Reluctantly Charmed (23 page)

As per usual, the meeting room was fully prepared for the Little Prince’s arrival with the sparkling and still water, double cushions on one of the seats, sharpened pencils, and scented candles. His Cuban heels announced his entry, and we stood to attention. His face looked softer, his hair flatter, and he bowed his head as he came through the door.
He must really love David Hasselhoff
, I thought.

Quietly, he shrank down into his seat.

“We have great news.” Matthew stood tall, pulling excitedly on his nose. “We have managed to secure David Hasselhoff for the Starshoot commercial.”

Silence.

I anxiously chewed my fingers.

“He’s a big fan of chocolate and can’t wait to endorse Starshoot.”

Silence.

“He has agreed to do the commercial.”

Silence.

“It’s great news.”

Matthew sat back down.

The Little Prince slowly looked around the room, before fixing his gaze on Matthew. “Can you please leave us?”

Matthew looked at me, and I shrugged in response. “Okay,” he said, and left the room looking confused.

The Little Prince turned his eyes to me. I could see they were moist, like he might cry. His face was sad and heavy. “I know who you are.”

I blinked, hoping to indicate that I, too, knew who I was.

“I know vot you can do.” Somehow I didn’t think this was going to be about my amazing advertising abilities. “Ve have people like you in my country—gypsies and ze like.”

“Oh, I’m not a gypsy. Never even wear my hair in plaits.”

“Vell, a vitch, votever. My point is, I know vot you can do. I know how you got David Hasselhoff to agree. He is a superstar, a music genius, a god.”

“He is. He is, indeed,” I replied with great enthusiasm. “He’s also a very nice man.”

“But you have done somezing.” The Little Prince wagged his finger at me.

“I made a phone call.” I shifted nervously in my seat.

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“No. You have put a spell on him.”

I laughed.

“Zis is great chocolate. I know zis is great chocolate.” He started to beat his chest. “But zis is not the chocolate of a god.”

“I made a phone call. He likes chocolate.”

“
Nein
.” He pursed his lips and sternly shook his head.

“It’s business.”

“No. Zis is magic.”

“Well, why did you agree to let us go down this route if you thought he would never do it, if you thought we couldn’t get David Hasselhoff?” I was surprised at how forthright I was being with the Little Prince. Clients with their tightly gripped purse strings are meant to be cushioned and marshmallowed, told happy endings. Not questioned—never questioned.

“I never thought you vould get David Hasselhoff. I vas going to fire ze agency. I vanted to fire ze agency, but now they have you and vitchcraft.”

“They always had me.”

“Not like zis.” He sighed heavily.

“Don’t fire the agency,” I pleaded. “People will lose their jobs.”

“Vell, now if I fire ze agency, you vill put a spell on me.”

“I won’t put a spell on you,” I said, thinking I would if I could. “Look, let’s just put this all behind us. It’s all going to be over in a few weeks, anyway. David Hasselhoff is coming in a couple of days. It’s going to be a very successful campaign. We should celebrate.”

“And you von’t put a spell on me?”

“Well, you’re not going to fire the agency, are you?”

“No.”

“Okay, then, no spell.”

Did I just negotiate a deal over a spell? What was wrong with me?

The Little Prince flicked his hair into its natural bouffant. He pushed back his chair and hopped down.

“I vill see you at ze shoot.”

And he smiled. I could have sworn he smiled.

17

“T
he Seven Steps” was the number one downloaded song during the first week after release. It was on a loop on the radio and people were humming it in the streets, tapping it out on their bus journeys. It was huge. Red Horizon was huge. Jim was doing interviews constantly. I’d hear him on the radio, see his handsome face on the telly. He was asked about our relationship a lot, and he’d respond with the stock answer that we were “just good friends.” I’d blush. I didn’t really know if we were even friends, let alone good friends.

So he surprised me on Friday evening after work. I was feeling under house arrest, with people constantly camped outside my flat. It was miserable. And then Jim’s text came and my heart skipped a beat.

was wondering if I could come over? Jim

Come over? Come over this second? I quickly scanned my flat. It was a mess. There were mountains of Sunday papers on the floor—not great, considering it was Friday. There were only certain parts of my couch that you could sit or lie on without getting a spring in your back. The carpet definitely needed a clean and, more importantly, so did I. I texted back immediately:

Great. Wld be lovely to see u. come over in the next hour? Kate

c u thn

I spun myself into a tornado of activity. Cleaned the flat, cleaned me, changed the sheets. (Who knew? Something could happen. Did I want something to happen? Better to be prepared.) I had a lightning shower, shaved my legs, threw on my favorite BCBG dress—green, to the knee, chiffon, and definitely a bit over the top for a casual call-in, but this could be more than casual.

Twenty minutes after the last text, the bell rang, leaving me no time to pick up the papers off the floor or call Fiona for advice. My face burned up and my heart pounded out of my chest as I went down the stairs.
Be cool, be cool, be cool
, I repeated to myself, then tripped on the edge of the carpet at the bottom of the steps.

I took a deep breath and opened the door about half an inch, hoping Jim would know to scurry in quickly to avoid the pesky photographers hanging around outside. He obviously didn’t know, though, because he pushed the door wide open. Behind him, there was an aviary of chirping paparazzi flashing and snapping. They seemed to have multiplied overnight. All I could see was Jim, his big smile, and what looked like a halo of light behind him.

“Hi.” He smiled and I melted. He reached in around me and gave me a long, tight hug. It felt wonderful. It would have felt even more wonderful if we weren’t being watched by fifteen overweight men. I moved back in off the doorstep, pulling Jim with me.

“Do you want to . . . ?” And he gestured with his head toward the photographers pushing the door open more. I shook my head and shut the door tightly behind us. Alone at last.

“I brought food,” he announced, holding up a plastic takeout bag. “Hope you like Chinese.”

“Brilliant, I love it.” I bit my lip, hoping I wouldn’t explode there and then.

We traipsed up the stairs to my flat.

“I see you’ve built your shrine. ‘We ask you to make us a home in your lair.’” He pointed at the hall table, which was heaving under the weight of gifts I’d received.

“I didn’t build a shrine,” I said, exasperated. And then I looked at it, looked properly at it, and what I had thought was a mess of books and knickknacks, some flowers, candles, even a jar of jam, had somehow formed a C-shape, almost like an altar. Mister Snoop Doggy Dogg was curled up underneath it. He’d been sleeping there a lot, and I’d just thought it must have been a heat trap, a cozy corner. Now I wondered.

“I didn’t think I’d built a shrine,” I said quietly. I was feeling a little weirded out. What was happening?

“Not much of a housekeeper, hey?” Jim was standing in the middle of the messy sitting room.

“I’ll get some plates and glasses.”

I went into my equally messy kitchen and rummaged around. “I don’t know where all those photographers came from. There’s normally only two,” I shouted.

“Mmmm.”

I reappeared with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a corkscrew. I handed the bottle and corkscrew to Jim, apologizing. “I’m really bad at opening bottles. I normally just try to get the screw-top stuff but . . . em.”

He took it from me and, in one gesture, popped the bottle open. He sat down—I guessed that because he didn’t flinch it wasn’t on a spring—and poured two large glasses. I busied myself in the kitchen and brought out the takeout.

“Thanks for this,” I said, setting two plates down on my
wobbly coffee table. “I can’t go for takeout—it’s impossible with all the people outside. Well, there’s normally only six, including the Anoraks, but that’s enough.”

He nodded. I sat down opposite him in my one rickety armchair. He started shoveling the food into him. Minutes passed. Was he not going to talk? Were we just going to be silent? Maybe he was really hungry? I chewed slowly on my chicken sweet and sour, trying to think of conversation topics.

“So, the song, the song is doing really well?”

He nodded.

I stared at my plate. “It’s great for Red Horizon.”

Another nod. When had he turned into a mute?

He finished his food, pushed his plate away, and grabbed his glass of wine. His eyes ran around the flat, spotting, no doubt, every piece of dust and unfluffed cushion.

“It’s messy. I didn’t have time to clean.”

“Mmmm.”

I couldn’t swallow the sweet and sour, and pushed it away.

“You look great.” I don’t know where that came from—it just came flying out of my mouth. I guess it was all I’d been thinking about, really. He did look great. Dark denim jeans, his curly hair just tipping the back of his blue T-shirt, clear and fresh skin. Delicious.

He smiled for the first time since the doorway. “Yeah, thanks.” He patted his jeans. “I’ve got my pockets stuffed with Zovirax. I think I’m getting a cold sore.”

I froze. Jim. A cold sore. Was he a nonbeliever, too?

“If you put some lemon, St. John’s wort, and ginger in river water, drink it four times a day, and sleep with some rose petals under your pillow, it’ll be gone in two days.” Oh, for the love of God! I’d never said the words “St. John’s wort” before in my life.

Jim looked at me strangely. “Thanks,” he said and, ignoring my remedy blurt, quickly continued, “You know, so much of this business is about image. What you look like will sell the song. I’d say it’s fifty-fifty—the music and the image. If you look at previous rock ’n’ roll stars—for example, Jim Morrison, who I’ve tried to model myself on in some respects, but not entirely—if you look at his image, it was all cultivated and pronounced . . .”

He was off and I couldn’t keep up. Image, him, his face, his looks, more about Jim Morrison, something about Oasis, and a lot of harsh words about the industry. I kept nodding. Occasionally, I made a sound in agreement, but mainly I nodded.

Eventually, Jim stretched out his legs and reached in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. I must have made a face, not because I’m antismoking, particularly, but because I didn’t know he smoked. I thought I knew everything about him. How had I missed this important detail? It must have registered with him because he walked over to the window and pushed it open. He was still talking about Jim Morrison as he perched himself on the windowsill.

“Emmm.” I kind of waved my hands around, noticing how dry my throat was. I hadn’t spoken in about two hours. “The paparazzi can see you from the window. You might be better out in the kitchen. I normally keep the curtains closed.”

“They don’t bother me.” He took a long drag on the cigarette and blew smoke out the window in their direction.

“Right.”

I poured myself another glass of wine. Jim hadn’t touched his drink for hours—he hadn’t stopped talking long enough to take a sip. Now he flicked his cigarette out the window and, leaving the curtains open, started to pace the room.

“You’re so lucky, you know, that you’re not in this industry.
You’re in, ah . . .” He looked at me confused, as if he didn’t know where he was for a moment. “In, ah . . .”

“Advertising. I work with Matthew.” Did I need to introduce myself? I looked at him with a frown.

“Matthew, yeah, yeah. Good guy, good guy. He can sing, too, you know. When we were at school, we were in a band together. But he just doesn’t have it. You know,
IT
.” He tightened his two fists.

“I didn’t know Matthew could sing.” I laughed, imagining my friend onstage. He’d probably be good, confident, but he was not a limelight guy.

“He didn’t have it.”

“Well, I don’t think he’d want to be a pop star.” I didn’t like Jim talking badly about Matthew. Matthew, who wouldn’t say a bad word about anyone.

“I’m not a pop star.” He glared at me. “It’s rock, baby, rock ’n’ roll.”

I felt so uncomfortable. No matter what I said, pop star, rock star, it was wrong. I was wrong.

There was silence again as he continued to pace the room. He fell back onto the couch and picked up the remote control. “Does this thing work?” He flicked on the telly and channel-hopped for about three minutes before settling on a Channel 4 countdown,
Top British Children’s Programs of All Times
. It was on number 58.

“I love this stuff. Yeah,” Jim said.

I wasn’t sure if that was a question, if I was being asked whether I wanted to watch the show, or if it was just agreed that this was what we’d be doing. I said nothing, just shoved a prawn cracker in my mouth, delighted that the awkward silence had now been filled by bubbly Blue Peter presenters.

Another two hours later, as it was approaching midnight and
the number 1 slot, Jim started to get fidgety. He kept looking over and back at me, as if he had a twitch in his neck. Flick, flick, flick. As the credits began to roll, he turned toward me and, deadpan, without raising an eyebrow or breaking a smile, he swung his flicking neck toward my bedroom door. “So, do you wanna . . . ?”

I didn’t need to take a moment to consult my inner fairy guide or to stop and listen to my instincts. I stood up and smoothed down my dress. “No. And I think maybe you should go, now,” I said calmly. “I’m tired and wouldn’t mind hitting the hay—alone.”

Jim bolted off the couch, looking slightly shocked at the rejection, possibly his first. “Right, right,” he said in a panicked voice. He quickly picked up his jacket and threw it over his shoulders. He leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek, but I dodged him.