To: Carling, Natasha
Subject: Glasgow Girl
Dear Natasha,
Would it be possible for you to give me a call regarding Glasgow Girl’s current columns involving my book? I feel there are matters we need to discuss.
I look forward to speaking with you at your earliest convenience.
Guy Wright
I hand her back the email. ‘Well, when you speak to him, just tell him that—’
‘We’ve already spoken. He’s quite charming. And keep the email, you might need his number – you’re meeting him for lunch today.’
My stomach flips. ‘Seriously? WHY?’
‘Because even though I offered to meet with him, he was insistent on meeting you personally. Be good for the newspaper – he very rarely speaks to the press apparently, despite all the hype.’
I think back to all the ridiculous hoops I’ve had to jump through lately and cannot believe I have to have lunch with that horse’s ass. ‘But, Natasha, he can’t meet me . . . I’m anonymous!’
‘So is he. Table is booked for twelve thirty at Yen. We’re paying. Go and see what he wants. Push for an interview.’
I stand up, email in hand, feeling confused but intrigued. I’ve done so many interviews, but never one where I’ve been on the receiving end of the heat.
‘And Cat? Be nice, please.’
I nod and shuffle out of her office. Why does he want to see me? Is he going to bribe me to be nicer about him? Is he going to sue me? Shit, maybe he’s going to punch me in the face over crispy beef and noodles. Still, at least I’ll get to tell him what I think of his book – not that he doesn’t know already.
I give Kerry a call at her office, hoping she’ll be able to calm me down.
‘Listen, you know that dating book I’m doing?’ I say, lowering my voice so Patrick doesn’t hear me. ‘The author has summoned me to lunch. Stop laughing!’
‘I’m sorry, but why the hell did you say yes? You’ve been a complete bitch about his book!’
‘I don’t have a choice. He arranged it with Natasha and she’s making me. I’m dreading it, to be honest. I bet he’s some middle-aged man with a spray tan and hair plugs who thinks he’s God’s gift.’
‘Probably. Just keep your cool. Don’t yell at him.’
‘Of course not. Anyway, I need to shoot off. Will let you know how I get on.’
As lunchtime draws near, I slip into the ladies’ room to freshen up my make-up. I don’t want to look like I’ve made an effort for him, but I don’t want him to be staring at the spot on my chin or my shiny forehead all through lunch. I apply some concealer, freshen up my blusher and run a brush through my hair, annoyed with myself for giving a shit about what he might think of me. One final look in the mirror and I’m ready to meet Guy fucking Wright. I hope he’s ready to meet me.
*
‘Table for one?’
Dining alone, madam? Would you like to see our single-as-fuck specials menu?
I glance around the brightly lit, half-empty restaurant, searching for a man sitting alone with an ego the size of Australia for company.
‘No, I’m meeting someone. Table is booked under “Wright”.’ I feel a little nervous and wipe my clammy hands on my grey suit. Thank God I wore it today. I love this suit. It makes me feel like I’m in charge. I feel like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl.
‘Ah yes, follow me.’ The young waitress leads me to a table at the back of the room. I spy a table of three women and a couple sharing dumplings in a booth, but no sign of a dating Nazi. I breathe a small sigh of relief and order a glass of wine. I don’t care if it’s lunchtime; if I’m going to be forced to endure this slimy idiot for the next hour, I’ll need a drink.
I take out my notepad and phone and hunt around in my bag for a pen, instead finding three lipsticks I’d forgotten about and a tiny Moshi Monsters figure that looks like a pirate. I start to panic and dig deeper. There must be a bloody pen in here. What kind of fucking journo goes to a meeting without a pen?
‘Hello, Cat.’
