CHAPTER TWENTY
When something starts going wrong in an area of my life, I go into overdrive at work. My job makes me feel in control: I know what I’m doing there, and, with perseverance and focus, I almost always get what I want. If there’s someone I want to interview, I’ll go to unusual lengths to get them on board; if I want to cover a story, even if Cosmo is against it initially, I’ll find another way of packaging it that he’ll agree to. It’s rare that I lose.
I’m currently on a mission to find out what’s going on with Artistry. No one has got the inside scoop yet on the ill-fated reunion tour, so I’m determined it will be me who gets the lowdown.
And the reason I’m putting all my focus into this? Ryan.
Something is off.
Last week, everything was fine, better than fine. Things were great. I felt like I was walking around on a cloud, suddenly understanding what people mean when they say how falling for someone can make you delirious. I was infatuated with him, entranced by everything he did.
My heart fluttered when he shot me a secretive smile in the office. I hardly heard a word anyone said in the editorial meetings because I was studying the line of Ryan’s sculpted jaw and the perfect slope of his nose and thinking about the softness of his lips, getting shudders of excitement when I imagined kissing him later. I loved that he was stern and serious at work. It amused me that people thought he was quiet and guarded. I enjoyed the way he frowned, his brow tightly furrowed, when he studied the layouts of the magazine. His edits were brilliant. His ideas, astounding. Ryan Jansson was something else and I couldn’t quite believe he was mine.
And the secrecy of it all made it even more exciting.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt like this before—excitable and distracted, vulnerable and open. It was amazing and terrifying at the same time. Usually, I’m able to keep a level head in a relationship, to focus on work and not let myself get carried away like a naïve, lovestruck teenager, but with Ryan, it was different. I wanted to get carried away. The world suddenly felt like a beautiful and dizzying place, and that was all down to him. It was madness, but I didn’t care.
I realized I might just be falling in love—and when I caught Ryan looking at me in a certain way, I allowed myself to believe he was, too.
Then Monday happened.
Something changed that afternoon. Ryan had a morning of meetings, and then suddenly he was distant, cold, guarded. The longing looks vanished. He could barely meet my eye, even when discussing work-related things. Those secretive smiles that made me weak at the knees were replaced with irritable frowns. I thought he might be having a bad day, so I messaged him asking him if he’d like me to cook for him that night, and when I said cook, I obviously meant order some kind of delicious takeaway. He sent a cold, terse reply that he had to work late. I suggested Tuesday night instead, but that didn’t work for him, either. Sorry, he said.
The doubt was immediate, consuming my brain, devouring my heart.
I scrutinized every word I’d said, everything I’d done over the weekend, desperately trying to work out where I’d gone wrong. When I couldn’t think of anything that would put him off so abruptly, I put it down to things simply moving too quickly. We’d jumped in headfirst and it was too much; he’d gotten spooked. The Florence bubble had been intense, and now we saw each other every day. Yes, he claimed to have wanted this for a long time, and, yes, he made out as though he was all in and always had been.
But people don’t always know what’s best for them.
The bubble had officially burst.
We needed some distance and space. I had to embrace his pulling away from me as an opportunity for me to pull away from him.
So, work, as usual, saved me.
In the midst of filling my diary with work events, berating myself for losing my head in the clouds last week and missing some networking opportunities, I remember the Twitter storm over Artistry announcing they had no intention of doing a reunion tour. I try calling their agent, but the person manning their phone is well-rehearsed and, in an admirably polite voice, repeatedly tells me the agent is unable to speak right now.
That evening, while wandering around my bedroom wearing a face mask and trying not to stress over Ryan, I have a brainwave. A few years ago, the lead guitarist, Dylan Knox, took a stab at acting. He had a bit part in a Hollywood film that flopped and, after that, appeared in the pilot of a sitcom that didn’t get picked up. Just before the film release, he did an interview with that smarmy journalist Jonathan Cliff. Dylan said he had always wanted to try his hand at acting and he had high hopes, and Jonathan wrote that he could sense that Dylan had what it takes. A few weeks later, Jonathan Cliff tweeted that he’d seen the movie and hoped that Dylan Knox didn’t give up his day job.
I go straight to Google and begin searching for the agent who worked with Dylan Knox on his acting career, to see if it was anyone I know. When I see one name in particular come up on my screen, I break into a wide grin.
I set my alarm for 5:55 A.M., 5:57 A.M., 6 A.M., 6:03 A.M., and 6:05 A.M.
I reach The Lark café in Soho at quarter past seven.
I lean against a brick wall and enjoy my flat white in the early morning sunshine, scrolling through social media to make sure I didn’t miss any breaking celebrity news overnight.
At half past seven, I spot Shamari walking toward The Lark, her eyes fixed on her phone as she types. Smiling at her promptness, I put my phone away and wait for her to emerge from the café with her coffee in hand.
“Shamari!” I say, bounding up to her and making her jump.
“Harper,” she gasps, stopping in her tracks. “You gave me a heart attack!”
“We have got to stop bumping into each other like this. Are you stalking me?”
A smile creeps across her lips. “In twenty minutes, I have a meeting with a particularly difficult, rude, and currently very pissed-off actor who’s just been dropped from a project and will be taking his frustration out on me, so you had better get to the part where you tell me what you want, pronto. I need to get to my desk and prepare myself for the torrent of abuse that’s coming my way.”
“Why was the actor dropped from the project?”
She brushes my question aside with a wave of her hand. “Creative differences.”
“I love that phrase. Do you ever get to tell anyone the truth about why an actor is dropped from a film?” I ask, falling into step with her as she speed walks to her office.
“No,” she replies. “Now, come on. Who are you after this time?”
“Dylan Knox.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Of Artistry? You’re barking up the wrong tree, Harper.”
“You represented him during his short-lived acting career.”
“A lifetime ago.”
“Not that long ago,” I reason. “Bet you can still contact him and I’ll also bet that he’s a big fan of yours.”
“Why would you think that?” she asks curiously.
“Because everyone is a big fan of yours. Even the actor who’s going to yell at you this morning.”
She breaks into a reluctant smile. “You really live by the phrase ‘flattery gets you everywhere,’ don’t you?”
“Is it getting me somewhere in this instance?”
She gives me a look. “We’ll see. Why do you want to speak to him?”
“You know why. The reunion tour that never was. I want to know what happened and whether there might be a chance of fixing it.”
She stops and turns to me in disbelief. “You think you might be able to talk to Dylan Knox and persuade him to reunite Artistry for a reunion tour? You’re good, Harper, but no one is that good.”
“Now, haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘You won’t know until you try’?”
“What makes you think that Artistry might be persuaded by a journalist of all people?”
I shrug. “Because a journalist is very good with words. And words are powerful, Shamari. Anyway, I’m not saying that my goal is to get a world-famous band back together—I simply want to interview him. See if there’s any hope.”
“I thought you didn’t go in for gossip.”
“Look, maybe it’s none of my business why the tour is suddenly off the table, but perhaps if they talked about what went wrong, they might iron out their issues. It always helps to talk to someone. I want that someone to be me.”
“So, you want me to get in touch with Dylan Knox to see if there’s any chance he’ll do an interview with you?”
“To discuss the legendary impact that Artistry made—and could still make,” I emphasize. “Ask him to consider it. We can talk about whatever he wants. Maybe there’s something he wants to say. And you know that I’m a journalist he can trust.”
She takes a moment to consider my proposition. “Look, Harper, I know that we managed to get Audrey Abbot on board, but this is a different kettle of fish. She had a play in the works. Dylan Knox doesn’t have anything to promote.”
“Yet.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s coming round to the idea. “You are a force to be reckoned with, Harper Jenkins. Do you ever let yourself have a social life?”
“Probably as much as you do.”
“How’s that handsome boyfriend of yours that I met at the charity ball?”
“We broke up.”
“Oh no! Why?”
“Creative differences.”
She gives me a knowing smile. “All right. I’ll let you know if I have time to reach out to Dylan Knox today. I can’t promise that he’ll listen to me—it’s not like we work together anymore. I’m not his agent.”
“Last night, I reread that interview he did for Expression with Jonathan Cliff. He was so passionate about acting, and you know what? He wasn’t bad. The movie was bad. The script was bad. He did well with what he had.”
“That’s what I told him.”
“Maybe this is a good time for you two to reconnect in a professional capacity,” I encourage, sensing an opening and going with it. “A second wind for Dylan Knox—a potential reunion tour and perhaps even a brand-new movie role or two? ‘If at first you don’t succeed’ and all that.”
I see the wheels turning in her head. “I suppose I might be able to get him a couple of auditions. Artistry have been in the press again recently.”
“Everyone loves a comeback,” I remind her eagerly.
“Don’t they just.” She checks her phone. “Shit, I have to go. I’ll be in touch—and I’m guessing I’ll see you tonight?”
I look at her blankly. “Tonight?”
“The British Silver Screen Awards. I would assume you’re going?”
“Oh! Right, yes, of course. That’s tonight. See you there.”
She nods and pushes the door into her building.
“SHIT!” I cry out once she’s out of sight, shocking the commuters passing by.
I completely forgot about the British Silver Screen Awards and didn’t bring a change of outfit to the office. Checking the time, I weigh up whether I can head back home, grab a dress and some shoes, and make it to the office for the editorial meeting.
It’s impossible.
Well, Cosmo will relish the opportunity to tell me off, which is his favorite thing to do. And he only needs Ryan present in those meetings anyway; it’s not like any of my features will be brought up. Starting off toward the tube, I find a new spring in my step, getting that familiar rush of adrenaline that comes when I know I might just land a big scoop.
It’s already been a busy morning and it looks to be a hectic day ahead.
Just what I needed. I’ll be much too distracted to think about Ryan at all.
Later, Ryan tries to talk to me, but I don’t have time, and that’s the honest truth.
“Hey, maybe we could go for lunch today?” he suggests when he catches me outside finishing up a phone call.
“Afraid I can’t,” I say, stepping round him to go back to the office. “I got here too late to take lunch. I’ll be eating at my desk.”
“How about dinner tonight?” he asks, hurrying to catch up with me.
“I have plans.”
“Of course, it’s dinner with your parents tonight.”
Oh, bollocks.
“Actually, that’s been rearranged,” I lie, making a mental note to rearrange it. “I have an awards ceremony tonight.”
“Ah.” He nods. “Hey, did you remember both shoes this time?” he adds, attempting to lighten the tone, but I’m not having any of it.
“Yes,” I say matter-of-factly, getting into the lift and pressing the button.
“Harper,” he begins as the doors shut and we find ourselves alone, “I’d really like to find some time to talk to you.”
“Sorry, Ryan, but today is not a good day,” I say, looking straight ahead. “And anyway, you haven’t really given me the impression that you’ve wanted to talk to me at all recently.”
I see in the reflection of the silver lift doors that he bows his head, dropping his eyes to the floor. He looks pained, as though he’s wrestling with something.
“I know, it’s been a bit … I’ve had a lot … there’s something…”
The doors ping open, interrupting him, and I march out, leaving him stumbling over his words.
“Harper, please,” he whispers urgently, rushing alongside me. “I need to explain.”
“No need to explain,” I snap back, holding my head up high. “If you’re going to be hot and cold, I’m not interested. Anyway, I have a very important phone call to make now, so I’ll see you later.”
“Didn’t you just get off a phone call outside?”
“I can make more than one phone call a day, Ryan,” I huff, making a sharp turn into an empty meeting room and closing the door behind me.
Looking dejected, he heads back to our desks, while I quickly phone my dad.
“Harper,” he says gruffly, “let me guess. You have to cancel.”
I wince, shutting my eyes tightly. “Sorry, Dad, I have to go to an awards ceremony tonight.”
“You know we all have lives, don’t you, Harper?” he snaps. “We all have important events and social occasions to attend, but somehow we’re able to maintain a level of decorum, and when we give our word, we stick to it.”
“Dad, this was an honest mistake and I’m genuinely sorry,” I say as earnestly as possible.
“We were expecting it from you. Hardly a surprise,” he grumbles.
“Well, I’m glad I’m such a constant disappointment that letting you down isn’t such a big deal,” I say impatiently.
“I don’t have time for dramatics,” he replies dismissively. “Do you want to try to rearrange or is there simply no point?”
Collecting myself, I take a deep breath in an attempt to remain calm and brighten my tone again so we can keep things civil. “How about next week?”
“I’ll have to check our calendars and of course liaise with your sister.”
“Great, let me know. I can book somewhere.”
“I think it’s best for you to leave the arranging to us,” he counters, his voice laced with disgruntlement.
“Fine,” I say briskly, unwilling to take any more stings from him today. “I have to go.”
Hanging up, I bury my head in my hands and scream, the sound muffled by my palms. Looking up when I hear a polite knock on the door, I see a group of journalists standing there watching me, waiting to use the meeting room.
“Sorry!” I trill, swinging open the door.
One of the journalists looks at me sympathetically. “Having one of those days?”
“Oh yes,” I say, appreciating the smile of solidarity she gives me. “Having one of those days.”
When you’re not up for anything, awards ceremonies really drag, but once that boring bit is all done with, the mingling afterward is a lot more fun. I decide to let my hair down a bit and take advantage of the free champagne and excellent company, making a beeline for anyone who might make a good profile piece. It’s been nice seeing friends in the industry—I’ve been able to catch up with the publicist of Isabella Blossom’s film, Rachael Walker, who told me that Isabella’s baby is divine and she can’t wait until I’m able to come over to get that exclusive, and I also bump into Mae, who arranged the interview with Max Sjöberg.
“So that hot colleague of yours wasn’t interested in me, then?” she says after we’ve done our greeting of two kisses on the cheek. “I did give him my number but I haven’t heard anything.”
“I didn’t realize you’d given him your number,” I say, surprised he didn’t mention it.
“I was trying to be sexy and confident,” she admits with a giggle. “You know, by making the first move. Lot of good it did me.”
“Maybe he’s playing it cool,” I say, taking a swig of champagne. “He’s good at that.”
“Whatever, I like men to be forward. If they’re into me, I want them to let me know. Otherwise I’m not interested. I don’t have time for games.”
“I will cheers to that!” I exclaim heartily, clinking my glass against hers.
Later, I spot Shamari at a table nearby and head over to slide into the empty seat to her left, disturbing her conversation with a handsome man in his fifties.
“Thank god you came over,” she says in a low voice after the man excuses himself and leaves. “I can’t for the life of me remember who that person is. He was chatting like we were old friends!”
“He looks familiar. Is he a director?”
“Beats me.” She shrugs. “So, how’s your night been? How was your table?”
“I was right at the back, sitting on the same table as Jonathan Cliff from Expression,” I inform her, rolling my eyes. “They always insist on lumping us journalists together.”
“The organizers are trying to keep you at arm’s length from the talent.” Shamari grins. “They don’t need any more tears than the awards already cause. Awards are so ridiculous—does anyone actually care? I find these ceremonies so dreary.”
“You’re only saying that because that sexy client of yours, Julian Newt, didn’t win in his newcomer category.”
“I’m impressed you remembered his name this time,” she chuckles. “And my pushing has got him on your radar, so I’m doing my job. Keep him in mind for an interview.”
“You know who I’ve got in mind for an interview,” I prompt hopefully.
“Dylan Knox did not return my phone call today,” she says. “But I’ll try him again tomorrow, so it’s not a lost cause yet. He can be tricky to reach, and now that you’ve put the idea in my head of him acting again, I have my own interest in getting through to him. Leave it with me and let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” I say, leaning back and letting out a long sigh.
She watches me carefully. “Long day?”
“It’s had its ups and downs.”
“I can imagine. I’m really sorry to hear about what’s going on with Narrative. It’s so sad that this is happening with so much print media now, and it happens so quickly, too. Do you know yet if you’re safe?”
“Safe?”
“From the redundancies. I heard there’s going to be at least two or three at the magazine. You haven’t heard anything about your job yet?”
I blink at her. “How … how do you know about redundancies at Narrative?”
She looks confused. “You know how quickly news like that spreads in this industry, Harper. Nothing is secret for that long. I heard it’s going to be this week. Anyway, we’re all keeping our fingers crossed at the agency that Cosmo won’t be an idiot and will keep your job safe and sound. Although, saying that, if you do find yourself at a loose end, let me know if you’d consider making the switch to the agency side. I could do with someone with your drive on my team.”
Her eyes flicker over my shoulder and she plasters a fake smile across her face, wiggling her fingers at someone behind me.
“Shit, I have to go,” she says through gritted teeth. “That producer over there is about to start a project that is perfect for Julian Newt. Shame I can’t stand her. I’ll call you tomorrow, Harper.”
“Yeah,” I mumble as she gets up, leaving me stranded at the table on my own.
I sit in a daze, too shocked to move. My stomach is in knots and I’m not sure if I might be sick. My surroundings a blur of noise, I force myself up onto my feet and then manage to dodge through the crowds, bursting through the exit of the building and gasping for air. The paparazzi surrounding the exit lift their cameras excitedly and then lower them again once they realize I’m no one important. I stumble and have to balance myself on the shoulder of one of the photographers.
“You all right?” he says as I clutch at my chest, which feels more and more constricted.
“F-fine,” I whisper, thanking him and then launching myself into one of the waiting black cabs, desperate to get home to bed where I can lie down and cry.
Because, even though it’s too early to say for sure, I think I already know what’s coming.
By the end of the week, I’ll be out of a job.