CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Max Sjöberg’s publicist, Mae, is very nice about her client now being interviewed by not one, but two journalists, and sitting on the train to Manchester the next day, I wonder whether I overreacted a bit. It wasn’t Ryan’s fault he was put in that position by Cosmo.
He actually messaged this morning to ask if I wanted to join him on the drive, but I tersely replied that I’d bought a ticket when I scheduled the interview and wanted to do some work on the train. But I think his message was an olive branch, so I added, “Thanks for asking.”
And anyway, something good came out of yesterday’s chaos, because Mimi insisted that we go for a drink after work—according to her, I looked like I needed a large glass of rosé—and once we were in the pub, she had the perfect news to cheer me up.
“I’m sending you on a press trip next week,” she announced.
“What are you talking about?”
“You, my friend, are going to Florence, Italy, from Friday morning until Sunday. You are very welcome.”
I looked at her in bewilderment. “I’m not following.”
“There’s a press trip to a luxury hotel in Florence next Friday, a hotel that I’d very much like you to review for me. I already emailed the publicist, Sadie, giving her your name and details. She’ll be in contact with you for your passport, so she can book your tickets. It is going to be fabulous—Sadie is a good friend of mine, you’ll adore her.”
“Mimi! That sounds amazing, but I can’t go to Florence next weekend.”
“Why not? Do you have better plans?”
“No, but I can’t drop everything and go to Florence!”
“Yes, you can,” she insisted. “You never go on press trips and you work too hard. You deserve this, Harper. I want you to go and have a nice relaxing weekend. It’s Florence. You can’t say no.”
“But don’t you want to go?”
“Harper, I go on loads of press trips. It’s about time that you take advantage of having the travel editor as your best friend. You’re always turning me down, but I refuse to let you this time. Everyone needs a holiday, and you are no exception.”
“Are you sure? You don’t want to offer it to someone else?”
“I want you to go,” she laughed. “I figured that since it’s over a weekend, you’d be more inclined to accept. You won’t miss any work. This will be good for you, Harper. You’re not allowed to think about who you should be interviewing or what piece will be the next hit or how Cosmo has slighted you—you need to get away and relax. That’s all I ask.”
So this time next week I’ll be on my way to Italy for the weekend. Mimi is right. I haven’t taken time for myself for … well … ever, and I could do with a break.
My shoulders feel very tense all the time lately—largely because of work, but also because of Liam. When I apologetically told him I couldn’t make the Halo Skewed gig next Friday because I’d be on a work trip to Florence, his reply was:
Oh, that’s a shame but you can come to their gig the following week, right?? Florence would be amazing. Any chance you can get me a cheeky place on the trip, too?? Could use a holiday!
I wasn’t sure if he was joking, so I replied:
Haha, I wish! But think it’s journalists only. I’ll be sure to bring you back a cheesy keyring, though!
He didn’t respond and I haven’t heard anything from him this morning, either. Is he actually mad at me for not getting him a spot on a press trip?! Even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want him there. I’d really love some time to myself.
I know, I know. I should want my boyfriend to be there, shouldn’t I?
Ugh, my head hurts.
It aches even more when my phone starts vibrating on the tray table in front of me, and I see it’s Dad calling.
He’ll only keep calling until I pick up. Might as well get it over with now.
“Hello, Dad.”
“You haven’t been in touch at all about dinner dates,” he says gruffly.
“I’m fine, thank you for asking, and how are you?”
“Harper, I’ve had a bad morning and I’m not in the mood,” he warns. “I sent you an email with a list of dates convenient for us and Juliet, but you didn’t reply and some of those may be filled now.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”
“Well, it would be polite of you to get back to me,” he snaps. “Juliet works much longer days and still finds the time to message her parents.”
I sigh, lifting my eyes to the ceiling. “Dad, I’ll reply to your email, okay? Thanks for the reminder.”
“Where are you? Why does it sound so loud?”
“I’m on a train.”
“You’re not in the office on a weekday?” he asks with great disapproval.
I rub my forehead, closing my eyes. “My job sometimes involves travel. I’m going to Manchester to interview Max Sjöberg.”
“Who?”
“The Swedish actor. Have you seen Blue Lights?”
“I don’t have time to watch soaps,” he says dismissively. “Send me the dates that suit when you find the time in your hectic schedule.”
I bite my tongue, not letting myself snap back at his heavily sarcastic tone.
“Okay, will do. Anyway, I might lose you at any moment because of the train signal, so thanks for the call and I’ll message you with those dates.”
I hang up and slump back in my seat, tossing my phone onto the tray table and trying to take deep breaths, as a therapist once advised me to do. I booked a couple of sessions after attending my parents’ greatly challenging anniversary dinner where, after listing Juliet’s many achievements to their fawning friends, my parents breezed past me saying I was “still experimenting career-wise.”
No one spoke to me the whole night. I drank too much vodka and left before dessert without saying goodbye, stealthily tipping the spoon from my place setting into my handbag before I went. The next morning I pondered why stealing from my own parents felt like a small victory, but it did. I couldn’t explain it.
By the time the train pulls into Manchester station, I’ve gone through my questions for Max and rechecked my makeup and general appearance, feeling a little nervous. I don’t know how this is going to play out with Ryan, but I have to stand firm and make sure I lead this interview, not him. I head to the taxi rank and send Ryan a message once I’m in a car to let him know I’m on my way.
He replies:
Great, I just arrived so see you soon.
Of course he’s early. He’s probably done that on purpose, trying to get in there with Max so that when I show up, they’re already best buddies. I hope Max’s publicist, Mae, wouldn’t allow anything to go ahead without me being there, too.
We reach the set location—a cobbled road called Little David Street, which has been closed off for filming. I spot Mae standing in a corner behind the camera crew; she’s talking to Ryan, who is holding two coffee cups.
I scowl instinctively.
Ryan is probably filling her in on his Swedish heritage and trying to suck up to her by bringing her a delicious coffee. I hope Mae isn’t falling for it, although by the way she’s fluttering her eyelashes up at him, I may have already lost her allegiance.
I’ve worked with Mae before and we get on well. She’s very smart and has a cool, trendy edge to her, always dressed like she’s heading to an exclusive house party hosted by a DJ in an abandoned warehouse in Hackney. Today she’s in high-waisted black-and-white checkered trousers with a loose white collared shirt tucked in and buttoned up to the top and heeled black ankle boots. She’s wearing little to no makeup because she has that kind of effortless beauty that people like me can only dream of: long, dark, impossibly glossy curls; strikingly large dark-brown doe eyes; full, plump lips.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I march toward them determinedly.
“Harper, you’re here!” Mae says, brightening and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “It’s been ages. How was your journey?”
“Not too bad, thanks,” I say, plastering on a smile and greeting Ryan with a curt nod. “The train wasn’t as busy as I thought.”
“Good. Well, I’ve been telling Ryan that, as usual, we’re a teensy bit behind so I’m not sure you’re going to be able to speak to Max for a while.”
“And I was telling Mae that we’re happy to wait around so long as we get one of those cool chairs that say WRITER across the back,” Ryan says with more animation than he usually exhibits around a stranger.
I’m hit by an unwelcome and unreasonable wave of jealousy.
Mae giggles. “I’ll see what I can do. You two wait here and I’ll go get an update.”
“All right, then,” Ryan begins once she’s hurried off. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I can tell that something is wrong.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t give me any of that ‘crinkle between the eyebrows’ crap.”
“It’s not just the crinkle between the eyebrows, Harper, it’s your entire aura. Something has really upset you this morning and I just wanted to check that you’re okay, but I’m sorry for prying.” He sighs before holding out one of the coffees for me. “Here—I got you a flat white. It might not be as hot as it should be, but I wasn’t sure you’d have time to get one after the train.”
Damn it. Why does he have to be so nice when I’m in such a bad mood?! Now I feel bad, and it’s all his fault. He is infuriating.
“Thanks,” I say sheepishly, taking the coffee. “Sorry, it’s not you I’m mad at.”
“For once,” he teases.
His comment allows me to crack a smile. “True.” I let out a heavy sigh. “My dad phoned on the way here and I made the mistake of picking up.”
“Ah.” He nods in understanding. “Are things still difficult between you and your parents?”
“Some things never change.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
I shrug. “I don’t know why I let him get to me.”
“Because he’s your dad,” Ryan says simply. “But you shouldn’t let him ruin today. This is an amazing interview that you’ve worked hard to get.”
“You’re right. I just wish…” I trail off. “Never mind.”
Ryan’s expression is earnest. “Listen, Harper, I’ve never understood why your parents treat you the way they do, but if they’re blind to their daughter’s happiness and achievements, then what does that say about them? It’s a shame they’re so narrow-minded. I feel sorry for them, personally. Your sister, too. Imagine only caring about how far someone gets in one kind of career? Think how much they must miss out on. It’s sad.”
I stare at him.
“What?” he asks. “Did I say something weird?”
“No, you said something … really nice. Thank you. It’s strange that you remember so much about my family.”
His blue eyes bore into mine, and he adds quietly, “I remember everything.”
My cheeks burn under his gaze.
In that moment, I know that as soon as I get back to London, I need to break up with Liam.
It’s not because Ryan has the kind of blue eyes that would make anyone go weak at the knees, and it’s not even because there appears to be … something between us, some kind of inexplicable spark that’s getting harder and harder to ignore.
No, the reason I need to break up with Liam is because I’ve never told him the truth about my family. I’ve never shared the shame I carry, knowing that I’m a failure in my parents’ eyes and a loser in my sister’s. He doesn’t know how horrible I feel when he says he’s told his family all about me, the unbearable humiliation of knowing that I can’t tell my parents about him—simply because they don’t care about my personal life.
It’s not just Liam. I haven’t told anyone about my family, really.
But eleven years ago, I told Ryan.
I blurted out my most painful secrets when those gorgeous eyes were locked on mine—but also, I told Ryan because I trusted him. And in turn, he told me about his brother Adam.
“Can I say something that’s going to annoy you?” Ryan asks suddenly.
“You have just said something really nice, so, sure, throw in something to piss me off. The universe will be balanced again.”
He grins at me. “You have the crinkle.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
He laughs as Mae comes bustling over wearing a pained expression, and I brace myself for bad news.
“It’s not good, I’m afraid,” she says, confirming my suspicions. “The producer says they are very behind and they can’t possibly spare Max, at least not for a few hours. You are welcome to stay here and watch the action—I’ll be sure to find you one of those cool chairs—or if you’d rather go find somewhere quiet to do some work, I can phone you when things are looking hopeful.”
“Are you kidding? Leave and miss Max Sjöberg doing his thing? I’ll stay put, thank you very much,” I declare, craning my neck to try to spot him among the huddle of actors down the street listening to instructions from the director.
“I actually have a bit of editing I could get done,” Ryan says, seeming amused at my enthusiasm. “Harper, will you give me a call before the interview?”
“Sure.”
He gives me a suspicious look.
“Oh, come on,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I wouldn’t not call you. I’m not that petty.”
“Thanks,” he says, laughing. “See you in a bit.”
Mae and I watch him walk away, and then she turns to me, her eyes wide with excitement.
“Um hello, why didn’t you give me the heads-up that your colleague was an Adonis?! I would have paid a little more attention to my outfit if I’d known,” she says.
“Ryan? Oh. Yeah, he’s … uh…”
“Hot. You know if he’s single?”
I blink at her, taken off guard. “I … yeah, I think he is.”
“Amazing. I don’t know how you get any work done with him wandering around your office.”
“Says the woman who works alongside Hollywood actors all day long.”
“I don’t date actors, Harper,” she says proudly, lifting up her chin. “I couldn’t handle their delicate egos.”
I snort. “If you can’t handle delicate egos, then you might want to avoid writers, too.”
“Fair point,” she says with a smile. “But I’ll take my chances. Let me go find you a chair, and put in a good word with Ryan for me, would you? Do it stealthily, though.”
I find myself nodding as she hurries off, and I’m left trying to work out how I feel about her crush on Ryan and wondering why I may be furious about it. An assistant comes over with a chair and I sit down, reminding myself that I have no right to be annoyed because, firstly, Ryan is single and Mae is single; secondly, Ryan probably doesn’t see me in that way considering we fight over absolutely everything; and, thirdly, I have a boyfriend. Even if not for much longer.
But I still don’t want Ryan and Mae to get together.
I can’t think about that. I get out my notepad, jotting down details about the set and the general atmosphere around me, useful observations that I can include in the feature. I get really excited when I see the intimidatingly-tall-in-real-life Max Sjöberg appear in his character’s iconic look, at least in the British version: a three-piece suit and a dark trench coat. (The woolly jumpers made sense for a detective examining dead bodies in the vast, icy landscape of Sweden, but for a British cop peering down at a victim on a cobbled street in rainy Manchester, it would probably look a bit odd.)
Anyway, when I see him walk down the cobbled street chatting to the director, I feel incredibly privileged to watch the scene play out. This feeling gets old quite quickly when the same scene has to be reshot several times over. By the tenth take, I begin to wonder how anyone in television has this kind of patience and how the guy holding up the boom mic doesn’t have a dead arm.
When the producer announces that we are breaking for lunch, I look to Mae hopefully, but she shakes her head and I deflate. She informs me that Max needs to eat and he doesn’t want to be disturbed in the precious moments he has off. We move to a different street for another scene, and I send Ryan the new location. When he arrives, he looks as excited as I’d been when offered one of those “cool” chairs.
His excitement inevitably wanes after watching Max declare—for the twelfth time—his theory on why the man who was stabbed in the cobbled street was there to begin with.
By late afternoon, Mae profusely apologizes and says it isn’t looking likely to happen today.
“However,” she says brightly, “there is always tomorrow! I can definitely squeeze in some time then, I promise.”
“Tomorrow? You mean stay in Manchester tonight?”
My heart sinks as I consider finding a hotel at the last minute and how I have nothing on me for an overnight stay, not even a toothbrush.
“We could do that,” Ryan considers. “Harper, have you got anything tomorrow you need to be back for?”
“No, I don’t have plans, but I’d have to find a hotel and—”
“We can sort all that,” Ryan says confidently with a wave of his hand. “Are you sure we can get the time tomorrow, Mae?”
“Absolutely! I would offer to buy you dinner as an apology, but it looks like I’m going to be here a long time,” she sighs. “I can recommend some great places if you need.”
“Don’t worry, I know the area; my parents live in Didsbury,” Ryan informs her. “Leave it with me.”
“Great! I’ll send you the details for tomorrow. Thanks for being so understanding and I’m so sorry again,” she says, offering Ryan a winning smile before leaving us.
“What a disaster,” I mutter.
“It’s not a disaster.”
I cross my arms. “Oh really?”
“Well, I’ve been shopping with you once before, and it was only mildly torturous, so I’m willing to accompany you to get a toothbrush and other stuff you may need for tomorrow, like…”
He trails off, his eyebrows knitted together.
“Like underwear?” I prompt.
“Yes. Right.” He clears his throat. “Underwear and other … garments.”
I squint at him. “Did you just say ‘garments’?”
“Yeah,” he says, slowly nodding. “I have no idea why. I think the underwear topic made my brain go into awkward mode.”
“Indeed, it did,” I say, greatly amused. “Anyway, I know I can buy garments, but Cosmo is going to lose his head when I tell him I need to expense a hotel.”
“I’ve already got that sorted!” Ryan proclaims, reaching for his phone in his pocket. “You can stay at my parents’ house.”
“What?”
“They have a spare room. Problem solved.”
My jaw drops. “Ryan! I can’t stay at your parents’ house!”
“Why not?”
“Because that would be totally inappropriate!”
He tilts his head at me. “Why?”
“I’m your colleague!” I cry, throwing my hands up in the air.
“And?”
“And colleagues don’t turn up at parents’ houses and stay in their spare rooms!”
“I reckon you may be overthinking this, Harper,” he replies, looking unfazed by my reaction. “It’s not that big a deal. You need somewhere to stay. I have somewhere you can stay. What’s left to discuss?”
He lifts his phone to his ear.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
His expression brightens as he says, “Hi Mum!”
“Oh my God, Ryan, hang up!” I hiss at him. “You better not be about to—”
“Yeah, we’ve finished up now. Listen, bit of a situation here. We didn’t get the interview, but they’ve said we can do it tomorrow instead—only thing is, Harper doesn’t have anywhere booked to stay,” he says, batting my hand away as I desperately try to grab his phone.
Why is he so tall?!
“Yeah,” he continues, “so I wondered … Exactly what I was thinking! Thanks Mum … yeah … yeah sounds great. Thanks, you’re the best. I’ll tell her. All right, see you soon.” He hangs up. “You see? I didn’t even have to ask her; she said you’re very welcome to stay with them, she won’t hear of you staying in some terrible hotel. She’s going to make up the spare room now, and there’s plenty of food for you to join us for dinner, too.”
I bury my head in my hands. “Ryan, no! No, no, no!”
“You don’t want a delicious home-cooked meal and free accommodation?”
“Look, it’s really kind of them to offer, but I can’t stay at your parents’ house. I will find a hotel and then—”
“Harper,” he says gently, placing a hand on my arm, “I insist. And you know what? You get to laugh at all the baby photos of me dotted around the house. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
I hesitate. That does sound quite fun.
“Fine,” I say, because I don’t want his mum to think I’m rude and, also, his warm hand clasping my arm is making it hard to think straight.
“Come on, let’s go get you toiletries and garments.” He grins. “And then you get to meet the parents.”
Bloody hell.
Yep. It’s confirmed. This is very weird.