“You can blame my previous agent for that. Did you know you can request to have all manner of personal information removed from Google’s search results?”
“I seem to remember a case about some Spanish guy going to court a few years ago.”
“The ‘right to be forgotten’ ruling,” she states, casually. “It was based on the EU's 1995 Data Protection Directive.”
Clearly, and ashamedly, Stacey Stanwell also possesses a better grasp of contemporary law than I do.
“Anyway,” she continues. “My previous agent didn’t want any information available online that might undermine my working persona. That’s why he’s now my previous agent.”
“Your working persona?”
“Did you really think I’m as superficial as the character you see on TV?”
Her question is delivered with a grin rather than the sneer I might have expected.
“For what it’s worth, you were pretty convincing. I can see why you want to break into acting.”
“That’s another preconception. I have acted before so I’m not looking to break into acting; more reboot my career.”
It dawns on me I’ve already got more material than I expected but haven’t made a single note.
“Is it okay to record our chat? I’ve got the feeling it’ll be a little more in-depth than I envisaged.”
Without waiting for an answer, I position my phone in the centre of the table and activate the recording app.
“I don’t mind talking about anything, but please keep in mind the list of off-topic subjects Trina sent you. There are certain things I don’t want reported.”
“No problem.”
I probably should have read that email. Too late now.
“So, Stacey. Tell me a bit more about your earlier career.”
“I’ve been acting since I was a young child but put my career on ice when I was eleven, due to ill health. I fully recovered, thank God, and decided to concentrate on my studies rather than acting. It wasn’t until after I left university I was offered the chance to appear in Chelsea Lives. It was a decision I made when my head wasn’t … let’s just say I wasn’t in a good place.”
“You regret taking that role?”
“Life is too short for regrets but it wasn’t the wisest decision, career-wise.”
“What kind of work did you do as a child?”
“All sorts. Everything from commercials to soap operas, plus a bit of theatre. Oh, and I’ve got credits in two feature films.”
“No wonder you sacked your agent. Fancy having every reference to that work removed from Google.”
“Oh, no,” she replies dismissively. “You can still find all the references to my earlier work if you search my actual name.”
“Your actual name?”
“Stacey Stanwell is a pseudonym created for Chelsea Lives. My real name is Stacey Nithercott.”
Her surname is unusual and I’ve only ever heard it once before.
“Isn’t there a theatre director called Lance Nithercott?”
“My father.”
Whilst Lance Nithercott isn’t exactly a household name, on account he’s a fiercely private man, he is well-known within the theatre world. Suddenly, this isn’t quite such a waste of my time.
“Oh, Lance Nithercott is your father?” I confirm, trying to appear nonplussed at her newsworthy revelation.
Stacey’s shoulders slump. “Was,” she sighs. “He passed away.”
Learning of Lance Nithercott’s demise is mildly shocking; not least because I don’t recall it being mentioned anywhere in the press. It seems his desire to shun the limelight continued even in death.
“I’m so sorry, Stacey.”
“Yep, everyone is sorry,” she replies flatly, making no effort to hide her bitterness.
I’m minded of some advice Eric once imparted: empathy is the best hammer for breaking down walls. It proved sage, and I’ve used it many times over the years to unlock a guarded interviewee.
“I never had a father myself. Well, not really.”
My confession is met with an inquisitive glance.
“He walked out on us a few months after I was born,” I add. “And I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
My statement isn’t strictly true. Dennis Hogan didn’t walk out on us — he was convicted of raping and murdering a prostitute, and sentenced to life in prison. Still, as far as I’m concerned he is dead, so my empathy isn’t without some foundation.
“I guess that puts my situation into perspective,” Stacey says, sympathetically. “My dad was an amazing man, and a loving father, so I guess I should be grateful for the time we had.”
“Do you mind if I ask what happened to your dad? Was he ill?
Stacey takes a long sip of water before answering.
“Depends on your definition of ill. He started drinking heavily a few years back. Over time, the drink took a hold of him and he started missing rehearsals and even the occasional performance. Eventually, the job offers dried up so he had more time to drink and it became a vicious circle.”
I resist the urge to offer a sympathetic apology and, instead, ratchet up the empathy.
“I had an uncle who went the same way. Liver disease.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but my dad didn’t die of natural causes. He fell from a motorway bridge.”
“Oh, how awful for you.”
There’s a brief pause before she responds.
“Actually, that’s not strictly true. My father jumped from a motorway bridge.”
Her admission summons a feeling I’ve missed, and the buzz makes a welcome return.
5.
I’m caught speechless for a second; somewhere between the shock of Stacey’s revelation and the joy of unearthing a real story at last.
“Your father committed suicide?”
“That’s what is says on the coroner’s report.”
Losing someone you love is bad enough, but I can’t imagine how awful it must be, knowing you might have prevented it.
I reach across the table and squeeze Stacey’s hand.
“Life can be cruel sometimes. I honestly admire the way you’ve come through it, Stacey.”
“What choice is there?”
“Granted.”
She pulls her hand away and, in a heartbeat, her demeanour changes.
“You know none of what I’ve told you about my previous career, or my father, can’t be included in the interview?”
“What?” I gasp. “Why not?”
“The list of off-limit subjects Trina sent you. I did say, Emma.”
“But surely you want to use this to your advantage? It’ll make compelling reading and, to be honest, help your credibility no end.”
“I don’t care. I will not have my father’s memory sullied through any association with Stacey Stanwell or Chelsea Lives. He was one of the greatest theatre directors of his generation and that’s how I want him remembered — not as the father of a reality TV star or a suicidal alcoholic who threw himself off a motorway bridge.”
“But …”
“Sorry. It’s not up for debate.”
I sit back in my chair. “Why tell me then?”
“I don’t know. The wounds are still raw, I guess, and you have a certain maternal way about you.”
It appears my empathetic approach has opened the door to a great story but Stacey won’t let me in. In any other situation I might be tempted to write what the hell I want but this girl has been through enough. For all her privilege, life has dealt her the cruellest of blows and I kind of understand her reasons for wanting to keep the Nithercott name out of the papers.
“Fair enough,” I sigh. “I’ll stick to the new film.”
“I have your word on that?”
“You do.”
Her smile returns.
We spend the next thirty minutes discussing her new film and I’m left with an interview unworthy of the name. To cap it off, I then have to suffer the i
gnominy of asking Stacey for her autograph. The depths I’m prepared to plumb for free carbs.
As Stacey waves a goodbye from the front door, I try to ignore the now-familiar feeling of loss. Another front-page story has slipped through my fingers, albeit for different reasons this time. The net result is the same, though, and it feels like another step in the descent towards journalistic obscurity. I have to face facts: there is every chance I’ll spend the remaining years of my career churning out this kind of mindless guff.
By the time I reach South Kensington tube station, my mood has shifted from self-pity to anger. This isn’t what I worked so hard for. I kicked and I scraped and I gouged my way up the career ladder, only now to find myself slowly slipping back down towards the bottom, and through no fault of my own.
There is a solution, I know.
I could sell my flat and, after paying off the remaining mortgage, buy a place out in the sticks. I could work freelance and split my days between the garden centre and writing what I want to write.
So, why haven’t I already done that? The answer, I know, is hope.
Moving to the middle of nowhere appeals on one level, but it terrifies me on another. I would be consigning myself to the life of a spinster; just counting the long and lonely days with half-a-dozen cats for company. London, for all its faults, is home. It’s also home to eight million other people and I haven’t quite given up hope that amongst them is a man I can share the rest of my days with.
He is, however, proving as elusive as the next front-page story.
I have given myself an arbitrary deadline to make a decision. Once I hit fifty, if Mr Right hasn’t walked into my life, or my career hasn’t advanced, I’ll make the move regardless. For now, I’ll have to continue tolerating Damon, and the meals for one, and the speed-dating nights, and the inevitable disappointment.
Probably best not to dwell.
I arrive at my cubicle having shaken off the worst of my malaise — I am nothing if not resilient.
Plugging a pair of headphones into my phone, I tap an icon to replay Stacey’s interview. I hate hearing my own voice and try to block it out while scribbling notes. For a professional journalist, there is nothing more galling than throwing away the wheat and keeping the chaff, but that’s precisely what I do. Not only does my finished interview have to pass Damon’s inspection, but Stacey also wants to see a copy before it goes to print, or screen as is more likely.
I invest a couple of hours writing a piece I’m not proud of, but is fit for purpose. Reading it back, I don’t even recognise my own writing style. Just as Stacey Nithercott gave up a credible acting career and became a reality TV star, I’ve given up being a credible journalist to become a writer of pulp.
I’m not sure which one of us is worse off.
I attach a copy of the finished interview and email both Damon and Stacey. A reply is returned from the former within minutes: it’ll do.
Basking in Damon’s high praise, I pack up my things. I’m just about to leave when Gini comes bounding over.
“How was it?” she coos.
It’s not the question she wants to ask. I delve a hand into my jacket pocket.
“Here,” I smile, handing over a scrap of paper.
“Oh, my God,” she shrieks. “It’s made out to me.”
“Obviously. Not for one moment did I want her to think I wanted her autograph.”
To my surprise, Gini then throws her arms around me. “Thank you, Em.”
I struggle to deal with affection of any kind let alone a hug from a colleague. A psychiatrist would probably put it down to a lack of paternal love as a child, but I reckon it’s because I’m not what you might call a people person.
I escape Gini’s embrace. “Never call me Em, ever.”
“You don’t like being called Em?” she grins.
“No.”
“You should hear what they call you in the advertising department.”
“I can imagine.”
I’m then invited to join Gini and a dozen pre-pubescent staff members in the pub. I politely decline — not because it’s a Monday, but because I’d rather skewer my left tit than spend another minute listening to their juvenile drivel.
“Another time.”
I escape before her pleading breaks my will.
With the clocks having shifted forward last week, the novelty of leaving work to daylight still lingers. Give it a few months and I’ll be longing for the cold, dark nights again. London is a killer when the mercury rises, and any trip on the Tube is like descending into the bowels of hell. Add the city’s pollution into the mix, and it’s an inescapable cocktail of unpleasantness.
I take a slow stroll back to the Tube station.
By the time I emerge from Kilburn station, dusk is getting its act together and I’m met with a street bathed in muted shadows. There was a time I used to take a cab from the station to my flat; such was my paranoia about being mugged. These days, it’s not such a concern as the muggers have moved online where the work is easier and the rewards greater.
On the way home I have no choice but to pass The Three Horseshoes; it lures me in all too frequently, and tonight I can’t resist.
Up until a few years ago, I used to drink in The George & Dragon — a proper, spit-and-sawdust community pub, full of characters. Sadly, it went the same way as so many pubs, and closed down due to spiralling costs and diminishing income. Shortly afterwards, I wrote an article about the demise of community pubs but Damon refused to publish it, on the grounds it wouldn’t resonate with our target demographic. Whoever they are, I hope they choke on their craft beer.
The Three Horseshoes is a chain pub — a plastic recreation of what a proper pub should be, minus the characters. Both the staff and the customers seem to change on an almost nightly basis so it feels more like a train station than a community hub. There are only a handful of regulars, and I’m one of them.
I order a large glass of Merlot and retreat to a quiet table in the corner.
There was a time I couldn’t bare drinking alone but I concluded it’s slightly less depressing than necking wine in an empty flat. Now, it feels like second nature and I embrace the solitude. Occasionally I might be joined by one of the few regulars who can still afford to pay five quid for a pint. Some of them I welcome, others not so much. Tonight, none of the faces are familiar.
I take a moment to check Twitter and find a notification. I have a new follower — Alex Palmer; my former colleague and fellow attendee at Eric’s funeral. Curiosity gets the better of me and I click on his profile. If the number of followers on a social media platform is any measure of success in life, Alex is considerably more successful than I am. I note he’s swapped careers and now works for a telecoms company. A dull career for a dull man.
Out of politeness, I follow him back but mute his tweets. I had no interest in anything Alex had to say when we worked in the same field.
I switch attention to my diary and scan the next few months: many meetings, two weddings with associated hen nights, a christening, and not a lot else.
Tossing my phone on the table, I puff a long sigh. Christ, I need to sort my life out.
It’s at times like this I think back to the various relationships I’ve enjoyed, endured, and ultimately lost over the years. Could I have done more, been more? Could I have compromised? People do, don’t they? I know too many couples who settle for less-than-ideal because the fear of being on their own is too much. Better to have someone than no one. I don’t buy that; never have.
Perhaps I need to reassess my position.
I look across the bar at a group of middle-aged men. They’re all dressed smartly enough, and three of them still have enough hair to style — kind of. Statistically, four of them will be married and experience tells me two would be willing to cheat on their wife. Not with me, though — been there, done that — never again.
One of them says something which prompts a raucous cheer from the others. Laddish behaviour and d
eeply unattractive; not that any of them are physically attractive anyway. Could I live my life with any of them? Perhaps I’d be willing to sacrifice the looks as I’m not exactly in the first flush of youth myself, but they’re just so … achingly ordinary. I’d bet every one of them is content with their position in life and happy to coast through the next two or three decades. Beers with the lads during the week, dinner with friends at the weekend, golfing in the Algarve during the summer, and maybe a week’s skiing in Verbier, early spring.
No, fuck that.
I’m already compromising my principles enough at work and I don’t think I could stomach doing it at home as well.
One of the men looks over and our eyes meet. He smiles, and I die a little inside.
Time to go home.
6.
A microwave lasagne, followed by a two-hour documentary about the Cold War, plus half a packet of chocolate digestives. Just enough to keep my mind occupied before an early night.
My morning begins with a crushing sense of déjà vu. It isn’t déjà vu.
Walk, Tube, walk.
Coffee, desk, coffee.
The only variance this morning was the pervert on the Tube who ‘accidentally’ brushed my backside with his hand on multiple occasions. I won’t put up with that shit and called him out on his antics in front of our fellow commuters. The stinking old tosspot fled the carriage before I finished my verbal assault.
Settled into my cubicle, where I’m far less likely to be molested, I scour my inbox and spot a reply from Stacey Stanwell. I open it up, expecting the worst, but her feedback on my interview is positive. She’s also gracious enough to apologise for not allowing me to report the wheat. She signs off with the promise of an exclusive one day; when she’s ready to publish her autobiography. I won’t hold my breath.
I send her an equally gracious reply. Best never to burn bridges in this business.
My diary confirms I have a day of abject tedium ahead of me. Two phone interviews with witnesses to a z-list soap star meeting his alleged drug dealer, followed by a staff meeting and an afternoon of chasing up quotes from sources who don’t want to talk to me.
On the upside, Gini arrives with a Danish pastry.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 4