Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [28]
“Look, don’t worry so much about your article,” Kane says reassuringly. “We’ll make it great.”
“We haven’t even talked about your first album yet,” I protest.
“Look, I have an idea,” Kane suddenly says, rather abruptly. “Why don’t we finish this interview at my house?”
“Really?” Brian had told me that Kane didn’t allow reporters there.
Kane glances at the door and then back at me. “I just didn’t want a whole slew of photographers traipsing through, but you could come,” he says. “I think it would make your story a lot better.”
Glancing at him, lying on his back with his heel crossed over his knee and looking quite pleased with himself, I quickly weigh the pros and cons. Pro: I could do a kick-ass story, wowing Brian and everyone else that I was able to talk a source into an at-home interview. Con: He could be a date rapist. But this is unlikely. Additional con: It’s definitely possibly unprofessional. I think of Cynthia Jordan, an Absolutely Fabulous coworker who’s so serious and by the book that she probably would have marched right out the hotel door and over to a sexual harassment complaint center if Kane had suggested to her that she interview him while lying next to him in bed. And then I think about how much I dislike Cynthia, and how dull her life seems.
“What time tomorrow?” I ask.
“Seven P.M.,” he answers quickly. And then, after glancing in the direction of the sitting room, he says, “Love, don’t mention this to Janet. Why don’t I just give you my address and we’ll plan to see each other tomorrow?”
After I say good-bye to Kane—a kiss on each cheek, in front of a scowling Janet—and start to make my way through the lobby, it occurs to me that a screwdriver would taste good. I don’t have to be back at work for the rest of the day—Brian had suggested I go home after the interview and just start transcribing—and the truth is, I feel a bit self-satisfied after scoring the follow-up at-home interview with Kane for tomorrow. I briefly wonder if Kane and I are going to fall in love and entertain other couples at dinner parties at our English countryside estate (or the house in Spain that he mentioned repeatedly during the interview) and laugh about how we met back when I was a reporter for Absolutely Fabulous and I interviewed him.
As I walk up to the bar, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Well, if it isn’t Amelia Stone,” says the perfectly accented British voice belonging to Tim Bromley. He grabs my hand—yes, grabs my hand—and gives me a kiss on each cheek. I am doing damn well with the Brits today.
“Amelia, this is John Davis,” Tim says, motioning to a not-at-all-cute grayish guy with a paunch. I shake John’s hand as Tim gestures for me to join them at the bar.
Tim orders a screwdriver for me from the waitress, but before I can tell him that this is exactly what I was going to order, he says, in that delightful British sardonic tone of his, “John may not look impressive, but he is.”
John smiles at Tim good-naturedly. “Gee, thanks, Tim.” He’s just way too American and not cute and a bit old for me to care about anything he has to say, until he then remarks, “You should hear how Tim talks about people who don’t sign his paychecks.” I give John my friendliest smile.
“It’s true,” Tim shrugs, and then winks at me. When a cheesy guy winks, it’s cheesy. When a charming British guy winks, it’s heart-meltingly adorable. “John may seem down-to-earth—he is, after all, sitting here getting quite blotto with me—but don’t be fooled. He’s Chat’s publisher.”
Publishers are never terribly interesting—I’d honestly rather lick paint than be invited to lunch with the Absolutely Fabulous publisher when he’s in from New York—but they are The Bank. “Are you in from New York, John?” I ask. Playfully, I add, “Or should I call you Mr. Davis?”
John smiles and insists that I only