up from the still unopened notebook.
‘What’s that, mate?’
