Page 18 of You Can't Hurt Me

Those two motorbike helmets. Who did the other one belong to, if not Nate? A friend’s? I file that question away for another day. Retrieving my recorder, I hold it to my ear and press Play to make sure all our conversations are there. Inevitably, the interview will be toe-curling to listen to, it always is. Embarrassing interjections from me, superficial reflections. No interaction is ever quite how I remembered it. What I do know for certain is that you can never predict the dynamic of two people in a room.

Hearing the remnants of our conversation makes me feel queasy. Why didn’t I see what he was doing, the way he dodged me, channeled the subject away from him like water? Did he always have the upper hand all along?

But I know that’s not the root of my revulsion. That came earlier when he lost his temper, the crack of the chair legs on the slate tiles.

I text Amira that I’m on my way in. I promised her I’d come into the office to write up my piece so we can edit together and the subs can start working on it more quickly.

The carriage is empty. Fixing my eyes on the Underground map above the doors, I look at the Central Line, bleeding its trail east, ending in that loop. The names are still oddly memorable, like anagrams: Theydon Bois, Hainault, Fairlop, Roding Valley. In my head I am sixteen again, counting each stop along the Central Line that took me away from home and deeper into London. The farther west and beyond that I traveled, the closer freedom seemed, meters and meters away from where Tony and I both grew up. We never return to that place. Back then, I was the baby of the family and after our mother died, Tony and I looked out for one another. When my dad—his stepfather—died a few years later, he was there for me all over again. We were alone, our family unit shrunk to two.

Whenever I try to recall that time with any clarity, memories fragment and dissolve. Not for the first time I wish I could replay the past like one of my interviews in all its digital verity. Everyone has their own illusive version of the truth. A recording is more objective. Until it’s written up, transcribed and morphed with my own subjective observations. A memory is no different, nothing more than a palimpsest, layer upon layer altered and modified by yourself and the perspectives of those around you. After my father died, the narrative of that night, the responsibility and panic it placed on my shoulders, still weighs me down. This is what happens when you’re forced to depend on someone else as much as I did.

I shut my eyes, trying to stem the feelings that threaten to resurface. Deadlines, interviews, writing, this is what occupies me, distracting me from who I used to be. Most of the time it works well enough. I put on my headphones again. Here is Nate’s voice, telling me about his research, the developing brain of a newborn, how the tiny intricate branches and cells grow into a rich, interconnected tangle of connections. Leaning back in my seat, I let his voice wash over me. The carriage seats around me fill as we reach Marble Arch. I skip to the part where I leave Nate’s study, recorder still on, to visit the washroom.

Silence. Then, footsteps approaching the table. A muffled, rustling sound as he picks up the recorder. He clears his voice.

“You’re doing well, Anna, I’m not used to being the one under scrutiny, although I may get my own back yet. By the way, I really hope you’re not rummaging through my cabinets.” I rewind and play it again to catch his tone, dryly amused. “Please try not to jump to any wild conclusions.”

Was that a guess? A shiver of unease runs through me, how mercurial his moods can be. Furious and lashing out one minute, cool and calculated the next. When is he truly himself?

My magazine company occupies an office block in Portland Place. In the foyer, the walls are marbled and windows stretch from floor to ceiling. There are mirrored lifts and a statue of the newspaper tycoon who founded the company back in the ’30s; his imperious gaze tracks me as I take the escalator to the second floor. All that hubris, along with newspaper sales and profits, vanished decades ago. Last year the title was bought out by a billionaire property tycoon who promptly sacked half the staff, slashed editorial budgets and down-paged the magazine. We all know it will close when the new owner decides to “de-invest.”

Until then, it is death by a thousand cuts. The remaining few of us hang on by our teeth, working in a warren of stuffy windowless spaces with soulless strip lighting and coffee-stained carpet tiles that curl at the edges.

“Ah, Anna, how did it go?” says Jess as I follow her into a cramped corner office.

I give her all the right affirmations, tell her that he was hard work but I was able to charm him, eventually, and he opened up. She nods, her thin red lips part into the briefest of smiles. Jess doesn’t do nuance. She’s either nice or nasty, and I prefer nasty. At least it’s more authentic. Jess moved over fromVoguea few years ago, bringing with her a pitiless brand of perfectionism. “I don’t think that would pass the smile test,” is Amira’s wry response to most of my pitches.

Editorial assistants weep mutely in the washrooms, meetings are torturous and cover stories routinely spiked at the last minute. There is no gossip or banter, only the silence of people dying inside. It’s really more morgue than magazine. I cling to my outsider status as a defense against the misery around me, but I’m not sure how much longer I can last here.

While Jess usually only opts for cover interviews with young actors from a London family dynasty, or salacious exposés of wealthy scions, Dr. Reid was an exception. We carry on talking about the interview and how much content I can work into the spread, when our art director walks in.

“How are the Dr. Reid photos looking, Elaine?” snaps Jess. Elaine wears a Ramones T-shirt and ripped jeans. The warm honey highlights in her curly shoulder-length hair conceal the inevitable tide of gray. As with most women’s magazines, aging is celebrated in its editorial but studiously avoided in reality.

“We’ve got enough here to hold two spreads and a cover,” says Elaine, fanning out the pictures of Nate across Jess’s desk. There are several shots of him in close-up, standing in the courtyard of Algos House, his patrician features framed by the branches of a cherry tree. He faces the camera, his eyes staring off, suitably reflective and melancholic. They’ve gone full-scale wistful widower. Inwardly I cringe. The dark snark has been erased, along with that questioning glint in his eye that gives him edge. There’s something so posed, so wooden about his expression. It doesn’t look like him at all.

“This would be strong for the cover,” says Jess, pointing to one of the images. “He looks defiant.”

“He looks hot,” Elaine corrects her with a smirk, and the chrome bangles on her wrists rattle as she points to one. “How old did you say he was?”

“Forty, and too young for you.” Jess’s tone is caustic. “This will need to be two thousand words. We’ll do it over three pages and make the pictures smaller if need be. He’s not that good-looking.”

“I’ll file first thing tomorrow morning,” I say, walking out of her office to my desk as my phone vibrates.

Forgot to ask, can I please see the final edit before it goes to print? Just want to check for any inaccuracies or misquotes. I’m away after tomorrow, any chance you can send it through later this evening? Hope the thumb’s bearing up okay. N

The phone pings again.

Still up for tonight Meet you there? Tony x

My heart lurches. I was supposed to go to a gig tonight in a small club in Camden with him. He’s always trying to interest me in obscure indie bands and it’s become something of a shared joke between us, how terminally uncool I am when it comes to live music.

I’m so sorry. Complete nightmare at work, can’t speak right now. You’ll have to go without me. Will call later to explain. A xx

I return to Nate’s message. Every journalist knows the cardinal rule is never to show your copy to your interviewee, no editor allows it. If I did and Amira or Jess found out, I’d lose any future work. I reply cautiously.

Thumb’s just about bearing up, thanks. Re. copy, you can only query errors, none of my reflections or descriptions or quotes, unless what you say is factually incorrect.

“Sooo?” Amira appears behind me, in search of an entertaining debrief. I turn my mobile over so she can’t see my screen and repeat, briefly, what I told Jess about the interview, but of course that isn’t enough to satisfy her. “Check out the pictures,” I say, throwing her a bone. “Elaine fancies him.”

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