1
FREYA
‘Go, Freya.’ Maud, my eighty-one-year-old neighbour, fist-bumps me. ‘You’re going to smash it.’ (She learns what she calls ‘young-person vocab’, and her supportive fist actions, from avid Netflix watching.) ‘I’ve already got the TV on waiting for your appearance. Don’t want to miss you.’
I smile at her. We both know thatWake Up Britaindoesn’t start for another hour, and my slot isn’t for another three hours.
It’s Valentine’s Day and I’ve been invited onto the nation’s most-watched daytime TV show to talk about love (I’m a romance novelist) together with a divorce lawyer (I’m guessing he’s there to provide a balance, talking about the opposite of love). I’ve been on TV a couple of times before, to talk about my books, but this is the first time it’s been such a high-profile slot (in Maud’s eyes, anyway; she’s ahugefan of the show).
‘Thank you.’ I hug her. ‘I’ll come straight round when I get home and fill you in on all the details.’
‘I can’t wait. Remember: try to get a look at Sonja’s label.’ Maud likes to know where celebs buy their clothes, to feed her online shopping habit. She orders alotof clothes, tries them on and does fashion parades for me, and then I return aboutninety-five per cent of them for her. Luckily, the post office is only just round the corner. Sonja, theWake Up Britainhost, famously espouses the ‘I am not about my clothes and I will therefore not tell the media where I bought them’ approach, while simultaneously wearing very statementy garments at all times, even when papped nipping to her local shop for a pint of milk.
‘On it,’ I say, as my phone pings to tell me that my Uber’s arrived.Wake Up Britainare very generous on taxis it seems.
‘Also, don’t forget my autograph,’ Maud calls after me.
‘On that too,’ I shout as I disappear out of her front door.
Two and three-quarter hours later, I’m at the studio in full make-up and a dress from the show’s wardrobe, ready to go. They’ve slapped on alotof make-up, but obviously they know best and, frankly, after getting up at the crack of dawn I can do with any help I can to look human; Ineverusually have to get up early – one of the perks of being a writer and setting my own schedule – and the bags under my eyes this morning werebig. The dress they’ve chosen for me is very cleavagy but again apparently they know best and that’s what will work for TV. (I’ve noted the label for Maud’s benefit. Apparently it’s a good one: aspirational but attainable.)
‘Time to come and meet Jake Stone,’ says Soraya, the very nice girl who brought me some super-strong coffee earlier when I was nodding off in the make-up chair. Jake is the divorce lawyer I’m being interviewed with.
‘Great, thank you.’ I practise one last warm smile in the mirror in front of me (I’m beginning to feel a little nervous now and I donotwant to freeze on live TV) before following herdown a corridor and into a room holding one other person, who I presume is the lawyer.
He has his back to me, and I can’t help noting that it’s a particularly fine back. In my defence, I dohaveto note these things. It’s literally part of my job. I need inspiration for my male protagonists. This man’s back is, well, yes, gorgeous. He’s tall (not a complete prerequisite for a romantic hero but definitely helpful) and broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, and as he turns to greet us I catch a glimpse through his smart navy jacket of muscle flexing (or rippling, one might say if writing romance).
As he faces me, I do my absolute best not to look as though I’m ogling him or reacting atallto the fact that from the front he’s just as good swoon-worthy-hero material as he is from the back. Your basic classically handsome, strong-jawed, tanned-skinned, brown-eyed, great-haired hero. (His hair is thick, slightly curly and dark brown.)
Mid-thirties, two or three years older than my thirty-three, I’d guess. A very good age for a romantic hero. (For my books, not for me: I do not do real-life romance.)
I like the way he has his hair slightly long but not too long, just curling over his collar, and how when he begins to speak his mouth quirks slightly irregularly. The tiny imperfection makes him even more gorgeous.
I am, I have to admit, ogling.
Until his perfect lips form into the hint of a sneer, and he says in an incredibly frosty tone, ‘Freya Cassidy, I presume?’
I don’t like his weirdly unpleasant manner, but I do note that his voice is ideal for a hero: deep but not uncomfortably so.
‘Yes.’ I smile politely, deciding to ignore his strange coldness. ‘Jake Stone?’
He nods, and then, after a slightly too-long pause, proffers his hand in pre-shaking position. The way he holds it does not look as though he’s going for a polite handshake, it looks asthough someone’s forcing him to receive something like a bag of very grim dog poo. I put my own hand into his anyway. Our shake lasts for approximately a quarter of a second before he releases my fingers. All I can think is that I’m glad that didn’t happen on national television. We’d both look like idiots.
I really cannot understand why he seems to dislike me on sight.
Ohhhh. Maybe he caught a glimpse of my ogling. Whoops. Well, whatever. It isn’t like Iknowhim. We just have to be pleasant to each other during our interview and then we’ll never see each other again. And with no further ogling evidence he’ll probably think that he was mistaken, and defrost towards me.
‘Great that you already know who you both are,’ says Soraya brightly. ‘I’ll leave you to get to know each other for a few minutes before I come and collect you to take you on set.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, equally brightly.
Jake smiles in very pleasant, hero-like fashion, at Soraya, before nodding totally unsmilingly in my direction and taking himself over to a sofa on the opposite side of the room and arranging himself on it in such a way that I couldn’t possibly share it with him without intruding very weirdly into his personal space.
So I sit on one of the two extremely uncomfortable upright chairs next to me.
The silence that spreads between us ispeculiar, so after a minute or two I say, ‘I understand that you’re a divorce lawyer.’
He raises one eyebrow, likehow dare you speak to me, and then says, ‘Correct.’
