CHAPTER TWELVE
Ryan and I appear to have formed a truce.
When you go through something as momentous as delivering a baby in the back of a London cab together, a bond inevitably forms, and on Monday morning when I arrive at the office, he looks up from his desk as I approach and smiles. I smile back.
“Good weekend?” he asks.
“Pretty uneventful,” I reply breezily, taking my seat next to him. “You?”
“Oh, same old.”
We both turn to our screens, equally amused, and I spot Mimi arch her eyebrows at us across the way. She is the only one in the office who knows what happened at the party—we agreed with Isabella not to tell anyone because it would make such a great story for the exclusive she’d already agreed to give me about the baby. Once she’s settled at home, we’ll interview her and can work the drama of the birth into the story. It will have a much bigger impact if we keep the details to ourselves until the piece is published. We were worried the cabdriver might spill the beans, but there’s been no whiff of the story anywhere, so we’re confident he had no idea who Isabella Blossom was.
“Cosmo is going to lose his mind when he reads it,” Ryan had chuckled while we sipped the terrible coffee from the machine in the hospital. “Two of his journalists delivering a world-famous actor’s baby? What a scoop.”
“Remember, this is Cosmo we’re talking about,” I reminded him. “He’ll probably bump it from the front page for a piece on why bowling is making a comeback among young successful businessmen.”
“You think so little of him?”
“He thinks so little of me.”
“That can’t be true,” he claimed, frowning. “It’s obvious that he doesn’t appreciate celebrity culture in the same way you might, but he must know how lucky he is to have you. You’re one of the best journalists out there.”
“If he thinks so, he has a funny way of showing it. You must have noticed how he treats you compared with how he talks to me,” I sighed, before giving him a suspicious look. “One of the best journalists out there, huh?”
He shrugged. “I’ve always thought so.”
He seemed genuine, but I think he was still high on adrenaline from delivering a baby, so I probably shouldn’t look into it too much.
Still, our bickering and snide remarks have noticeably decreased. We’re almost pleasant to one another. For example, when Dominic comes over from the art desk late Monday morning to consult Ryan about a layout for a piece on village cricket, Ryan examines it with his brow furrowed before turning to me.
“I’m not sure about this lead picture,” he says. “Harper, what do you think?”
I tear my eyes away from a press release about a TV presenter’s new clothing line.
“Sorry?”
“What are your thoughts on this picture?” Ryan asks, gesturing to his screen. “I’m not sure it’s quite right.”
Attempting to hide my shock at being asked, I move closer to his desk to have a look.
“Yeah, I agree with you. I don’t think it should focus on one cricketer bowling.”
“Right.” Ryan nods. “It needs a bit more…”
“Green?” I suggest when he trails off.
“Exactly. We need to see the bigger picture. Set the scene. Give it a bit more of a…”
“An English-country-village feel.”
“Yes!” Ryan beams at me. “Thanks, Harper. That okay, Dominic?”
“No problem,” Dominic says, glancing at the two of us in confusion. He walks away, looking back at us as though trying to work out what just happened.
Later that day, Ryan wanders into the kitchen while I’m making a cup of tea and looks surprised when I add half a sachet of sugar. I catch his expression and roll my eyes.
“I only allow myself sugar in my tea as a treat sometimes,” I explain, although I don’t know why I feel the need to justify it. “Don’t worry, I’m aware of how bad it is for me.”
“Actually, I was confused at you using sugar rather than honey,” he muses, going about making himself a coffee. “I thought you were a fan of honey tea.”
I stare at him. “You … you remember that?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “You were the person who introduced it to me. I’d never had honey in my tea before. I think you said it was your mum who used to make it for you?”
“Only when I was ill,” I confirm, before grimacing. “The rare occasion that Mum would bother to show she cared. Guess that’s why I find it so comforting.”
He looks sad and I feel bad for making the conversation so deep all of a sudden, so I brightly add, “I’m glad that I passed on honey tea to someone else. I hope you still dabble?”
“I certainly do. It’s great on a hangover.” He gestures to my mug. “But you don’t have it at work anymore?”
“No, just at home. Only because I’m so lazy and never remember to bring honey into the office with me,” I say, picking up my tea from the side once his coffee is done and strolling back to our desks together.
The next day, by the time I come in—which, Cosmo gleefully announces so that everyone can hear, is twenty minutes after my contracted hours (and he doesn’t care if I was on a work call)—Ryan is already typing away on his keyboard and looks up momentarily to say hi before focusing on his writing again. I throw my bag down on the floor and then notice something waiting for me among all my belongings scattered across my desk: a jar of honey.
I pick it up in wonder.
“So you can have your honey tea here,” Ryan explains simply, standing up and wandering over to the printer to collect something before being called into Cosmo’s office.
Stunned, I watch him go.
“What’s that all about?” Mimi asks, resting her chin in her hands and smiling coyly.
“Nothing,” I say with a wave of my hand, lowering myself into my chair.
She leans back. “Doesn’t look like nothing to me.”
Ignoring her, I log on and start going through my emails, every now and then stealing a glance at the jar of honey, unable to stop a smile spreading across my face.
I have to admit that work is a lot more pleasant without constantly arguing over everything with Ryan, but it’s slightly unnerving, him being so nice and me enjoying it so much. I’ve started looking forward to seeing him every morning, a flutter of butterflies hitting my stomach at the sight of those amazing blue eyes and the crinkles around the corners of his mouth when he smiles hello. And Mimi is right—he definitely does seem to pay more attention to me than to anyone else in the office. He’s quiet in group conversations, but when we’re together, it’s easy to get him talking.
This is bad. I have a boyfriend. I shouldn’t be getting excited about someone else’s smile, especially when it’s a person with whom I have history. Not just any history. Checkered history.
But I’m starting to have doubts over Liam.
I thought it was going to be hard to keep the story about Isabella’s baby secret from him, but it turns out to have been unbelievably easy because he hasn’t asked me one question about the party. Instead, he went on about how proud he is that he put himself out there, bravely approaching people to introduce himself, and how he’s pretty much signed that band Halo Skewed, some of the best performers he’d ever seen play live.
“You have to come to their gig next Friday,” he said on Tuesday night when I met him at the sushi restaurant near his flat. “They’d be perfect for a big article in the magazine.”
“In my magazine?”
“Yeah, course,” he said, chuckling. “A piece all about the hottest new band about to go skyrocketing into the charts. Trust me, when you come to the gig, you’ll be blown away. So, you’ll come?”
“Uh…”
I hesitated, selecting a spicy tuna roll with my chopsticks. I knew nothing about this band. And I couldn’t shake Ryan’s implication at the party that Liam was much more interested in networking than he was in … well … me.
“I’m so excited for you to see them live,” he’d continued, taking my pause in answering to be a resounding yes. I couldn’t be bothered to correct him, so I’d left it.
Part of my uncertainty about Liam is that I know very well that I have a tendency to put work before anything else. It’s the reason none of my previous relationships have worked out. I’m not an easy person to date, so maybe I shouldn’t give up on Liam quite yet. He’s gorgeous, smart, driven …
But he didn’t buy me honey for my tea.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
I jump at Ryan’s voice, having been fretting over Liam while waiting for an iced coffee in Roasted, the café closest to the office.
“Oh hi,” I say, blushing. “I was … uh … thinking about work stuff.”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “Something that’s vexing you.”
“How do you know I was vexed?”
“You got the crinkle in between your eyebrows,” he admits.
“Excuse me?”
He runs the tip of his forefinger down the middle of his eyebrows. “You get a crinkle here when something is stressing you out.”
“No, I don’t.”
He nods. “You do. It’s an obvious tell. You’re usually pretty relaxed, but when something is bothering you, the crinkle appears.”
“I have an iced coffee here for Parker?” the barista yells out from behind the counter, reading the scribbled name on the side of the cup. “Is Parker here? Iced coffee for Parker!”
When no one else steps forward, I raise my hand. “I think I’m Parker.”
“Here you go,” she beams, handing it over. “Enjoy!”
“Thank you,” I reply, turning to see Ryan looking amused. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Parker.” He grins. “Enjoy your iced coffee.”
“What are you waiting on?”
“A mocha.”
I wrinkle my nose. “A mocha?”
“What’s wrong with a mocha?” he asks defensively, folding his arms.
“I don’t know.” I look him up and down. “You write about land mines but you like chocolate in your coffee.”
He tilts his head. “I’m a man of many layers.”
“Clearly.”
“I have a mocha here for Brian!” the barista calls out, and it’s like music to my ears. “Mocha for Brian!”
He sighs, shuffling forward as he says, “I’m Brian,” while I wait with an extremely smug smile plastered across my face.
“All right, Parker, no need to look so pleased with yourself,” he grumbles as we fall into step with each other after leaving Roasted, making our way back to the office.
“I hope that mocha is up to scratch, Brian.”
“The really sad thing is, I get my coffee here almost every morning before work around quarter to eight. Literally same time, every day. You’d think they would recognize me by now.” He shrugs. “So, you’re not going to tell me what was stressing you out and causing the crinkle before I disturbed your train of thought?”
“It’s all very When Harry Met Sally, this crinkle nonsense.”
He looks confused. “What do you mean?”
“You know, at the end of the movie when he runs to find her at the party and he does that amazing speech, and he says that he loves the crinkle above her nose,” I explain.
He shrugs. “I’ve never seen it. But it sounds like you just spoiled the ending.”
I gasp, stopping suddenly and gripping his arm. “You’ve never seen When Harry Met Sally?”
He shakes his head. “Is that bad?”
“Yes! It’s the greatest rom-com of all time. No. Wait. Maybe tied with Notting Hill.”
“Notting Hill always bothered me.”
“Ryan, please don’t tell me that you don’t like Notting Hill, because we’re only just starting to see eye to eye again, and I don’t want to go back to hating on you all the time.”
He bursts out laughing. “Wow, Harper, say it how it is.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he says as we start walking again. “Delivering a baby really breaks down barriers.”
“So, put me out of my misery. What is it about Notting Hill that bothers you?”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay, I like the movie, so don’t panic. But isn’t she kind of mean to him the whole time? She doesn’t tell him she has a boyfriend and then she picks him up and drops him whenever she likes. She treats him terribly. I don’t get it.”
“She does not! She’s … aloof,” I tell him, frowning. “It’s not easy for her, being a Hollywood star. She doesn’t trust anyone around her.”
“Of course you’re on the side of the movie star,” he says with a knowing smile. “Has there ever been anyone you’ve interviewed who you didn’t like?”
“A journalist does not reveal her secrets.”
“Aha! That’s a yes, then.”
“There have been a couple who have been difficult to warm to maybe, but I always try to see things from their point of view. I mean, we’re journalists, Ryan. We’re the enemy.”
“The enemy who gives them the publicity they need to be famous and successful,” he remarks. “They act as though they hate us, but the truth is, they need us.”
“The complex truth.” I nod. “Which is why I make sure that I’m the good guy. What’s the point in dragging people down? Where does that get you?”
“Valid, but you have to be honest with your audience,” he says as we reach our building and he opens the doors for me. “If you only write good things, they’re not going to think you mean it. As Mr. Darcy said, ‘Your good opinion is rarely bestowed and therefore more worth the earning.’ There’s something to that, I think.”
Once again, he causes me to halt in my tracks.
“Did you just quote Jane Austen at me?”
“My mum is obsessed with Colin Firth,” he replies breezily, continuing on past the main paper desks and giving some of his former colleagues a wave as he passes. “It’s my secret talent, quoting the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. We used to watch it every Christmas.”
Catching up with him again, I’m completely bowled over by this new information. Sometimes I think I know Ryan through and through, and then other times I realize I don’t know him at all.
“There,” he says suddenly, glancing at me and waggling his finger at my face.
“What?”
“There’s the crinkle.” He grins as he sits at his desk, placing down his mocha. “My Jane Austen knowledge is vexing you.”
Shaking my head and concentrating on making my forehead as un-crinkled as possible, I log back into my computer. Forcing myself not to look at him, I consider his theory. He’s wrong, of course. It’s not his Jane Austen knowledge that’s getting to me.
It’s him.
Our truce doesn’t last long.
It should come as no surprise that the crack in our newfound peace is caused by Cosmo, who calls us both into his office that Thursday afternoon.
“Harper, I’ve seen your email about interviewing Max Sjöberg tomorrow in Manchester—”
“It’s going to be amazing,” I say enthusiastically. “They’re currently filming series two of his detective drama there, Blue Lights, and his publicist has promised that I can have at least half an hour, maybe an hour, and then we can send a photographer next week to do a shoot. We’ve never had the chance to interview him before; he’s a hard man to pin down. Totally iconic, obviously. He put woolly jumpers on the map.”
“I thought the detective from The Killing put woolly jumpers on the map,” Ryan interjects.
“She definitely shined a light on them, but Max has been sporting woolly jumpers in Scandinavian detective dramas for two decades. Plus, it’s a pretty big deal that he was asked to be in the English version of the original Swedish show, playing the same detective. I mean, when does that ever happen?”
“True.” Ryan nods.
“He’s that good. They couldn’t possibly ask anyone else to play that role.”
Cosmo clears his throat pointedly. “I’m going to ask Ryan to do the interview.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“It’s a good interview for the magazine, but Ryan will write it,” Cosmo emphasizes, clasping his hands together across his lap and leaning back in his chair. “It makes sense.”
I glance at Ryan, who, in his defense, looks like this has been sprung on him, too.
“Cosmo, this is my interview. I know the publicist, I made the contact,” I tell him as calmly as possible. “I’ve been pestering her to let me talk to Max Sjöberg for a long time.”
“I know,” Cosmo replies, shifting in his seat. “But I would like Ryan to take it from here.”
“But … why?” I ask, my voice going a little more high-pitched than I’d have liked, like a put-out child.
“Ryan is Swedish,” Cosmo says, as if it’s obvious. “Max Sjöberg is Swedish.”
I put my hands on my hips. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s likely they’ll have more of a connection,” Cosmo explains, getting irritated now. “Ryan will understand him better, his heritage and background.”
“Ryan is half Swedish,” I point out. “He grew up in England.”
“I did spend my holidays in Stockholm with my dad’s family,” Ryan comments, but quickly cowers under my glare.
“Cosmo,” I begin, attempting to keep my rage under control, “I don’t connect well with the people I interview because we’re the same nationality. That has nothing to do with getting actors to open up.”
“Ryan is our features editor, an excellent writer, a brilliant interviewer, and he’s Swedish,” Cosmo lists, jutting his chin out. “If you had to pick one person in this office to interview Max Sjöberg, who would you pick?”
“I would pick me!” I argue.
Cosmo sighs. “I’ve made my decision, Harper. Ryan is doing the interview.”
I turn to Ryan to appeal to him. “You agree with this?”
“I … look,” he says, holding up his hands, “I think you should do the interview, you’re the one who set it up.”
“Thank you!”
“But I do think the Swedish angle might be helpful in putting him at ease during the interview and getting him to chat more openly. He’s been known to be prickly, and it’s always helpful to have something in common to break the ice.”
“Are you serious?” I cry, throwing my hands up. “I didn’t get Audrey Abbot to relax by starting the conversation about how we both grew up in London! Really, Ryan? You think Max Sjöberg will be more forthcoming if you open by asking him what his favorite … ABBA song is?”
Ryan offers me an amused smile, which I do not appreciate right now.
“Is ABBA the most Swedish thing you could think of?”
“That and schnapps,” I admit grumpily.
“Harper—” Cosmo begins, but Ryan interrupts him.
“I might have a solution,” he says optimistically. “We could both go.”
Cosmo looks as confused as I feel. “I’m sorry?”
“Why don’t Harper and I both go to Manchester tomorrow? We could interview him together.”
“What?” I shake my head. “That wouldn’t work.”
“Yes, it would. You’re the best interviewer on the team and, as Cosmo says, it would be helpful for me to be there, too, if he discusses growing up in Stockholm,” Ryan suggests, before giving me a look. “It’s not like it would be the first time we’ve worked on a feature together, Harper.”
I blush at the memory, but before I can speak, Cosmo interjects.
“I’m not sure how I feel about expensing two of you traveling to Manchester for an interview that can easily be conducted by one journalist,” he says with a frown.
“My parents live in Didsbury, and I was planning on driving up to see them this weekend anyway, so I’m happy not to expense my travel,” Ryan informs him. “I think this is going to be great. Between the two of us, we’ll be able to get the best out of one of Sweden’s best actors. I really think this is a smart idea, Cosmo. Trust me.”
Cosmo hesitates, then begins to nod slowly. “All right. Problem solved.”
“But … but…” I flail around, trying to say something, but feeling too thrown to know what I’m trying to convey.
“Harper, Cosmo has agreed that you can interview Max Sjöberg,” Ryan points out. “Everyone’s happy, right?”
I stare at him and realize that he’s probably right. Cosmo wasn’t going to back down, so as much as I want to do this myself, I don’t think I have much of a choice. But as I follow Ryan back to our desks, my frustration gets the better of me.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” I hiss.
“You mean, helped you get what you want?” he replies, confused.
“You stole my interview!”
He gives me a strange look, slowly replying, “No, I was offered your interview and worked out a solution so that you could keep it.”
“You should have refused.”
“Oh, because that’s always a good move when your editor asks you to do something?” he says sarcastically.
“You are unbelievable.”
“So are you!” he huffs. “You’re doing the interview you wanted!”
“I’m doing the interview I deserve to do because it’s my interview,” I say, raising my voice and causing people to look our way.
“Just because you set it up doesn’t automatically mean you’re the best person for the job,” Ryan argues. “And I never said it wasn’t your interview! I’m saying that this way, it’s the best of both worlds!”
I jab my finger at him. “For you, not for me. If you had any integrity, you would stand down!”
“Well, I think it will be better if we’re both there!”
“You have to stick your nose into everything, don’t you? You just have to show that you can do it better!”
“And you don’t know when to drop things!” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Why can’t you accept that this is a smart move that makes perfect sense?”
“Why can’t you stop stealing my features?” I snap, my face growing hot in anger.
“I haven’t stolen your feature! I’m helping you!”
“I don’t need your help!” I cry.
He lets out a heavy sigh, glancing around at our colleagues trying not to obviously stare at us.
“Let’s discuss this later, Harper,” he whispers, turning to his screen.
I sit stewing for a moment before I blurt out, “We both know you stole my feature.”
“And we also both know that you just have to have the last word,” he snaps.
I scowl at him. “No, I don’t.”
He lifts his eyes to the ceiling and then starts furiously typing.
In response, I start angrily tapping away, too, even though I’m actually writing a very pleasant email to a publicist I like a lot.
After a few moments of tense silence, Mimi sighs and says, “Peacetime was nice while it lasted.”