She pressed the button for Cappuccino Without Sugar on the ageing Douwe Egberts coffee machine in the staff pantry and waited for the little brown cup to emerge. This had been her dream job. Out of everyone on her journalism course at the University of East Anglia, she’d been the only one to land a staff writing job on a national after only three months as an unpaid intern. Some of her friends were still working for free on regional magazines, busy making unwanted phone calls and running all over the country, paying for their own bus tickets, seeking out stories, only to hand the byline onto someone else once the legwork had been done.
But she got her own name in print every day – well, not in print, on screen, but on one of the world’s most-visited news websites, with 11.4 million daily visitors. She still couldn’t really get her head around those figures, but with upwards of 500 new stories being posted every day, if she wasn’t filing an article at least every seventeen minutes, she’d very quickly find her tiny desk filled by someone who thought they could. Her eyes glanced upwards to the huge clock that dominated the newsroom. 15:34 – the West Coast of America was just waking up, demanding to be entertained by mindless transatlantic gossip during their protein shakes and herbal teas. She took a sip of her coffee and logged onto Mumsnet Talk to see what was bothering harassed mothers today – usually there were a few vitriolic threads going that she could base a short opinion piece on. She clicked on Most Active and the top thread Breakfast In Bed? Yes Please! was posted fifteen hours ago and the comments already ran on for twenty-two pages. Bingo.
Wearing a dressing gown you’d once ‘borrowed’ from an airport Hilton with your head still wrapped in a towel was not a good look to be sporting ten minutes before your guests are about to arrive, Jayne reasoned. But with Will still in the kitchen faffing about piping perfect swirls of a smoked salmon-and-cream-cheese concoction onto homemade blinis and Rachel knee-deep in almost identical-looking dresses, Jayne had no choice but to be the one to light the tea lights and put on the Rat Pack compilation CD to create the right ambience for a dinner party. Hearing the doorbell ring, she hotfooted it across the landing to the intercom and shouted, ‘Come on up, it’s open!’
The match was burned down almost to its tip, perilously close to singeing her fingernails when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, ‘I’m so sorry, I’m literally on the last candle, and … done!’ Jayne swung round with a grin that instantly vanished when she saw a short, mousey young woman who she didn’t know standing in the doorway, ‘Oh, my goodness, who are you? Sorry, I mean, um, hello, who are you?’ She self-consciously held the dressing gown tighter around her chest as the opening strains of Sammy Davis Jr’s ‘The Lady is a Tramp’ ironically began belting out from the speakers.
Samantha gingerly held out a card and Jayne took it, glancing at it just long enough to see the unmistakable logo of The Globe in the top right-hand corner.
‘Is Will Scarlet around?’ Samantha asked nervously, looking around her, deliberately noting every aspect of the living room to add a bit of – pun intended – flavour to the story. The bookcases were crammed with old Penguin classics, their distinguishable orange and white spines lined up. On the lower shelves lay a stack of coffee-table books like the ubiquitous 1001 Movies/ Places to Visit/ Books to Read Before you Die and Earth From the Air – the gift you give when you don’t know what else to give. A rather striking pair of white Eames Eiffel chairs flanked the fireplace and the unmistakable aroma of vanilla tea lights mixed with cooking smells. She’d expect nothing less from the man she was planning to call Britain’s Tastiest Dish.
Hearing voices, Will bounded into the lounge, wiping his hands on the comedy apron of Michelangelo’s naked David that Rachel had given him last Christmas. He stopped as soon as he realised that a stranger was amongst them. ‘Um, hello there,’ he offered politely, extending his hand. Samantha pressed another business card into his palm. His eyebrow raised when he saw the logo, ‘How can we help you, Samantha?’
‘I am writing a story about your rapid rise to fame and I live nearby so thought I’d just pop in on the off-chance that we could sit down and I could ask you a few questions to add some original quotes into the story?’
‘Fame? I don’t know what you mean. And what sort of story?’ Will asked warily, his brow slightly furrowed. Jayne still stood mute, self-consciously still in her flannel robe.
‘Your videos on YouTube are some of the most watched. You’ve had over three million hits. Of course people are going to want to know about the man behind the breakfast bar.’ Jayne could tell that this Samantha woman was trying out her provisional subheading for size. The man behind the breakfast bar … a little bit too Delmonte for her own tastes. Hang on a second, did she just say three million? The penny must have dropped with Will at exactly the same time, because he then croaked, ‘did you say three million hits?’
‘Over. Around three point four, did you not know?’ Samantha enquired incredulously. ‘Your video has gone completely viral. Has no other journalist been in touch yet? Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m going to break this story!’ Her eyes flashed with excitement and her voice had gone up an octave. ‘It’s my first big break! I normally just write about people from Essex walking down streets, I can’t believe I’m going to be the first one to interview you! Oh my God, this is so exciting! I knew coming to see you would be better than phoning. At first I thought that it would be a bit stalkerish, and then I just thought, no Sam, you’re a proper journalist now, what would Kate Adie do?’
For a split second Jayne locked eyes with Will and recognised the familiar twinkle as he looked back at the young hack and said, ‘you are completely right, Sam, is it? Kate Adie would have got on the District Line and gone to that delicatessen and, by Jove, she’d have got that story.’
Jayne left them sitting side by side on the sofa, Samantha’s phone sandwiched between them, recording their conversation. She excused herself under the premise of ‘making herself decent’ and sprinted down the corridor to Rachel’s room. The door slammed behind her and she leant her full weight against it, as though expecting it to be ram-raided. ‘You are not going to believe who’s in the lounge!’ Rachel was standing in front of her full-length mirror, her toned body clad in matching maroon bra and knickers.
‘Oh Jesus, have they already started to arrive? I’m having a serious wardrobe malfunction.’
‘Rachel,’ Jayne hissed, ‘there’s a journalist in the lounge! Talking to Will! He’s had nearly three and a half million hits on YouTube. Three and a half MILLION!’
‘What, since Sunday? But today’s Wednesday. Three and a half million people have watched Will, our Will, cook food and now a reporter is interviewing him?’ She was speaking deliberately slowly, as if talking quickly might hamper her understanding of the situation.
‘Yes. In there,’ Jayne nodded towards the wall, ‘now.’
‘So what are we still doing in here?’
The sisters ran between their two bedrooms, putting on and taking off clothes, applying make-up and scrunching hair mousse as though they were in a cartoon that had been speeded up. The doorbell rang and Jayne jumped in front of Rachel, putting her hand over her sister’s milliseconds before she pressed the button that opened the front door at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You don’t know who it is. Ask first.’
‘It’s either Marco, Duncan or Abi.’
‘That’s what I thought before, and then Kate Adie’s enthusiastic apprentice strolled in. Seriously, ask who it is.’
Half an hour later, an ecstatic Samantha had been dispatched, clutching her phone with forty-six precious minutes of sound-bites that she was convinced were going to catapult her straight into the editor’s corner office.
Two tables from the deli that Bernard had helped Will carry upstairs earlier were now pushed together and artistically draped in a white tablecloth at one end of the living room. A haphazard array of chairs loaned from each room in their flat clustered around it – Jayne perched on the stool from her dr
essing table, while Abi swayed on a wheeled office chair. Rachel sat a head or so above everyone else on a bar stool, Duncan and Erica were the proud tenants of the Eames chairs and Will, Dirk and Marco sat on three uncomfortable, but practical, metallic chairs from downstairs. Every inch of empty space on the table was taken up with platters of carved Spanish meats, little bowls of stuffed olives and peppers, big plates of torn buffalo mozzarella interspersed with fat slices of glistening red tomatoes. Chunks of homemade olive focaccia and Parmesan ciabatta crowded into baskets at either end, and tall bottles of different oils and vinegars replaced the traditional floral display that Hosts from Dinner Parties Past would have favoured.
‘So, then what did she say?’ Duncan asked, his mouth full of bread.
‘She asked about where I grew up, and when I started cooking, and then asked about my favourite food–’
‘What did you say?’ interrupted Abi.
‘Torquay and Slough, when I was six, toad in the hole.’
‘Honk honk!’ guffawed Dirk. ‘Toad in the hole. Geddit?’ he repeated to six pairs of reproachful eyes and one angry girlfriend, who shook her head disapprovingly and placed one finger to her mouth in a silent shush, like you would to a small child.
‘You were talking for ages. What else did you talk about?’ Rachel asked.
Will emptied the rest of the bottle into Jayne and Erica’s glasses, before reaching behind him to get another bottle from the wine rack. ‘I don’t know really, nothing deep and meaningful. I think it was her first interview, so no real probing.’ At the phrase ‘real probing’ Dirk opened his mouth again, caught Abi’s glare and remained petulantly silent.
‘Three million. For a cookery show. I can’t believe it. I thought that the flash mob we did of Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ in the food court of Westfield was going to go majorly viral, but we got less than 300 hits. What is wrong with people?’ Marco grumpily speared a big forkful of undressed rocket into his mouth. He didn’t know what was worse, hearing this news, or being on a no-carb, no-alcohol diet when he heard this news.
‘Well, I think it’s fabulous,’ Erica said, to no one in particular, ‘about time something other than pets and sex was popular on YouTube.’
‘I think sex has a little something to do with Will’s success …’ Marco replied cattily.
‘What do you mean?’ Will asked innocently, ‘I even took off my Michelangelo apron.’
‘Do you really think that you’d have got three-and-a-half million hits if you looked like me?’ Duncan amiably spread his arms out, revealing an impressive beer belly, which was admittedly in its early stages but still showed distinct promise of growth. His rugby-playing youth had resulted in a crooked nose and one ear that was a tad cabbage-like. ‘Mate, let’s be honest, people upload how-to-cook videos all day every day, but people who look like you, don’t.’
‘People who look like me? You mean a bit crinkly around the edges, a few grey hairs?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what he meant. Jeez!’ scolded Rachel, ‘But I think Marco’s right, I’d wager that ninety-five per cent of the people watching that video are women looking for a bit of a thrill, and the other five per cent just want to learn how to make good pancakes.’
‘What about the gays, Rachel?’ Marco asked, affecting a nose-in-the-air outrage, ‘Most of my friends have seen it, and loved it.’
‘Not sure how I feel about that,’ Will said, his nose crinkling a little, then spotting Marco’s ‘oh no you didn’t just say that’ glare, added ‘obviously, I love gay men and would be delighted if they loved me too’.
Duncan thumped the table, ‘And there, Miss Journalist, is your main quote for your article. Such a pity she’s left already!’
‘You must realise that you are exceptionally good-looking,’ said Erica with a slight hiccup, ‘and I can say this as one of your oldest and dearest friends, who is married to one of your best friends, so I am saying this as a neutral party, with no motive to shag you. But at university, everyone wanted to. Even me at one point.’
‘Good God woman, pull yourself together,’ everyone laughed at Duncan’s mock outrage. ‘Two kids together and then you drop the bombshell that you once wanted to bonk my best mate.’
Erica’s eyes had taken on that glassy quality that is usually accompanied by either vomiting or shameless self-indulgent monologues, fortunately, or unfortunately, in Erica’s case, it was the latter. ‘I just mean,’ she added, swaying a little, ‘that Will has always been very, very beautiful. I don’t know whether it’s because his eyes seem to bore into your soul when you’re speaking to him, or the way his hair flops about, just being shiny, and, well, floppy. I think it’s also because he’s really tall. Not giant tall – that would be a bit strange – but just good tall.’
Jayne could tell that Will was getting embarrassed at the turn the conversation had taken, he was twirling the stem of his wine glass between his thumb and finger, staring down at the way the wine ebbed and flowed against the glass. A small smile played on his lips, but it was his uncomfortable smile, created out of politeness not mirth.
‘Darling, I think it’s fabulous and very well deserved,’ Jayne said, starting to pile the empty plates up.
‘I think it’s weird,’ he replied.
‘It is a bit weird, but it’ll all be forgotten soon, so ergo …’
‘Ergo … what?’ Will repeated, smiling at his girlfriend’s pigeon Latin.
‘Ergo … just enjoy your five minutes.’ She reached over and ruffled his hair, ‘Because you’re going to be ousted off the top spot by a dancing cat any minute now …’
**
Thursday
Darren was late into work again. Wednesday night being the new Thursday night that was the new Friday night meant that at that moment across London first-jobbers just like him were preferring to suffer their hangovers on the penultimate day of the working week rather than let it ruin a perfectly good Friday or Saturday. He ran up the escalator with his boss’s soy low-fat latte, wishing, in his haste, he’d picked up a cardboard holder to dilute the tingling scalding that had now numbed his left hand. He could feel the beginnings of sweat patches seeping into the synthetic cotton of his light-purple shirt, which had come in a pack of three from Next.
‘You’re late,’ observed the botox-frozen receptionist, who last week was called Olga but was now called something else, Amanda maybe? Flinging his coat and bag in the vague direction of his workstation, he ran into the frosted glass box that was his boss’s office.
‘Afternoon, Darren.’ Michaela held out her manicured hand for the Costa cup. ‘I need you to get a guy called Will Scarlet on the phone. He’s going to need an agent to stop him saying anything stupid, so before every agent in town finishes their pre-work Pilates I want him to sign with us.’
Darren scrabbled around in his pockets for the little notebook and pen he usually had on him, ready for when Michaela barked a name or instruction at him, but every pocket was empty. Bugger bugger, buggering bugger. ‘Um, okay, Will Scarlet, um, who’s he?’
‘Look him up on YouTube, GlobeOnline, Buzzfeed, HuffPost or any number of blogs he’s now trending on and maybe, just maybe, use the initiative you promised me you had in your interview. Now go.’
Samantha’s article had gone live late Wednesday night, squeezed between an article on the new wave of oligarchs invading London and a photo gallery of the finalists of Strictly Come Dancing leaving their dress rehearsals in their tracksuits. As a piece of investigative journalism it wasn’t going to win any awards, but what it lacked in eloquent maturity it made up for in its sensationalism. Using descriptions that Jayne thought belonged more in a Barbara Cartland novel than a national tabloid – ‘his dangerous blue eyes’ and ‘long, adept fingers’ being just two examples of many that had made her roll her eyes.
Samantha’s neutrality was severely lacking. It was clear from the first paragraph that she had fallen deeply in lust with her subject, and judging from the notorious comments s
ection at the end of the article, so had the majority of the readers. Of course, there was the usual, and expected, smattering of ‘Poofter, and the pancakes look rank’ remarks, but these were firmly red-arrowed as soon as they were posted. Being Will’s biggest fan, she wasn’t surprised by the seemingly global outpouring of appreciation – there were even comments from Australia, Malaysia and Mexico amongst the ones from Milton Keynes and Wrexham. He had that winning combination of natural flirty charm, insane bone structure and he could obviously cook – what was not to love? And Rachel was right, most of his newly acquired fan base did seem to be women wanting to escape their daily drudgery with a little bit of harmless titillation disguised as a desire to reinvent family mealtimes.
‘Hey guys, sorry I’m late, I had to help Bernard in the shop,’ Jayne explained breathlessly as she arrived in the pub, ‘Will had retreated upstairs to escape his legion of fans, so I had to step in to help, and Friday evening is always manic with people getting stuff for the weekend.’
‘No problema, Chica. Here, get this down you.’ Abi handed her a large glass of white wine that looked more like a small bucket. ‘And how is the delectable Bernard? Give him my love next time you see him, won’t you?’
‘I will, and his head may very well explode when I do. You know he has a crush on you, poor guy.’
Me, You and Tiramisu Page 10