CHAPTER THREE
After Mimi and I return to our desks, I reluctantly start trawling through my emails, replying to contacts at various PR companies—I accept an invitation for a screening of an upcoming romantic comedy, but decline one for an animation about a cello-playing octopus, and read through a press release about a footballer who’s launching a range of colorful children’s football boots.
I hear the journalists filing out of Meeting Room Three and look up to see Ryan walking out at the back of the group. I quickly duck my head behind my screen.
We may technically work on separate publications, but it hasn’t been easy avoiding him in an open-plan office since he got the job at The Correspondence a little over a year ago. When Cosmo moved over to Narrative, someone on his team was promoted to features editor, and they hired Ryan to fill the empty reporter spot.
When I first saw him lurking about the place last year and realized with horror that he’d left the business magazine I’d last heard he worked at, I made it very clear that it would be better for us to pretend we’d never met before. When I accidentally caught his eye as I strolled past his desk during his first week, he noticeably straightened and looked as though he might say something, but I quickly looked away as though I didn’t recognize him.
Just seeing Ryan Jansson puts me in a bad mood. I hate that he has that effect on me after all this time.
A reminder suddenly pops up on my screen that I am due at Claridge’s for a press junket in half an hour.
Bollocks. I forgot.
As I’m rushing past his office, Cosmo wearily calls out, “Where are you off to this time, Harper?” and I’m forced to poke my head round his door.
“Press junket for the new Isabella Blossom film.”
“I always thought Bella Blossom sounds like an air freshener,” he remarks, wrinkling his nose in disapproval.
I force a laugh. “I probably won’t mention that in our interview.”
“No.” He strokes his chin. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she? She did that Vogue photoshoot.”
“Yep, she’s due in a few weeks.”
“She’s a big name these days—a big Hollywood draw. She’d make a good candidate for the magazine, actually.”
“Yes.” I grit my teeth. “That’s why I’m off to speak to her.”
“I know you don’t get much time at junkets, but do try to build a rapport,” he instructs pompously. “Then we can get her lined up for a feature in the future, once she’s back from maternity.”
“Yes,” I repeat. “I’m aware that building a rapport is always a good idea. I’ve actually met her briefly before, so I’ll—”
“Oh, and word of advice: don’t be late,” he says, turning back to his screen. “People lose respect for journalists when they don’t show up on time.”
It takes every bit of willpower not to shout “WHY DO YOU THINK I WAS RUSHING OUT OF HERE?!” and instead say, “Gotcha,” before scuttling off as though he’s only just given me the idea.
After a few stops on the tube, I’m back to where I was this morning, rushing out of Oxford Circus, and reaching for my phone in my bag as I head toward the junket.
I decide to call Liam, and he answers on the third ring.
“Hey, how are you?” he says, and as soon as I’ve heard his voice, I forgive him for the snoring, because he sounds so pleased to hear from me.
“Busy, but good! I wanted to say sorry for coming in so late last night and then dashing out this morning.”
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting you to be around. I knew you had a work thing.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t see your messages about coming until it was too late.”
“I was worried you were ignoring me and I’d made a fool out of myself.” He laughs nervously.
“No, of course not!” I assure him. “You know what I’m like with my phone.”
“Yeah,” he says, and I hear a bit of irritation in his voice. “Did it go well? Did you meet lots of interesting people? Get some good gossip?”
I flinch. Most people assume that my job is all about showbiz rumors, breaking scandalous stories, and dishing dirt. But that’s not what I do.
I interview some of the most interesting and talented people in the arts, discussing their careers but also trying to understand them as individuals, so that I can craft a well-written, engaging interview that’s going to captivate readers.
I don’t do gossip. I don’t shame anyone or speculate on the ups and downs of their love lives. Mimi’s right that I have a habit of becoming too invested. My job is to immediately establish rapport with someone who is inclined to be wary around me, and while some journalists might be able to fake their warmth or interest, I can’t. I genuinely care about the joys of their work, their heartbreaking moments, how they found the strength to go through difficult periods, and what they’re hoping for the future.
I told Liam before that I don’t like being seen as a gossipmonger, but it was after we’d had at least three espresso martinis on our second date, so I shouldn’t expect him to remember.
“I spoke to a lot of people,” I reply instead. “How was your night?”
“Very productive actually. I sent a lot of emails to potential clients. Some of them were probably at that party last night with you.”
“Really?”
“I reckon so. Makes you think, it would be easier for me to come along with you next time.”
“Oh,” I say, a bit taken aback.
“So, next event—you can show me off to everyone?” he presses, going from a business voice to a cute one.
I laugh. “I’ll see if I can wrangle a plus-one.”
“You’re the best, Harper. And hey, I can cook for you tonight, if you don’t have plans. You like Thai green curry, right? I make a mean one.”
“Sounds great, thank you. I’m just at Claridge’s, so I’d better go. It’s a press junket.”
“Cool! If you see any hot new actors there looking for representation, put in a good word for me, yeah? I should give you a stack of my cards.”
Liam is a talent agent, namely for musicians and actors. He worked at an agency, but he didn’t like the management style (aka, he didn’t like being managed) and didn’t feel like he was going to move up any time soon. They didn’t value his potential. So, about a month ago, he broke out to set up his own agency, taking two clients with him: a singer-songwriter, who has recently done some jingles for commercials, and a musical-theater actor.
Personally, I thought it was a bit soon for Liam to branch out on his own. Most talent agents wait until they’ve made a name for themselves and have huge clients to poach. But Liam has an incredible confidence and self-belief—just shy of cocky—and when he talks about his career, it’s with the utmost certainty.
I met him at an industry event a few months ago when he was still at his old agency. We got chatting and I was instantly drawn to his passion for his work. He loves helping musicians find their audience and talked about that vocation so zealously, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of camaraderie. So many people discuss their work like it’s a chore, and it was gratifying to speak to someone who also genuinely loves what they do. He didn’t just talk about himself, either, unlike the last few dates I’d attempted. He was genuinely fascinated with me and my job. When he found me at the end of the event to ask for my number, I was happy to give it to him.
I hastily end the call and scurry past the porter at the entrance to Claridge’s, who taps his hat as he holds open the door.
“Harper!”
I smile as I spot Rachael Walker gliding across the shiny lobby. She’s one of my favorite film publicists to work with—she’s great at her job, and she’s also a lot of fun. We’ve had some wild nights together over the years.
“Why do you always look so gorgeous?” I ask.
She gives me a kiss on each cheek, her expensive perfume reminding me that I forgot to spritz myself this morning. When I get a chance, I can put those Jo Malone samples swimming about in my bag to use.
Rachael is about my height, around five foot five, but lives in heels so she always seems taller. With long wavy golden blond hair that looks freshly highlighted, she’s sporting perfectly winged bold black eyeliner and a matte dark berry lipstick. Today, she’s in a yellow blazer over a crisp white shirt, with high-waisted, wide-leg black trousers—she can be anywhere with a smart dress code at the drop of a hat.
“I get an excellent deal on Botox with the best in the business, thanks to my celebrity referrals,” she says quietly, taking a step back. “You look fabulous, too.”
“You’re just buttering me up for a front page feature.”
“Always on the clock, babe.” She grins, gesturing for me to follow her toward the elevators. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for all that space you gave to the period drama—I told you it was going to be a hit.”
“I had to fight Cosmo tooth and nail for that spread,” I tell her as she presses the button and we wait side by side. “So, how long do I get with everyone today?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Or fifteen?” I counter hopefully.
She gives me a stern look. “Ten.”
I try my luck. “How about fifteen minutes with Isabella Blossom and then just eight minutes with everyone else? That seems fair.”
She can’t help but smile at my attempt. “You know we’re on a schedule, Harper. You’re not the only journalist here, today. Although you are the latest.”
“I’m perfectly on time!” I check my phone screen as the lift pings its arrival. “Sort of. Blame my editor. He insisted on giving me advice about celebrity interviews before I left.”
“That buffoon gave you advice? Go on, I could do with a laugh. What did he say?” she asks, following me into the elevator.
“That I shouldn’t be late.” I groan, leaning against the mirror while she presses the button. “Why do you need a laugh today?”
She sighs heavily. “Have you got your journalist hat on?”
“I’ll whip it right off. You’re off the record.”
She smiles gratefully, watching the numbers on the elevator go up. “Isabella Blossom’s boyfriend is here.”
“The indie-film director?”
“Yeah, Elijah.” She frowns. “He’s a thorn in my side. They’ve been arguing all day. She’s told him to make himself scarce for the junket—he’s not involved in this movie at all—but he’s insisting on hanging around. He’s putting her in a bad mood.”
I grimace. “Uh-oh. Press junket and actors in a bad mood … never a good combination.”
“Never,” she confirms.
“Isn’t he new on the scene? He’s not the father of the baby, is he?”
“They’ve been together three months,” she confirms. “This should be the honeymoon period.”
“Promoting a film is a stressful time,” I reason. “It’s probably putting a bit of strain on the relationship with her being so busy. It will get easier once this bit is over.”
“Let’s hope so,” she says as the doors open onto the top floor.
We step into the throng of journalists chatting as they wait to be shown to the next actor, while publicists and assistants dart around with iPads, trying to find whoever they’ve been sent to locate.
An hour at a press junket can feel like a lifetime as you’re shepherded from room to room to ask the same questions as every other journalist there, the actors forced to repeat why they were drawn to this role, this script, this director, this setting, when they likely finished filming it a year ago and can’t remember the answers to any of those questions.
To give the actors a bit of a break and in an attempt to stand out from other journalists, I’ve discovered that it’s best to throw in some kooky questions to try to make them laugh, which consequently leads them to answer questions with a little more ease and enthusiasm. Although, I have to admit that method doesn’t always work—I once joked with a particularly straightlaced actor about ditching the junket and flying together to the Bahamas and, without cracking even a hint of a smile, he said, “I don’t think that would be appropriate,” and promptly cut the interview short.
Today I get some nice quotes from the other actors in the film, but, like everyone else, I’m here to get time with Isabella Blossom, the star who will draw in the crowds. She’s a talented actor but she’s also got a huge social media following, and lots of endorsement deals. Her face seems to be everywhere at the moment, from promoting makeup brands to maternity items. She’s young, powerful, and aspirational, which could make her a difficult interview subject.
Celebrities with a big social following tend to know what sells and what doesn’t, what engages an audience and what turns them off. They can create the perfect persona and rarely put a toe out of line—it’s why I try to avoid interviewing “influencers.” They reel off well-rehearsed sound bites and aren’t very forthcoming on their opinions, avoiding any topics that might put their brand endorsements at risk. I completely understand, but it doesn’t make for the most engaging read. But Isabella is an actor first and foremost, so I’m hoping she’ll give me some good stuff about her creative process at the very least.
When I’m finally ushered into her suite by Rachael (who reminds me under her breath that I have “ten minutes, not fifteen”), I find Isabella in a comfortable armchair by the window, a large vase of flowers on the table next to her.
There are some people in this world who just look like movie stars, and Isabella Blossom is one of them, with the name to match, as though her parents knew that one day it would be emblazoned across movie posters. She’s strikingly beautiful, with big, dark eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and plump, full lips, and her long, black curls are impossibly glossy.
She’s in a bold red maxi summer dress with a flowing skirt and a tied waist that shows off her bump.
“Hi!” I say, heading over. “I’m not sure if you’ll remember me, I’m Harper, from—”
“It’s nice to see you again, Harper,” she smiles, about to get up.
“Sit down, please,” I insist, plonking myself on the chair opposite her while Rachael lurks in the background, there to monitor proceedings and make sure nothing gets untoward, like a Regency chaperone. “You look great. Not long now until your due date, how are you feeling? And I’m asking that off the record.”
“Like a beached whale,” she says, slumping back in her seat. “Everyone talks about the glow of pregnancy. No one mentions the constipation.”
“Prune juice,” I recommend, placing my digital voice recorder on the table and flicking through the pages on my notepad to find my prepared list of questions that I jotted down on the tube on the way here. “A celebrity nutritionist told me she had stockpiled the stuff when she was pregnant.”
“Yeah, I’ve tried that. It’s gross.” She wrinkles her nose. “The beautiful journey of pregnancy. What a load of bollocks.”
I laugh. “Now, if only you’d said that on the record—that would make a great cover line. Are you ready for me to press Record? I know we’re on a tight schedule.”
“Please,” she says, nodding, while Rachael checks her watch.
I press the button on my digital voice recorder.
“So, Isabella Blossom, why—”
The adjoining doors of her suite suddenly burst open and a man marches in with a thunderous expression on his face.
“Did you tell that Jonathan Cliff guy from Expression that I didn’t write the lighthouse movie?” he seethes, striding across the room toward us.
Rachael tenses, widening her eyes at me. I take this to be the charming new film-director boyfriend, Elijah.
“Honey,” Isabella says with a fixed smile, “this is Harper; she’s a journalist from—”
“Yeah, hi, I don’t have time for introductions,” he says, dismissing me with a wave of his hand before addressing her again. “Did you say that to the Expression journo? You know he writes scathing articles about everyone!”
“We can talk about this in a minute. I’m in the middle of an interview,” she says, her smile wobbling.
“I can’t believe you!” He runs his hands through his shoulder-length brown hair, pacing back and forth. “I wrote that movie!”
“You’re directing the movie,” Isabella says, frowning at him. “You didn’t write it. It’s adapted from a novel and the author has written the script.”
“Yes, but I have had major influence on the screenplay!” he argues. “You know that!”
“Elijah,” Rachael interjects calmly, “perhaps you could find another time to—”
“I’m so fed up with this bullshit!” Elijah rages to Isabella, ignoring Rachael’s attempt to diffuse the situation. “It’s like you go out of your way to bring me down.”
“It was an honest mistake!” Isabella says, looking hurt. “I wasn’t trying to upset you or make you look bad. He asked who wrote the script, so I told him. I didn’t realize you were getting a writing credit, too. I’m sure you can speak to the journalist and correct him?”
“You don’t think I tried that?” he says, his eyes flashing with anger. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. He’s just going to think I consulted on the script, but that I didn’t write it.”
“But … you didn’t write it,” Isabella points out, confused.
He stops pacing, turns to her, and puts his hands on his hips before inhaling dramatically through his nose, the three of us watching in silence. He finally speaks, slowly and steadily, as though he’s trying to stop himself from imploding.
“That’s not the point,” he hisses.
“Okay, you know what? You’re not making any sense,” Isabella tells him crossly. “And I’m in the middle of the interview. We can discuss this later.”
“So, as always, I have to work around you and your commitments?” he replies, his eyes narrowed to slits. “No, thanks. I’m out of here.”
He turns on his heel and struts out of the suite, slamming the door behind him. The room falls into silence. Isabella closes her eyes in despair.
Rachael clears her throat. “Isabella, would you like a glass of water?”
“No, I’m fine,” she states, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips.
“I can give you a minute,” I offer, half standing.
“No, wait,” Isabella says, her head snapping up as she looks at me, panicked. “I know there’s not much point in me asking this, but if there was any way that you could … omit that exchange from your interview, I would be so grateful.”
“Isabella, you don’t need to worry,” I say, sitting back down, “none of that happened in front of me. I wasn’t here.”
She hesitates. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“You can trust Harper,” Rachael says quietly, putting a hand on Isabella’s shoulder and giving me a warm, appreciative smile. “She won’t print a word about any of that.”
“It’s none of my business, and it’s none of the public’s, either. I’m here to talk about you and your movie. Not Elijah.”
Isabella looks unconvinced. “You … you won’t comment on my relationship in your article?”
I reach over to my digital voice recorder and stop the recording, then delete it. I put it back down on the table and shrug.
“You can let me know when you’re ready to begin the interview,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says, her eyes gleaming with tears. “It’s been a long day.”
“Days like this always are.”
“We’re both under a lot of pressure and with the baby…” Isabella trails off, gently stroking her belly. “I’m not sure Elijah was really prepared for what he was taking on.” She sighs, glancing up at me again. “I’m sorry you witnessed that. I’m embarrassed.”
“Oh god, don’t be,” I insist with a wave of my hand. “I’ve had full-on arguments with boyfriends before in public places. One of them was in a lobster restaurant and I decided to storm out, but I had one of those bibs tied round my neck and I could not get the bloody thing off. I was there trying to yank it from my neck while shuffling on my bottom to the end of the booth we were in, and he just sat there, along with anyone else who’d overheard the argument, watching me struggle with the bib in silence. It was not at all dignified.”
She chuckles. “Did you manage to get it off?”
“No, I did not. In the end, I stormed out of the restaurant and walked all the way home with the bib on.”
She bursts out laughing.
“Was that the guy you told me about who was obsessed with balloon animals?” Rachael asks, pouring Isabella a glass of water from a jug on the side, despite her objections.
“No, that was someone from school,” I correct. “The guy I dated in sixth form wanted to be a clown,” I explain to Isabella.
“What?” She looks at me in disbelief.
“He signed up for clown college and everything. Such a nice guy, but any time we hung out, he would make me a balloon animal. My room was filled with them.”
“Wow.” Isabella nods. “That is quite a hobby. Do you have a boyfriend now? Sorry—” she frowns “—that’s none of my business.”
“Don’t be sorry! It’s okay to ask questions during a chat,” I assure her. “Yeah, I do. It’s early days, but he’s great. He’s actually cooking for me tonight.”
“He’s a good chef?”
“He’s better than I am. You any good in the kitchen?”
“I like cooking,” Isabella says. “But I really love baking.”
“Ah, so you’re an enthusiastic baker. A good one, too?”
“Excellent,” she tells me confidently. “I make the best cookies in the country.”
I nod to her bump. “That is one lucky baby—their mummy bakes the best cookies in the world.”
“Country,” she corrects, chuckling. “World might be a step too far.”
“Nah,” I say. “Your child will think they’re the best in the world. That’s the only opinion that matters.”
A warm smile spreads across Isabella’s face. She gazes down at her bump, rubbing it in circles with her right hand. Eventually, she looks up, taking a deep breath.
“Thanks, Harper, I think I’m ready for our interview now.”
“Yeah? Great. How long have we got according to your schedule, Rachael?”
Rachael checks her watch. “Your slot finished eight minutes ago.”
“Plenty of time, then,” I declare, before addressing Isabella in a serious voice. “I hope you’re ready for some groundbreaking questions.”
She grins at me. “I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“You should be. The first one is going to blow you away. Bet no one’s asked you this today.”
She chuckles, shifting in her seat to get comfortable and placing her clasped hands in her lap. I reach over to the digital voice recorder and press Record, clearing my throat.
“So, Isabella Blossom, why did you feel drawn to this role?”
“Harper, wait!” Rachael calls out after me, her voice echoing off the walls of Claridge’s reception.
I turn round to see her rushing over to me, which is quite the feat in heels.
“What did I forget?” I instinctively ask, double-checking I have my bag on my shoulder.
“No, nothing,” she says. “I just wanted to say thank you for that interview. You really put her at ease and, regarding that whole Elijah thing—”
“Rachael, you do not need to worry. I promise.”
“I know that, but I wanted to thank you anyway,” she insists. “And so does Isabella.”
“She already did. Tell her she gave a great interview. And don’t worry about the shortened time. I understand you still have people to get through.”
Rachael holds up her hands to stop me.
“She wants to give you the exclusive about the baby.”
I blink at her. “What?”
“Isabella Blossom wants to give you the exclusive when her baby comes along,” she emphasizes. “You can be the first to let the world know the sex, the name, print the first photos, everything. She’s going to give you exclusive rights. Nothing will go up on social media or be released until your piece has gone out.”
“You’re … you’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“But … doesn’t she want to give that to a magazine that will pay her a huge sum of money for it? Or one of the monthly glossies that will do a big shoot with some famous photographer flown in from LA?”
Rachael shakes her head. “She doesn’t want any of that. She wants you, Harper Jenkins, to have the exclusive. She’s adamant.”
I stare at her. “Wow. I don’t know what to say! I’m so honored.”
“Thanks again for today, Harper, and let me know when this piece about the film will be appearing. You’ll send me the PDF?”
“Sure.” I nod.
She checks her watch. “I have to get back. We are so behind. I’ll be in touch and see you soon!”
Giving me a kiss on the cheek goodbye, she hurries back to the elevator.
“Rachael,” I call out, causing her to turn round after she’s hit the button. “Thank you.”
“Nothing to do with me, Harper,” she replies, stepping into the lift. “It’s all down to you.”