The Break

by Marian Keyes

  ‘Turn it back on, Hugh.’

  ‘Come on, babe, the girls are out and you’re so –’

  ‘Not now, Hugh.’

  I stepped away from him and switched the cooker back on. Without meeting his eyes I said, ‘Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.’

  It was almost as if Josh had intuited that I’d decided against him because later that same day he sent a text: So the timing on this couldn’t be worse, but I’m about to send a work-related email. It’s genuine. Josh xxx

  Hi, Amy. Hope you’re having a good weekend. An idea came up at a meeting yesterday – would Premilla Routh be interested in doing a weekly column for us? Can be ghost-written, if that makes it more attractive to her. Let me know?

  Thanks

  Josh

  A weekly column? Paid or unpaid? About her recovery from addiction or a more general thing? Time specific or open-ended? There was plenty to discuss but, in principle, it was a welcome proposal – decent money and very little work for Premilla.

  She was dyslexic, Josh knew that, which was why he’d suggested a ghost-writer. And that sort of set-up needed a lot of on-going babysitting: instead of Premilla simply writing and filing copy, a week-by-week meet would have to be set up for her to tell her thoughts to the journalist, who would then construct the column. This would be sent to me for approval: very often in these relationships, the journalist either deliberately or accidentally misrepresents something, in the hope of turning it into a more sensational article. Which would mean me having to lock horns with the commissioning editor – Josh.

  I couldn’t do it. Extricating myself from him hurt. The last thing I could do was commit to on-going professional contact.

  I mulled it over and my options were stark: turning down Josh’s offer without speaking to Premilla, in the hope that she never found out.

  But that would be unfair on Premilla.

  My other option was to pass Premilla on to Alastair as his client. And say goodbye to a steady stream of income: as Premilla’s publicist, the monthly retainer would go to Alastair instead of me. A sickener but my only real choice.

  So I rang her and, with passionate talk of keeping her publicity fresh, sold her the idea of Alastair. She was initially bemused but, by the end of the call, enthusiastic.

  Next I rang Alastair and said, ‘Don’t ask me why, because I won’t give you an answer, but Premilla Routh is now your client.’ Just like Premilla, he was bemused but enthusiastic.

  Then it was time to deal with Josh.

  There was the brutal option – I could unfriend him on Facebook, unfollow him on Twitter and Instagram, block his emails …

  But that felt like overkill. Also, professionally we were obliged to remain cordial. So I replied to his email, telling him that if he had any future work queries to refer them to Alastair.

  Almost immediately he texted: Does this mean what I think it does?

  I waited a few minutes, wondering what exactly to say until, with a heavy heart, I clicked out: Josh, I’m sorry.

  Moments later my phone rang: it was him and I didn’t pick up.

  He left a message, which I deleted without listening to it. Then I quietly unfollowed him on Instagram and muted him on Twitter. Not as brutal as blocking and unfriending but it meant I didn’t stumble across reminders of what I’d been considering.

  Even so, from time to time, I’d come across a re-shared post or a memory would flare, always followed by excruciating guilt.

  50

  Tuesday, 18 October, day thirty-six

  Tuesday morning, 7.48 a.m. in a crowded, chaotic Heathrow, my phone rings. It’s not even eight o’clock, what the actual! The number is withheld but, half looking for a scrap, I answer anyway. ‘Amy O’Connell.’

  ‘Dan Gordon.’

  Who? Oh! The rude man who hung up on me yesterday.

  ‘You in London?’ he asks.

  ‘What’s this in –’

  ‘You free to take a meeting with my client in the next hour?’

  ‘I’m free today at three fifteen.’

  ‘Needs to be earlier.’

  ‘I’m in meetings until then.’

  Your man does an irritated tsk. ‘Okay. Where are you?’

  ‘Home House.’ Well, it’s where I’ll be in an hour’s time.

  ‘Sort out a private meeting room. Very private, right? See you at three fifteen. Prompt.’

  Prompt? Who says prompt?

  My day is busy. There’s a stream of disgraced or forgotten ‘celebrities’ looking for a relaunch, and I size up every single one of them as a potential EverDry ambassador because Mrs Mullen simply will not be talked down.

  But it’s proving difficult.

  Obviously, it would have to be someone well liked. But poor. Because no one is going to become an incontinence ambassador for the prestige, right?

  So, well liked but poor, preferably desperate. And attractive, because no one wants to identify with a horror-show. In addition, they must be the right age, which means no older than fifty because people don’t like seeing themselves in the same boat as crocks. But realistically they can’t be much younger than fifty because no one would believe they were incontinent. God, it’s difficult.

  Not a single one of today’s potential clients fits the bill and all my hopes are hanging on my mysterious three-fifteen appointment.

  Dan Gordon looks like an accountant crossed with a hungry greyhound, or perhaps a lanky-limbed Harry Potter who’s just heard that Voldemort has won a Ferrari – bespectacled, besuited and aggressive. In our very private meeting room (which is exactly the same as all the other private meeting rooms), I stand up to shake hands. In reply, he opens a cardboard folder, whips out a non-disclosure agreement and slides it in front of me. ‘Sign it.’

  ‘I’ll read it first, if you don’t mind.’ I smile sweetly. Christ, what a knob. God only knows how awful the actual client will be. But I don’t have to take the job. Yes, business is always appreciated but with some gigs no money is worth it.

  The contract is standard – basically the meeting with the mystery person never happened and if I monetized anything I learnt, I’d be sued into the poorhouse.

  ‘Okay.’ With a flourish, I sign as Minnie O’Mouse, and barely bother to disguise the words. ‘There you go. So, what happens now?’

  Dan Gordon snatches up the contract and clicks out a text. Such rudeness.

  ‘This better be good,’ I say.

  He ignores me, as his phone beeps with a message. ‘He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘So it’s a he?’

  Dan Gordon clamps his mouth tight.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I said. ‘I’ll be meeting him in a few minutes. Is it Wayne Rooney?’

  He snorts. ‘No.’

  ‘The leader of North Korea?’

  He goes quiet.

  ‘It is the leader of North Korea?’

  ‘It’s not the leader of North Korea.’

  ‘Aw, come on.’ I poke his leg with the toe of my boot. ‘Play with me. Is it Emma Stone?’

  ‘You know it’s a man.’

  ‘That was a trick question. Is it Terry Wogan?’

  ‘Terry Wogan is dead.’

  Dan Gordon won’t say another word and I don’t like the silence: there’s too much time for thinking. Out of nowhere I wonder if Hugh is dead. But if he’d died, wouldn’t an embassy have contacted me? Unless he’d fallen into a river in Thailand and no one has found him. But why would he fall into a river? People don’t just fall into rivers … unless the crack on his head from the hairbrush I threw at him really had given him an aneurysm. Unlikely as this is, my spine goes cold with fear and I can’t keep my anxiety to myself. ‘Mr Gordon, can a person die from getting hit on the head with a hairbrush?’

  He gives me a look. ‘Are you going to hit me on the head with a hairbrush?’

  ‘No.’ Suddenly I’m scornful. ‘Not everything’s about you. So, can they?’

  ‘I’m not a doctor. Google
it.’

  I need to stop this mad catastrophizing. Except obviously it’s about my genuine fears. It’s almost easier to accept that Hugh is dead in the Mekong, being eaten by vicious Asian fish, than that he hasn’t wanted to call me.

  Dan Gordon’s phone beeps. He leaves the room and returns moments later with another man. Whom I recognize. In fact, I almost pass out. It’s Matthew Carlisle, Ruthie Billingham’s husband, who’s been cheating with their nanny, Sharmaine King! And he’s fucking gorgeous! Tall, like really tall, imposing tall. He’s got black hair, in a shortish buzz-cut, glasses with stylish black frames and deep brown eyes. Some famouses are far less impressive in real life but Matthew Carlisle is more, much more.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me at short notice,’ he says, with a tired smile.

  ‘Of course,’ I murmur. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  He takes an armchair opposite me and Dan Gordon sits beside him, like a guard dog who hasn’t been fed in some days.

  ‘Can I get you coffee?’ I ask. ‘Water?’

  He shakes his beautifully shaped head. ‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’

  ‘Something stronger, maybe?’

  Interest flares in his eyes. ‘No. I can’t start drinking in the afternoons.’

  ‘So how can I help?’ Two short days ago I’d wanted nothing to do with this painful story, but that was before Matthew Carlisle had treated me to a short burst of his industrial-grade charisma. Only fair to hear the man out, right?

  ‘Ruthie Billingham,’ Matthew says. ‘The actress? She’s my wife. Ex-wife. Well, not yet, we’re getting divorced.’

  Gently I say, ‘I know who you are.’ Before he gets paranoid, I say, ‘Because it’s my job to know. You don’t have to fill me in.’

  ‘Oh, okay. She’s been having an affair with Ozzie Brown for two and a half years.’

  Two and a half years? The story she’d given the press was that she and Ozzie had only been stepping out for a couple of weeks.

  ‘Ruthie can’t be seen as the bad guy, not in the eyes of the public.’

  Of course. Ruthie gets all her work on her girl-next-door persona.

  ‘So she – well, her publicists – planted the stories about me and our nanny. So people will look the other way.’

  But the question has to be asked. ‘Are the stories true? For me to do my job properly, I need to know everything. Without all the facts I can’t help you.’

  ‘Sharmaine’s a sweet girl,’ Matthew says. ‘She’s a great nanny. But nothing ever happened.’

  My mind is racing, Ruthie’s publicists work at the most powerful agency in the UK – they could probably rehabilitate Jimmy Savile if they put their mind to it. ‘Why have you come to me?’ I ask.

  ‘Because no one knows who you are,’ Dan says. ‘We need to keep this quiet.’

  ‘Some people know who I –’

  ‘You did a great job with Bryan Sawyer.’ Matthew’s smile derails my ire. I am pathetic. ‘And Tabitha Wilton says you’re effective.’

  ‘What do you want from this process?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t want an image as the bad guy. I’m not the bad guy.’

  ‘You’re a serious broadcaster, why does it even matter?’

  ‘Because it’s not true.’

  Right. He’s an idealist.

  ‘Can you fix it?’ he asks.

  It would be tough. The public adore Ruthie. They were really sad they had to be cross with her for moving on so quickly. They appreciated having Matthew to blame for their sweetheart being a little slutty. The public mood is now firmly behind Ruthie, as far as I can tell, and it’ll be hard to switch their allegiance again.

  In addition, you can’t prove a negative: Matthew and the nanny can deny until they’re blue in the face, but it will never be beyond doubt.

  ‘Can you get something into a broadsheet by this weekend?’ Dan asks. ‘A big, huge interview with Matthew, where he gives his side of the story?’

  ‘That would be a mistake.’ A terrible mistake. ‘That would turn this into a “he says/she says” slanging match, Matthew. You’d be “tabloided” and that’s a toxin harder to shake off than napalm.’

  He looks stricken.

  ‘But issuing an official press release is vital,’ I say. ‘Denying everything and asking for privacy, especially for your children. Simple and dignified.’

  ‘That’s all you’d do?’ Dan is furious.

  ‘No, but previous experience, of which I have plenty, is telling me to play a much longer game.’

  ‘So what would you do?’ Matthew asks.

  That’s a huge question and, to be blunt, it depends on how many of my hours he’s prepared to buy. ‘I’d have to look at everything – the current coverage, which journalists Ruthie owns, what precisely you want your outcome to be – but I can definitely change the conversation. Medium-term, I can work to alter your public profile.’

  ‘People will still think I’m a cheater.’

  ‘If they do, it won’t matter.’

  ‘Oh! I get it. It’s not binary,’ Matthew says.

  ‘Exactly!’ I could kiss him. ‘A quiet, steady denial that you cheated with Sharmaine, if the subject ever comes up. And eventually it won’t.’

  ‘Give us an example of what you’d do to alter his public profile,’ Dan demands.

  God, I’ve only known Matthew Carlisle ten minutes, how am I meant to come up with a plan of campaign? And then inspiration hits. ‘Children in Need!’

  Matthew Carlisle covered in custard, standing in a bucket, a glass bowl at a jaunty angle on his head, trifle dripping down his beautiful face – ‘Serious Political Journalist Shows He Can Take a Little Humiliation’. People love that stuff.

  ‘Children in Need?’ Dan Gordon’s scorn is epic. Matthew places a restraining hand on him.

  ‘Give me a few days, I’ll put together a comprehensive plan,’ I say. ‘Send out feelers, see who’s interested in working with you.’ Hastily I add, ‘Which is everyone, of course.’ Never forget how fragile famous egos are!

  There’s a small conspiratorial smile behind Matthew’s black-framed spectacles. Clearly he’s not as narcissistic as most.

  ‘What can I do?’ he asks, then takes off his glasses, rubs his beautiful, tired eyes and says, ‘For you.’

  He really shouldn’t go round phrasing questions in that manner when he’s as ridey as he is. It’s not decent.

  ‘I mean, you know, to help you do your job?’ But there’s a hint of a twinkle, almost an apology, as if he realized, too late, how his question had sounded.

  I smile to convey silently that I understand. This is good, we’re communicating. ‘First of all, I’d need you to trust me.’

  ‘Why should we trust you?’ Dan Gordon says.

  Irritably I turn on him, ‘What’s your role in all this?’

  ‘I’m his brother.’

  ‘Whose brother?’

  ‘His.’ With a jerk of his head, he indicates Matthew.

  In amazement my eyes flash from God-like Matthew to angry-but-dull Dan. Then I have to clamp my lips together to stop the laugh escaping.

  ‘What sort of brothers?’ Perhaps he means close-friends-style brothers.

  ‘Full siblings,’ Matthew says, with a glint of warning in his voice. ‘Children from the same parents. Those sort of brothers.’

  What comes to mind is that film where Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito are twins and, once again, I’m afraid the laughter will rush out of my mouth and blow this gig. ‘But you have different surnames?’ That’s the best I can produce to explain my far-too-evident astonishment.

  ‘My name’s not Dan Gordon,’ Dan Gordon says, ‘Needed a fake name until you’d signed the non-disclosure. Name’s Dan Carlisle.’

  ‘Actually Dante Carlisle,’ Matthew says. ‘Italian mother.’

  ‘But I don’t look like a Dante,’ Dan says.

  You can say that again. Dante sounds dark and dramatic, like he should be striding about, swirling a long, black
cape.

  Now is as good a time as any to produce Hatch’s basic contract, for ten hours of my time.

  Matthew reads through it, with Dan breathing down his neck, then Matthew signs it, and it’s all too much, and I want to quietly bite my knuckle with the thrill of it. Matthew Carlisle! My client! Matthew actual Carlisle!

  I’m star-struck – star-struck as fuck!

  ‘I’ll compose a press release and send it to you later. Once we’ve made any amendments you might want, it’ll go to all the news outlets.’

  ‘It can’t be a secret he has a publicist?’ Dan asks.

  ‘No!’ Cheeky bastard. What am I? A prostitute?

  ‘You know I’m in London only on Tuesday and Wednesday,’ I remind Matthew. ‘My colleague Alastair is here every Thursday and half of Friday. You should meet, he can work with me.’

  ‘Happy to,’ Matthew says. ‘But I want my primary contact to be with you.’

  Well, I mean – how EFFING BRILLIANT is that! ‘Certainly,’ I murmur, trying to hide my red-with-pleasure face in my iPad. ‘So, shall we meet next Tuesday? I’ll have a raft of ideas for you.’

  ‘Come to my house,’ Dan says, ‘where Matthew’s hiding right now. I’ll email the address.’

  It takes a lot of work to compose myself for my four o’clock.

  51

  Out in the bar, who do I come face-to-face with? Only Alastair! ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Meeting a maybe client,’ he says.

  Suddenly a very bad feeling creeps over me. ‘It’s not Sharmaine King, is it?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘No, Alastair, you can’t. I’ve just signed Matthew Carlisle.’

  He stares. ‘I thought you didn’t want to touch this story.’

  ‘It was Tim’s decision. Trying to protect me,’ I add quickly. ‘But I’m fine. It’s all fine.’

  ‘Oh-kaaay. Nice work, though. Matthew Carlisle – that’s impressive! Is he as much of a babe in real life?’