‘You mean, like, I want them to think I’m an ordinary Northern lass? Or, like, I’m lucky and it could be them next? That sort of thing?’
I nodded. ‘Yes. Because although I’m just presenting what you tell me, the way I present it can make a huge difference. In a way, I have to think of you like a character in a book. So I need to make the feel of the book consistent. As if it was a novel. That’s why I need to know how you want the world to feel about you after they’ve read it.’
She grinned. ‘You’re a very smart lady, Stephanie. What are we going to call this book, then?’
We. I liked that. In spite of Joshu, we’d made real progress. Scarlett considered me on her side, in her camp. That was half the battle. ‘Did you have any ideas?’
I wasn’t expecting much. ‘What about “Scarlett: My Story”,’ she said. I’d been right.
Time for a touch of tact and diplomacy. ‘Well, it’s not going to breach the Trade Descriptions Act. But I think we can do a bit better than that. “Scarlett: My Story” will attract your fans. No doubt about it. But I want to get people picking it up who really don’t know much about you. So we need to intrigue them. I was thinking, maybe something like “Fishing for Gold”? How does that sound?’
She looked dubious. ‘But how will they know it’s about me?’
I grinned. ‘Your face’ll be all over the cover, love. There won’t be any room for doubt whose story it is.’
Scarlett still wasn’t convinced. ‘I’m gonna have to sleep on it.’
‘No problem. So, are we solid, you and me? You think you can stand having me around long enough to get this done? There’s no going back once we’ve started, you know. We’ll be tied by a contract.’
‘I think so.’ She laid a hand over her stomach, as if she was swearing on her baby’s life, then cocked her head to one side. ‘You won’t let me down, will you, Steph?’
If I’d had any inkling of what I was committing myself to, I would never have said what I did. ‘The people I write about become my friends, Scarlett. And I don’t let my friends down.’
7
There was no sign of Joshu when I pitched up at the hacienda four days later. Maggie and George had nailed each other to the wall over the contracts, Biba from Stellar Books was shouting about the deal all over the trade press and the tabloids were already sniffing around the serialisation. In my world, it doesn’t get much better than that.
This time, I drove myself to darkest Essex. Clearly my car was low status; the duty paps didn’t even stir as I pulled up to the gate. Scarlett buzzed me in and I parked in the same garage slot we’d used on my first visit. The red Mazda convertible I’d noticed before was still sitting in the far bay. It didn’t look as though it had moved. Scarlett was riding high; she only had to drive herself if she wanted to.
I found Scarlett in the kitchen, leaning on the range with a mug cradled against the top of her belly. This time, the joggers were black, the muscle T-shirt white. When I walked in, she was yawning luxuriously, unselfconsciously revealing the glitter of gold-crowned molars. Clearly she’d always lived in a world where nobody ever covered their mouth. ‘Hiya,’ she said through the end of her yawn. ‘Fuck, I stayed up so late last night.’
‘Were you partying with Joshu?’ I said. Not that I was interested. But part of my job is making conversation, bridging the gaps between me and the clients.
She snorted scornfully. ‘He’s up in Birmingham. Some new club opening. Needed the king of cool to scratch and scribble and stutter for them.’ She giggled. ‘It sounds like somebody’s granddad, doesn’t it? Like some old fart that’s lost his marbles. Scratching and stuttering. No, there was a
‘It’s the bitching and the niggling we watch for.’ I have to admit, I’ve got a soft spot for
Scarlett giggled again. I could imagine how much that was going to irritate me over nine days of interviews. Sometimes the clients have incredibly irritating verbal tics or physical twitches that drive me crazy. The only way I can deal with it is to keep an hourly tally and set little mental bets with myself.
‘If it was me, I’d totally turn them on their heads,’ she said, pushing off from the cooker and heading for the kettle. ‘Brew?’
‘I’d love a coffee. What do you mean, you’d turn them on their heads?’
‘I’d wait till they were all out at work or at school. Then I’d hire in a cleaning service and caterers. They’d come back home and think I was amazing. And they’d be totally pissed off with their real wife.’
‘I take it you’re not much of a housewife, then?’
She pulled a face. ‘I can clean if I have to, but these days I don’t have to. As for cooking – beans on toast, scrambled eggs on toast. Toast on toast. And that’s your lot. That’s what takeaways are for, right? So we don’t have to waste our time in the kitchen. You’re not one of them Nigellas are you? Domestic fucking goddesses?’ She couldn’t have got much more scathing contempt into three words.
‘I don’t do any of that fancy shit, but I like to make a proper roast dinner at the weekend.’ More Nigel Slater than Nigella Lawson in the kitchen, that’s me.
‘That’s cool, a proper roast,’ she conceded. ‘But I bet you’re one of them that likes proper coffee.’
I grinned. ‘You got me bang to rights. Have you got some?’
‘Yeah, that Carla turned up with a box of them metal pods for the coffee machine when she drove Georgie up the other day.’ The cupboard she opened contained a giant box of teabags and a plastic bag filled with a mixture of coloured metal capsules. ‘We only drink tea,’ she said. ‘We’re total plebs, me and Joshu. Well, he pretends to be. He’s not really. His dad teaches at a university and his mum’s a doctor. He’s a big disappointment to them, is Joshu.’ She dumped the bag by a coffee machine that looked like it’d had more design input than the space shuttle. ‘I hope you know how to work it.’ She turned and gave me that hundred-watt smile again, the one that made her whole face come to life. ‘Or I’ll have to give Carla a bell and tell her to get her arse out here to show us what to do.’
‘How hard can it be? George Clooney seems to manage it, and he’s a bloke.’ It didn’t take much figuring out, but Scarlett was impressed when I managed to fix myself a decent coffee in a matter of minutes.
‘You want to work in here?’ Scarlett asked, eyeing my shoulder bag. ‘ ’Cos there’s a table so you can take notes easily.’
‘I don’t need a table. I’ll be taping our conversation. I make the occasional note, but I just lean my notebook on my knee. We’re going to be sitting around for hours. It’s better if we’re somewhere comfortable. What about the living room, with the sofas?’
‘You don’t think that’s too much like, just hanging out?’
‘Trust me, just hanging out is good. The more you relax, the more natural you’re going to sound.’ She still looked dubious, but she led the way through. ‘Did you get a chance to sort out those photos?’ I asked before she settled in.
‘I had a look,’ she said. ‘There’s not much. Hang on a minute.’ Scarlett disappeared down the hall, and I heard the soft shuffle of her feet on the stairs. I’d asked her to show me her life in photographs, going all the way back to childhood. I’d found that photos often jogged memories. But they also made the clients drop their barriers as they were drawn back by the image into a sense of place and time, a vivid recapturing of smells and sights and sounds that could often unlock a whole stream of recollection.
As Scarlett handed over the meagre bundle, I knew this wasn’t exactly going to be a fertile field for us. Like most people, I spent my teens thinking my parents were pretty useless – out of touch, out of time, out of ideas. But at least they understood that when you have a kid, you’re supposed to pay attention to them. My life in pictures would have been a thick bundle of holiday snaps, school photos, moments of pride captured by the camera and a record of family celebrations. My cousin’s wedding, my grandparents’ golden wedding, my nephew’s christening. All faithfully preserved for posterity.
It hadn’t been like that for Scarlett. Whatever her parents had been doing, it hadn’t included demonstrating their pride in their offspring by capturing her every endearing moment. ‘Like I said, there’s not much.’ She shrugged and fell backwards into the sofa, her lips turned down in a pout.
