“Yes. Sorry to bother you, but are you Paul Davenport?”
“I am. Have we met before?”
“We haven’t, actually. My name is Fiona from theCentral London Art Journal, and I was hoping to interview you for a piece I’m doing on the University of Surrey’s literature department.”
Paul closes his book lightly and sets it down on the picnic table. “Sorry, did you say theCentral London Art Journal?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
No?I think back to the journal I think back to the journal Roshni invented, still believing it sounds legitimate enough. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean there’s no such thing as theCentral London Art Journal.”
He states his assertion so assuredly, my confident demeanor starts to reveal the slightest crack. “How can you be so sure?” I counter back.
“Because I read everything, and I’ve never read that.”
“We’re a new publication, and we’re exclusively online.”
“I see,” he says thoughtfully. “And who is your editor-in-chief?”
“Sloane Spalding.” It’s an easy enough lie. I got off the tube at Sloane Square yesterday, and Spalding is the last name I always opted for in my improv days.
“Sloane Spalding? Is this the same Sloane Spalding who ran theLondon Timesop-ed department in 1997?”
“That’s the one,” I answer, thinking I finally caught a break.
“No again. That was my cousin, Lucy.”
I consider digging my hole even deeper with another fib, but then think better of it. The small grin on Paul’s face tells me he appreciates my decision.
“So,” he says, “are you ready to tell me what’s really going on here? If there’s a hidden camera recording us for an internet clip, you should know that my left side is more complimentary and yes, I am willing to sign a video consent waiver. Though I have assisted my granddaughter in filming many a TikTok video and she will probably feel extremely slighted if I somehow end up going viral before her.”
Oh god. A granddaughter. He’s married.
“Wow,” I reply, barely managing to disguise my building panic. “I didn’t anticipate you being so informed in the ways of TikTok as you sit there reading Hemingway.”
“As I said, my granddaughter has aspirations to become internet famous, and my downstairs sunroom apparently has impeccable lighting.” I nod in understanding, and Paul goes on. “Now, why don’t you start by telling me who you really are?” He gestures for me to join him at the table, and I nervously sit down.
Here goes nothing.
“Yes. My name is Winnie, and I’m the personal assistant to Juliette Brassard.”
Paul seems to stop breathing for a moment. “Juliette,” he says quietly, half questioningly, half to himself. He then starts to look around, his eyes anxious but eager. “Is she here? Has she moved back to the UK?”
“No, she’s not and she hasn’t,” I quickly tell him. “We’re only in town for another week for a pop-up production ofThe Lights of Trafalgar, and if I’m being completely candid, she doesn’t know that I’m here seeing you right now either.”
Paul’s soft eyes shift back to mine. “I don’t understand.”
“I know, I’m not explaining things as well as I should. I just wanted to find you because the other day, Juliette was talking about her life in London when she was younger, and she talked about you so fondly. I thought maybe I would look for you and surprise her—that maybe she would like to see an old friend while she was here.”
Paul looks a little disappointed as he takes in my words, but a kind smile soon appears on his face. “That was a very thoughtful idea on your part, but I’m not quite certain Juliette would want to see me.”
“Would you like to see her?” I ask daringly.
He pauses for a moment. “I’d like that very much, but I would never want to show up out of the blue. I don’t think Juliette would appreciate it, nor would I feel comfortable.”
