“Writing a feature on my company,” he prompts eagerly. “That kind of publicity would be invaluable; I think I’d get a lot of clients with a plug like that.”
“I don’t feature talent agencies. I feature… talent.”
“Yeah, but weren’t you listening? It would be a ‘behind the scenes’ piece!” he explains, his eyes wide with enthusiasm as he envisions it. “You could do, like, a whole thing on the hot newagencies propping up these artists, the legs beneath the water, paddling madly.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“You know! On the surface of the water, ducks look all calm and chilled, but underneath the water, those webbed feet are working like crazy. Talent agencies are just like that. We’re the webbed feet. The artists are the ducks.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “I like that analogy. I might put that on my website.”
I’m too bewildered to speak.
“So, will you at least think about the feature?”
“Uh. Yes. Okay,” I lie, too tired to explain that it will never happen.
“Great,” he says, finishing his wine and gesturing to my glass. “Want a top-up?”
“No, thanks. I have a busy day tomorrow.”
“That’s why you want to be working for yourself, babe. I get to pick my own hours,” he says, winking at me.
He opens the fridge to retrieve the wine bottle. I quickly check my phone on the off chance that Dad has sent a text to explain why he called, but there are no new messages.
While the phone is in my hand, it vibrates. I pick up as soon as I see the name, my heart leaping into my throat.
“Shamari, hi,” I say as breezily as I can muster. “How’s your evening?”
“Audrey Abbot will do the interview.”
I inhale sharply.
“It will have to be before her rehearsal tomorrow morning. I’ll send you the address of the theater,” Shamari continues. “I’m just finalizing a time with her, so I’ll confirm when I can. I told her the focus would be on her career, not on… what happened. And it will be a celebration of her work. I mentioned that the journalist in question could be trusted. You should have heard what she replied to that.”
I smile to myself. “Was it something along the lines of how no journalists could be trusted?”
“Plus a few choice words, yes,” she says briskly.
“Shamari, this is… this is brilliant news,” I gush, hardly daring to believe that this is happening. “Her first interview in sixteen years! I knew you could persuade her. You are a wonder.”
“Front page of the magazine, yes?”
“You have my word,” I promise.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Oh, and Harper?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t fuck this up.”
I would not like to play Audrey Abbot at poker.
From the moment I walk in the room, I know she’s going to be a tough nut to crack. I’d expected to be greeted with a scowl or, at the very least, a look of mistrust, but she’s impossible to read, giving nothing away, her expression blank.
The interview is being held in a studio in central London where they’re conducting rehearsals for the upcoming play. I’ve arranged to meet her forty-five minutes before she’s needed for her scenes, which sounds like forever, but when you factor in the greetings and how long it takes to draw an actor out of themselves, it isn’t much time at all.
