You Think You Know Me

by Clare Chase

  ‘It’s the old associations at work again,’ I said. ‘He’s been keeping his distance.’

  She fixed me with a look. ‘What he went through happened a long while ago now, Anna.’

  But she didn’t know the half of it.

  Chapter Three

  Up in my room I went through my notes again, ready for the interview. After Alicia had left the kitchen I hadn’t felt much like my second roll; I was too nervous. I hated meeting big stars. Sometimes, it felt like I was in the wrong job.

  As well as writing the straight piece for The Enquirer, I was charged with writing a feature for the rather more accessible magazine, Epic. The slant for that was quite different, so the questions I needed to cover spanned a bizarre range of issues. I also had a nasty shock mid-morning when Helena, the features editor of Epic, called me.

  ‘All set?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes thanks,’ I lied.

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to throw in an extra question. Maeve, the editor, wants you to ask about underwear.’

  I was silent for a moment.

  Helena went on: ‘You know, whether he’s a boxer shorts or a briefs man, where he buys them, that kind of thing.’

  Well, I was glad she’d called because I have to admit, pants hadn’t been on my original list of questions. Now she mentioned it, it was obvious of course. I wrote “Weave in pants” next to my list of topics for Epic.

  I then spent the next half hour wondering how to slot them in. I mean, I’d got what I hoped were some fairly searching questions for The Enquirer, and then lots of more informal ones for Epic, but pants didn’t sit easily with either set.

  I’d been asked to submit my questions to Shakespeare’s publicity person, Miranda, just as ‘Max’ had said I would be. He wouldn’t be expecting the pants one, although obviously I’d be adding in extra questions as they came to me anyway; that was bound to happen.

  I dithered about the whole thing for a bit longer, and then ended up calling Miranda, even though I knew her schedule for the day was probably manic.

  ‘Pants?’ she said. ‘I’m not sure. Just a moment though. I might be able to get you an answer right now, if you don’t want to bring it up at the interview.’ The line went quiet, but a few seconds later she was back. ‘Just caught him between his eleven o’clock and his eleven thirty,’ she said. ‘Apparently he doesn’t wear any.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s one on his own.’

  Which was something of a relief. I wondered if ditching my underwear would make me seem truly original too. Somehow I didn’t think it would work; aside from the fact that no one would notice. ‘The readers of Epic will love it anyway,’ I said, hating myself for being such a sycophant. Deep down, I was willing to bet he really wore M&S, but didn’t like to admit it.

  At eleven forty-five Alicia came in without knocking. I had given up on my questions; going over them was just making me jittery. Instead, I’d taken out some sewing: a clutch bag I was making my mother for Christmas. I was embroidering tiny birds over a sunset in pink and orange silks.

  ‘I must say,’ she said, peering over at me, ‘you’re very self-confident, just sitting there sewing like that. Shouldn’t you be swotting up?’ She handed me a parcel. ‘Delivery for you.’

  I peered at a label on the package, which said Tillsbury Silks.

  Alicia was peering at it too. ‘More material for your sewing?’ she said. ‘You know, Anna, it’s a very good thing you came to live here. I do think perhaps you were allowing yourself to get a little unfocused, stuck out in the sticks with Terry.’

  ‘St Albans is hardly the sticks.’

  She made a noise like a horse coughing up a fly, which I took to indicate disapproval. ‘You know what I mean. After all, it must be, what, fourteen years since you graduated? Time’s getting on. Terry’s got his career sorted, but I always felt you were rather dragging along in his wake, just enjoying life.’

  She left the room again and I stowed the sewing away. It was time to go in any case.

  Zachariah Shakespeare had long, dark wavy hair and wore sunglasses, despite the fact that it wasn’t sunny and we were sitting inside The Prestwick Hotel. Periodically, he sipped from a can of Coke, and I noticed that his hand shook slightly each time he gripped the drink.

  He sat on a dove-grey sofa, reclining as though he had a physical need to be in that position. I was on some kind of mock-Regency chair with lots of red velvet and gilt paint. I had a digital recorder between us, so I could forget all about having to note anything down, or argue the toss later about what he had said.

  Miranda sat with us the whole time, in a dark suit with a mini skirt that revealed bony knees. She had a clipboard and a mobile on her lap.

  It wasn’t the most comfortable interview I’d ever done. Throughout, he behaved as though he was there under duress. And ‘Max’ had been right: he certainly wasn’t chatty. Remembering what he’d said brought back his image, very vividly. Well, whoever he was, his knowledge of Zachariah Shakespeare seemed genuine enough.

  Zachariah’s voice, when he did speak, was surprisingly high and mockney. The questions for Epic were the worst. The pants theme was typical of the long list of areas I’d been asked to investigate. I had to go through relations with siblings, love life (of course), preferred holiday getaway, and so it went on. At least they hadn’t asked me to find out what his favourite colour was or how he liked to have sex. The questions I’d come up with myself weren’t much better though. He looked bored and I decided something had to be done.

  ‘What do you think of Mary Poppins?’ I said at random.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘That wasn’t on your list of questions,’ said Miranda, scribbling something onto her notepad.

  I gave her a look. She had already been constraining the proceedings as far as I was concerned. ‘I didn’t realise I was straying into dangerous territory.’

  Shakespeare grinned suddenly and I saw Miranda give him a repressive glance, but he took no notice.

  ‘I was in love with Mary Poppins when I was little,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea the emotional depths you’re plumbing. But Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was better.’

  ‘Did you like the child catcher?’ said Miranda hopefully.

  Shakespeare gave her a look and shook his head slowly, draining the last of his Coke. ‘He used to creep me out. My favourite character was Grandpa Potts.’

  Miranda actually followed me out of the interview room to take me to task over the additional question. I could see why: there was a danger that Shakespeare’s answer might make him sound quite human. I wondered how many thousands that could knock off the value of one of his masterpieces.

  ‘I’ll be sure to mention any family movie topics beforehand next time,’ I said over my shoulder as I dashed towards the hotel foyer. ‘I just hadn’t thought of it being at all controversial. Thank you very much for having me.’

  I was so busy trying to escape from her that I suddenly realised I was about to leave without my coat. I waited to one side, hovering in the shadows until she was safely out of the way again, and then went back to get it from the cloakroom.

  It had been oddly mild earlier, but with rain in the air. I peered out of a corridor window to see what the weather was like now and was brought up short.

  ‘Max’ was there, standing just outside. I would already have run into him if I hadn’t had to come back for my coat.

  When I saw him I felt the same strength of reaction I’d had when we’d met at the gallery. I wanted to run outside and join him. There was an urgency in the pit of my stomach, as though I’d been fancying him in a pent up way for years, not just a couple of days.

  But Radley’s words came back to me, together with a nagging voice that asked why it was that he’d come to look for me. Always assuming it was me he was looking for. After all, he could be there for any number of reasons … But then he did know I’d be interviewing Shakespeare. It wouldn’t take much to find o
ut where he was staying and what day he’d set aside for dealing with the press.

  I waited, just standing there holding my coat, peering out of the window. No one else rushed up into his arms. No business contact emerged from the doorway, striding up to shake his hand. He walked a couple of paces forward, past one of the pillars, so that he could look into the foyer, then stepped back again and continued his wait. He didn’t look at his watch. Did that mean he hadn’t got a pre-arranged appointment to meet someone? Could he really just be there in case he managed to catch up with me?

  More people left the building and still he waited. Then at last he came right inside the hotel.

  I paused, undecided. Eventually, I walked very slowly down the corridor back towards the reception area. ‘Max’, or whoever he really was, was leaning on the counter of the front desk, his dark hair hanging down over one eye.

  I could just hear the receptionist’s words: ‘… didn’t see her go past, but I think she must have left already.’

  My stomach muscles tightened. He was looking for me, I was sure of it, but what did he want? He was standing in that characteristic pose, leaning forward, the touch of a smile on his lips; that powerful, confident stance. And suddenly I was afraid. Cutting through the feeling he stirred up inside me came the reality I’d been trying to ignore: he could be absolutely anyone, wanting any number of things.

  I backed away, retreating up the corridor, and found a side door that opened onto New Row. Looking over my shoulder, half running, I took the fastest route to Leicester Square tube station.

  Chapter Four

  Sally had the next day off and decided to spend half of it at work, introducing me to the delights of Farquharson’s. I must admit I was quite wary about the idea, feeling it might be too new-agey for my tastes and too expensive for my wallet.

  ‘They won’t make me lie down for two hours wrapped in seaweed, or anything like that, will they?’ I asked as we neared the tube station. Sally just laughed and I took the lack of straight denial as confirmation that that was probably just what they would do.

  But I needn’t have worried. We spent all morning in the relaxation pool, which was like being on a film set. The lighting was low and there were archways everywhere, rather like those I’d seen at the Roman baths in Bath. You could swim (or float if you didn’t feel that energetic) under arches and between pillars, looking up at a ceiling dotted with pinpricks of silvery light. There was even a swing, though I felt I might be too self-conscious to sway back and forwards in front of everyone so ostentatiously.

  The trip gave me a chance to regale her with a blow-by-blow account of my time at The Prestwick the previous day.

  ‘I’m feeling like a prat now,’ I said, as a large lady in a blue floral costume drifted past us.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was so melodramatic about the whole thing. I mean honestly, it’s not as though he’s been stalking me down dark alleys or anything, is it? He chatted to me in a gallery stuffed full of people and waited for me outside a hotel that was swarming with journalists.’

  ‘True,’ said Sally. She paused a moment, then added, ‘But, hey, he still lied about his name. There’s definitely an aura of mystery and potential danger about him.’ I could tell she wasn’t going to let go of this satisfying thought. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘for all you know he might be itching to pursue you down dark alleys, only he doesn’t have enough information to go on. He can’t follow you very easily if you keep giving him the slip.’ She gave me an accusing look.

  We got out and put on bathrobes.

  ‘And now you can come and see my rivals,’ Sally said, leading me into a tiled room with granite footbaths.

  ‘What’s in the water?’ I asked. The women dangling their feet into the baths seemed to be wriggling rather oddly.

  ‘Tiny fish,’ Sally said. ‘It’s a popular exfoliating treatment. They nibble away at your dead skin.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything more revolting.’

  ‘A lot of people claim to like it. But,’ she added, ‘I think my job’s safe. There are still plenty of clients who prefer the human touch. And in any case, the fish are absolutely crap when it comes to applying nail varnish.’

  After that we went for a boozy lunch in the restaurant.

  Back at the house, Alicia caught me bowling into the hall and seemed to sense that I’d been relaxing and enjoying myself. Perhaps she could smell the wine. Whatever gave the game away, she looked very disapproving.

  ‘What work have you got coming up next?’ she said, as I hovered, one foot on the stairs, hoping to make my escape.

  ‘Well, I’ve still got to finish the Shakespeare articles and get them off.’

  ‘That won’t take you all week.’

  ‘I know it won’t, but I’ve got to go in and meet Seb’s exhibitions manager about some more press work on Thursday, and I’ve got a backlog of copywriting to get on with. In fact,’ I looked at my watch, ‘I really ought to dash up and get cracking on that now.’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to go for long lunches you will need to put the hours in later to make up for it I suppose. What copywriting have you got, anyway?’

  My task for the afternoon was to write a piece about the expansion of a potato processing factory for a company magazine, but I was damned if I was going to tell her that. ‘Oh, there’s too much to go through it all now,’ I said, waving a hand. ‘It’s just the usual corporate stuff, you know.’

  ‘No other significant work’s come in then? I mean interviews and the like, with people that count?’

  ‘I don’t know what will result from the meeting with Radley.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She paused for a moment, as though debating something inwardly. ‘Look, I’m very busy, but what the hell, why don’t you interview me? I’d pretty much guarantee you a slot in Observer Food Monthly or somewhere like that.’ She frowned. ‘You’ll need a day or two to research and prepare, I suppose.’ She took out her diary. ‘Let’s book it in for Friday. First thing in the morning.’

  I confess I was speechless, which wasn’t usual for me. I think my mouth might have been hanging open, because I swear she was about to tell me to close it when Sally unwisely appeared at the top of the basement stairs. It was a slip-up on her part, having escaped so successfully on our return from lunch. Her mind must have been elsewhere, because she started when she saw us, and then appeared to try to creep round behind Alicia towards the kitchen.

  ‘Ah, Sally!’ my cousin said, rounding on her. ‘I’ve been wanting a word. One of your boyfriends was knocking on the door at three in the morning on Sunday. I want your assurance that nothing like that will ever happen again.’

  I made sympathetic grimaces over Alicia’s shoulder, causing Sally to laugh, which didn’t help the situation at all. I turned quickly to limit the damage and dragged myself upstairs. Thank goodness I’d at least got a kettle in my room; I could stoke up on black coffee before trying to get imaginative about spuds.

  In the end I decided to make potato processing my only job for the afternoon. It was much more manageable than writing up the feature for Epic and I’d already done the work for The Enquirer. The lunchtime wine was sure to help me get nice and creative, which would be necessary if I was going to make the topic sound interesting.

  I had hardly started when my mobile rang. It was Terry.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he said.

  ‘Arggggh! Why did I ever move out of your place?’ It was fun letting off steam.

  ‘Well why did you? I did say you shouldn’t. We loved having you here.’

  ‘Even when I left pins on the sofa and hogged all the marmalade? Anyway, it wouldn’t have done really. I needed to come to London for work.’

  ‘I know you moved out to give us some space when Steve moved in, so don’t think I don’t, little miss tactful.’

  ‘Well, that and because the extra queuing time for the bathroom was getting to be a pain.’

  He laughed. ‘Naturally.�
��

  ‘How are things at the restaurants?’

  ‘Hectic, but going well. We got three reviews in national Sundays in September you know. It’s busy as hell, but I couldn’t live without it. I’m thinking of opening up a third venue.’

  ‘Wow, that’s great. Where are you looking at?’

  ‘Maybe London.’ He paused. ‘It does help to have a presence in the smoke, I must admit. It means I’ll pick up reviews from some of the lazier critics and get in with the in crowd. Anyway, enough about me, how are you?’

  ‘Oh you know,’ I said, staring at my potato text on the computer screen, ‘still wildly unsuccessful and lying to others about the glamour of my everyday life.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t believe it! What about that interview you were going to do for Seb?’

  ‘I didn’t exactly excel myself. Besides, I’m going to run out of famous contacts I can sponge off one day soon. Just think what a non-starter I’d have been if I hadn’t known you guys.’ I’d already done a piece on Terry for one of the Hertfordshire papers. He was national territory now though, I knew. Maybe he’d let me do another if he opened up this new venue.

  ‘Using your contacts isn’t wrong you know.’

  ‘It makes me feel like a cheat. Anyway, the latest news is that Alicia’s condescended to let me add her to my repertoire, so that’s one more celebrity piece. After that I think I’ll have used all the eggs I so unwisely put into one basket.’

  ‘Seb might push some more work your way.’

  ‘He might, but he’s still avoiding me – or avoiding personal contact at least. If he does give me more, I’ll bet it’s through other members of staff.’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Terry said: ‘I always used to think you were sweet on him, you know.’

  ‘I was only ever sweet on you Terry, and what a waste of time that was.’

  He laughed. ‘Seriously though, weren’t you? Just a little bit?’

  ‘Do you think that’s what he thinks now? And that’s why he’s distanced himself?’