Who's That Girl?

by Mhairi McFarlane

  Jan Clarke, author of forthcoming unauthorised biography about Owen, Elliot Owen: Prince Among Men (out November 12th), says this turmoil may be what attracted the star. ‘My book will include some explosive revelations about Owen’s own past. It has been a lot more turbulent than people realise,’ she said. ‘No doubt these similarities drew them together.’

  A representative for Owen said the rumours of a relationship were completely untrue. ‘It’s purely professional, there’s no romance,’ said a representative for the actor.

  Jan Clarke, what a surprise.

  Edie’s mouth was dry. She re-read the story half a dozen more times. Troubled past. It was deeply disconcerting, seeing your life served up to strangers in summary.

  Edie’s phone blipped with a ‘WTAF EDIE?!’ text and missed call from Jack and she ignored him. She owed him nothing. He’d thrown her to the wolves after the wedding, she’d throw him right back too.

  With a very heavy tread, Edie walked downstairs and showed the story to Meg and her dad.

  Her dad raised and dropped his shoulders, sighed. Meg read it, mouth hanging open, and audibly gasped at the opening of the last paragraph.

  ‘Down at heel!’ she said. ‘Trust the Mail and its house prices obsession.’

  Then she read on, and fell silent.

  ‘Why did they bring Mum into it?’ she said, raising resentful eyes to Edie. Her dad didn’t look at her, which was worse than him losing his rag.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Edie said, thickly. She thought Meg might shout or cry but instead she was quiet. She apologised to them both but there wasn’t much to say.

  ‘And you’re not courting this young man?’ her father said, in disbelief.

  ‘No,’ Edie said, but rather than getting any vindication from the fact, it only underlined how pointless this all was.

  Her dad glanced back at the story on her laptop and Edie felt hopeless – she could see both he and Meg weren’t convinced, and they lived with her. Once it was in print, somehow, it stuck.

  ‘Is there going to be more?’ her dad said.

  ‘I don’t know. I hope not.’

  Edie wanted to say more, but she had no comfort to offer and Meg made it clear she wanted to be elsewhere in the house. Edie went back to her bedroom and wept quietly. The only call – one of many her accursed phone buzzed with – she answered, was Elliot.

  ‘Edie, are you OK? I’m in the thick of it here so sorry if the call is short,’ he said, from somewhere blustery.

  ‘Do you know what, I feel like puking,’ Edie said. ‘Yet completely flat at the same time.’

  It was a different kind of shame from the wedding. That had an audience of everyone she knew. This was the world stage, complete strangers. A new dimension of humiliation. One that would live on in Googling eternity.

  ‘Thanks for saying being publicly linked with me makes you want to puke,’ Elliot said, and wrung his first laugh from Edie since the night of the fight. She laughed weakly, gratefully.

  ‘Hey, and you have no idea who you’re dealing with,’ she said grimly. ‘Who is this femme fatale I’m reading about? The worst of it is, it’s hard to say “that’s not true, or that’s not true”. Somehow it’s built into a whole that’s completely warped.’

  ‘Yes! You see how it works now. Even when it’s right, it’s still wrong. I hope the denial shuts it down. We’ve got an advantage of not being in London here. They won’t be sparing many photographers to hang around the Midlands. Also, my publicist is shit hot. She’s working on a strategy. I will let you know what it is, when we know what it is.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She noticed Elliot hadn’t mentioned Jan’s veiled threat about the adoption – had he told Fraser? She suspected in recovering from the fall-out from their fight, Elliot hadn’t – and she thought it was decent of him not to make it about himself. But as much as she appreciated Elliot’s support, it was different for him. He was used to being famous. He’d chosen it.

  Hannah and Nick sent a group WhatsApp titled ‘Tomorrow’s Chip Paper’, and promised Edie she’d laugh about this one day.

  Her phone blipped with a waiting call. It was from Richard. Richard, who was still in Santorini until next week. Terrible omen that he’d call out of hours. Richard the workaholic fiercely protected the sanctity of his time out, as did his redoubtable wife.

  ‘Only call me if a bomb has gone off,’ he always said. ‘And even then, if the field triage has been done and no one’s bleeding out, ask yourself: as a non-medical man, what would I bring to the situation?’

  ‘Hello, Edie!’ he said, with robust and threatening cheeriness. ‘My family are enjoying a late breakfast at a local taverna. And instead of being with them, enjoying Greek eggs, I’m on the phone to you. Can you imagine why that might be?’

  ‘Richard,’ Edie said, palm to forehead, ‘I’m so sorry. Nothing that’s being reported is true. I’m not seeing Elliot Owen.’

  ‘I have your Dear Deirdre casebook photos here, and forgive me, you don’t look like you’re explaining your prose style to him. You know, I’m not filling those speech bubbles with debate over the possessive apostrophe.’

  Richard was exasperated, but not shouting. Edie would have to take that as a good result.

  ‘We went out for a drink and his brother flirted with me and there was a bit of a misunderstanding. It’s all cleared up now.’

  ‘It’s his brother you’re finicking around with? Jolly good. Owen looks delighted about it, I must say. You know, my employee engaged in verbals with a client in the street isn’t exactly the Ad Hoc message I want to project.’

  ‘Richard, I promise, it’s not how it looks!’

  ‘I fear what you’re not grasping here is: how it looks, IS how it is. Unless you intend to embark on a nationwide door-to-door tour to explain your side of things, the papers have stolen a march on you.’

  ‘… But as a client, Elliot is completely happy. I promise. The book’s fine.’

  ‘He may be. The publisher isn’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes. The bad news is, they’ve thrown a giant shit fit about the adverse attention. They want you to come down on Monday and explain why you should still write this book. The good news is, you can do a twofer, and meet me afterwards.’

  Edie sagged. A double sacking. At least it saved her the trouble of telling Richard she was leaving.

  ‘And, where the autobiography’s concerned, make your case. I should warn you however, I think this is one of those occasions where the death warrant’s been signed already.’

  ‘But I’ve done so much work!’ Edie said.

  ‘Edie, call me a rule-obsessed stickler with an elephantine memory,’ Richard said.‘You remember when I gave you this assignment? And I said, prime directive number one – Don’t, for fuck’s sake, get off with the actor? If ever there was an example of You Had One Job …’

  He had a point.

  60

  Three publishing executives sat opposite Edie, across a boardroom table in Bloomsbury, with A4 colour print-outs of the Mirror and Mail stories. Given they’d read them already, Edie assumed this was designed to intimidate and embarrass, and it worked. It had been a long, knotted-stomach train ride down, and the atmosphere was entirely justifying Edie’s fright. There had been no more stories since last week, only cannibalised versions of the chief name-and-shame doing the rounds, yet Edie was far from certain that the worst was past.

  ‘Before we start,’ Edie said, ‘I want to assure you that there’s absolutely no improper relationship between myself and Elliot Owen. Those photographs were taken when I was invited to join a group night out, and everyone had had a little too much to drink.

  ‘Everything’s resolved now,’ she concluded, into the silence where three pairs of eyes bored into her. The continuing silence said: No. No, it isn’t.

  ‘Let me explain our position,’ said Becky, the Hobbs-clad and well-shod woman in charge, interlocking her fingers and speaking in a g
ently patronising and courteously hostile tone.

  ‘We wanted a writer for this project who would remain invisible in the process. It’s called “ghost” writing for a reason. We very much want a prestige slot in the market, to contrast with the downmarket rival releasing a book at a similar time.’

  Edie tucked her hair behind her ear, nodded and felt she was in the headmistress’s office, about to be expelled.

  ‘Now we have this publicity’ – she pushed the Mirror article towards Edie, as if Edie might want to refresh her memory – ‘which doesn’t spell quality product. And the autobiography has been mentioned in every single outlet that picked up the Mail story. You’ve made …’ she looked down a list, ‘the Huffington Post, the Metro, Digital Spy, the Express, Just Jared, the Washington Post. Need I go on?’

  Edie was in the headmistress’s office.

  ‘We’re in uncharted waters; we’ve never had a ghost-writer get this involved with a subject’s life, and in such a public way. After much debate, we feel this episode is going to unnecessarily complicate matters for the reader. Unless you could offer special insights as a … partner—’

  ‘I can’t!’ Edie said. Oh, to be believed for once. Imagine if she had as much sex as people thought she was having. She’d be walking like Yosemite Sam.

  Becky paused long enough to make it clear Edie’s interruption was crass and unwelcome.

  ‘… No. Not least because you signed a confidentiality agreement.’

  Trick questions, now.

  ‘Unless you can do that, we see this as a lose-lose. It’s confusing to the consumer. It will be seen as his girlfriend’s book now, whether we like it or not. And who knows what stories will come out next—’

  ‘There won’t be any!’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Er. Well there’s nothing new to say … Nothing true, anyway.’

  Becky’s eyes shot wide open. She picked up the print-outs and dropped them on to the desk again. ‘But you’re saying these things they printed weren’t true?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how can you be sure nothing more will come out? It doesn’t have to be true.’

  Checkmate.

  Richard was right, this execution had been signed off at the highest royal level. This wasn’t a debate about the decision, it was the delivery of it.

  ‘We’ll give you part-payment and pass on your material to another writer, and they’ll finish the manuscript. We won’t name you on the jacket but we’ll give you a credit in the acknowledgements.’

  ‘But …’ Edie felt bereft, ‘so much of it is based on conversations I had with Elliot. Are you going to pretend I’m not there?’

  ‘The book is about him, not you,’ said the younger woman to Becky’s right, in a voice that made Becky seem an Edie fan, by comparison.

  A knock on the door and a woman put her head round.

  ‘Becky. Call for you? It’s Kirsty McKeown. It’s urgent.’

  They sat in tense silence while she left the room. Becky came back in after five long minutes, pulled her chair up, cleared her throat and shot Edie a look that could, if not kill, significantly maim.

  ‘Elliot Owen won’t finish the book unless it’s with this writer.’

  Edie’s heart swelled, despite everything.

  The woman to the right looked irate. ‘Can’t we offer—’

  ‘He’s completely implacable on this point.’ She glared at Edie, clearly communicating: OH ‘NOT SLEEPING WITH HIM’? AND YET.

  There was nothing left to say. Friends in high places.

  ‘Please avoid any more situations that might be picked up by the press.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Edie, in a small voice.

  This warranted a direct thank you to Elliot. Edie stood in the street outside and dialled, checking she wasn’t being snapped by anyone. In London, she was back to being anonymous, it seemed, thank goodness. People who wanted to be famous didn’t know what they were asking for.

  She got his answerphone. When Elliot called back minutes later, he sounded disquieted, his first words to her clipped and abrupt.

  ‘They were going to throw you off the book?’

  ‘Yes. Unless I wrote it from …’ Edie hesitated, ‘unless I wrote it from the perspective of being somehow involved with you, which I said I couldn’t do, obviously.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? If I hadn’t happened to hear it from my agent, it might’ve gone too far for me to help. I could’ve stopped you even having to have that meeting.’

  ‘I didn’t know what you wanted …’ Edie trailed off. Why hadn’t she asked? It had seemed too helpless damsel. It felt too paradoxical to get Elliot to save the day as a mate, when the whole point was she was arguing theirs was a professional relationship. And yeah, she was avoiding him. ‘And I thought maybe you’d find a different writer easier.’

  There was a heavy pause.

  ‘Edie, sod what I wanted, it would’ve been a massive waste of your work at this point. Unless you wanted to go?’

  ‘No! Of course not! I really want to finish the book. I’m proud of what we’ve done.’

  ‘Then why not ask me to intervene?’

  ‘I didn’t want to beg you for a favour. It wasn’t your responsibility.’ Edie hoped the fact she’d dismissed this option out of hand was a sign of impressive self-reliance, and not complete stupidity.

  ‘Do you really dislike me that much, you couldn’t bear to ask?’

  It was clear Elliot was sure this was why.

  ‘No!’

  Edie didn’t know how she felt towards Elliot. Not angry, any more, but not the same either. They’d moved past the text message in practical terms, but not emotionally, not for Edie. She was saved having to find the words to explain, because Richard appeared on Call Waiting, and she didn’t dare leave him waiting for long.

  61

  Richard was the only man who Edie knew to do up a jacket button as he stood, like he was being announced as winner at an awards ceremony. Today he was in an incredible peacock-blue suit and dark wine-coloured shirt.

  ‘Take a seat. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Thanks. A white wine?’

  ‘Any?’

  ‘You choose.’

  Edie had expected a perfunctory coffee for this regrettable firing, but Richard had called to say, ‘I’m still on Santorini time. Fancy a pint?’ She met him in a refurbed Victorian pub, with overloaded hanging baskets and carriage lamps, beer-musky smell inside.

  Richard returned with the drinks. Eyes were always drawn to him, because he dressed and carried himself like a person of note. Funny how crucial that was to garnering attention: meanwhile, Elliot in a woolly hat, hunched over, could largely go unrecognised.

  When they were settled, Richard said: ‘Well, now. Where to begin with the latest episode of The Edie Thompson Show. That was quite the mid-season-break cliffhanger. You’re still on the book, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Only as Elliot insisted.’

  Richard raised an eyebrow and tried not to laugh.

  ‘Did he now? Jack Marshall, and now that prancing tit. Not the hill I’d die on.’

  ‘Elliot’s decent!’ Edie protested. ‘Honestly. His early doors objections made a lot of sense, we just hadn’t been copied in on his reasons.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Richard said. ‘I agree he did you what my kids call “a solid” here.’

  Richard swirled his pint around the table, as if he was drawing circles with the base of the glass.

  ‘Now. In terms of your future at Ad Hoc—’

  ‘Richard, I can save you having to break the news that you have to let me go. I can’t come back to Ad Hoc anyway. There was a petition, asking me to go. Everyone signed it.’

  ‘I know,’ Richard said.

  ‘And— Wait, you know?’

  ‘Yes. They used the work printer and I found a copy in the overflow paper box.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Master conspiracists, they are not.
’

  Richard sipped his lager and studied Edie.

  ‘You know, my wife said after she met you at the last Christmas party, you have a high degree of emotional intelligence,’ Richard said. ‘And I agree. So, can you let me into the secret of how someone as intelligent as you, frequently behaves like a complete arse?’

  Richard said this without edge.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Edie said. ‘If I knew, I’d stop.’

  ‘I want good things for you, Edie. I’ve come to the conclusion you can’t want good things for yourself. Perhaps you do consciously, but I think your subconscious is working against you. It’s working for the other side.’

  Edie nodded. ‘You’re not the first person to say this.’

  ‘Speaking more as a friend than a boss here, you constantly let lesser people drag you down. Start dressing for the life you want. I mean that metaphorically. Although that chequered coat might’ve had its dog day afternoon.’

  Edie laughed.

  ‘However. You’re talented, you’re loyal, you’re bright and witty, and very much the kind of person I want at Ad Hoc. I have a proposal for you. I want you to carry on working for me.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Edie said. ‘I can’t come back to the office that signed a petition for me to leave, though. Call me a wuss.’

  ‘I sacked Charlotte. I also sacked Louis. I needed this holiday, I tell you.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Charlotte for designing the petition, and Louis for circulating it. I don’t know what sort of madness gripped them, but if they want to re-enact Mean Girls, they can do it at someone else’s agency.’

  ‘Oh.’

  This was why Louis hadn’t been in touch for the last couple of weeks. It was too difficult to explain why he’d been let go. And that was how he kept his name off the petition: by doing everything but. Edie might’ve known. And – kerplunk – she finally remembered the stray detail that proved the extent of his betrayal. The smoking gun that had eluded her. She’d been too busy near-fainting at the time.