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Later on, I get ready for my lunch with Robert. I’m all too curious to see what Alan’s offices are like. I wonder if there’ll be any celebrity clients hanging around.
On the Tube to Knightsbridge, I see that somebody left their copy of The Daily Mail on an empty seat. Having forgotten to bring my iPod with me, I pick it up and flick through the pages. I search for the showbiz section to see if there’s anything in here that Sasha wrote. Her stories are mostly only published on the website, but every so often one of her articles will find its way inside the actual paper. Unexpectedly, I open a new page to see a fairly long article credited to Sasha Phillips. The caption reads: Pop Star Molly Willis Admits to Miscarriage.
Jesus, Sash, give us the hard-hitting headlines, why don’t you?
The article details how Molly actually was pregnant several weeks ago as rumoured, but that when she miscarried she covered it up by claiming she hadn’t been pregnant at all and that someone had fabricated the entire thing. Yesterday afternoon, a source close to the pop star revealed what had really happened.
I feel slightly sick as I read about how several well-known commentators have been hitting out hard at Molly, calling her a careless monster and saying she miscarried because of all the hard drinking and partying she’d been doing in the early stages of her pregnancy.
I’m glad that Sasha only states the facts, not expressing any of her own opinions on the matter. It’s actually surprising, considering her bosses tend to encourage her to express such opinions. They like a bit of controversy, do The Mail. She must have stuck to her guns on that one. And then, all I can think is, poor Molly.
I remember back to when I’d seen her on television that time, and there had been something sad in the set of her mouth. Right at that moment she’d probably been mourning her lost child but had to put on a brave face for the public.
It’s a bizarre world where one day you’re being proclaimed as the most beautiful woman in Britain, and the next you’re labelled a monster for being so unfortunate as to have miscarried a child.
These days the media interacts in brutal ways, with the thin façade of moral outrage, when really it’s all schadenfreude, taking pleasure in seeing another person suffer. In this information age, swords and knives are no longer the weapon of choice – words are.
Somehow the swords and knives seem more straightforward, less insidious. No one’s pretending to be a good person when they’re stabbing you in the gut.
Pulling out my phone, I send Sasha a quick text: Saw your article in today’s paper. Wish you didn’t have to write stuff like that. The poor girl.
As I exit the Tube station, I get a long text back from her: If you knew what other journalists are writing about her, you wouldn’t be saying that. My article was veritably cheerful by comparison. My editor wanted me to change a few things, make it more sensational. I told him no. I’m about two protests away from getting the sack at this point. But yeah, I know. It’s all find-hype-destroy these days. Molly was found, she was hyped, and now she’s being destroyed. How depressing.
A minute later she sends another message: Thinking of becoming a greeting card writer. That way the worst thing I’ll ever have to compose is sympathy and condolence messages.
Find-hype-destroy. I never thought of it that way before, but it describes recent pop culture perfectly. Sasha is so clever. You’re an artist, you rise out of obscurity to fame, fortune, and endless admiration, but then one day somebody decides you’ve gotten too big for your boots, or they’re jealous of your success, and they decide they’re going to cut you down a peg or two.
When you think about these kinds of consequences, it really doesn’t seem worth trying to become famous in the first place.
With these dark thoughts in my head, I make my way towards the offices of Phillips PR.
Sixteen
Just before I get to Robert’s work, I send Sasha a quick message back: That would be a fun job. Let’s have dinner at the house tonight and hang out. Sounds like you’ve had a rough day.
She replies: The roughest. It’s a date.
A dark-haired receptionist smiles at me as I enter through the large glass and steel door. I’m wearing a loose open cardigan over my dress, and the sleeve gets stuck slightly on the handle. There are workers coming and going, and I’m awkwardly getting in their way. Grimacing sheepishly, I tug it free and continue to the reception desk. A tall security guard standing to the side of the lobby tightens his lips to keep from laughing at me.
“Hi, I’m here to see Robert,” I say, glancing around uncertainly. I stick out like a sore thumb in this place.
The receptionist arches her brow in amusement. “It’s a big building with several different companies. You’ll have to be a little more specific, love.”
“Um, Robert Phillips, from Phillips PR?”
Her eyes immediately light up in a dreamy way. Yeah, she knows exactly who I’m talking about now. Who wouldn’t notice the work of art that is my brand-new boyfriend, however messed up he might be on the inside?
“Oh, Robert,” she says, and I don’t know how to interpret her tone. “He did mention someone would be coming to see him for lunch. Take the elevator up to the sixth floor, and I’ll buzz him to let him know you’re on your way.”
Giving her a tight smile, I thank her and step inside the elevator with several other people. By the time I reach the sixth floor, it’s emptied out, and I’m the only one left in the carriage. The door pings open, and I step into a corridor with grey walls and coffee-coloured carpet. Robert is nowhere in sight, so I walk along, reading the names on the office doors to see if I can find him on my own. I laugh when I finally reach Robert’s office and see that Jimmy’s is right next to his. I wonder if the guy is still pestering Sasha for that date.
