Page 36 of Untether

We have this single window of opportunity to reframe our society’s attitude towards going after sexual gratification in a self-loving and self-indulgent manner. I absolutely will not have the backdrop for that search for pleasure painted as an underworld.

I’m not interested in shining a furtive flashlight on dark, seedy corners and darker, seedier secrets.

I’m throwing a switch and shining a fucking floodlight on the glorious, carnal circus that awaits people who are ready to grab their sexual birthright with both hands.

And this world that my floodlight will bathe in gorgeous, dazzling light? It’ll be as luxurious and fabulous and aspirational as a Gatsby party.

It’ll be unapologetic as fuck, because there’s nothing to apologise for here.

I feel like Hemingway would’ve approved of this sumptuous suite. It’s so divine, so opulent, that I find myself wishing I could stay here after the crew has packed up and spend a night here, alone with a good romance novel. There’s a marble tub in the bathroom that has my name written all over it. Though Cal has already suggested in a low, sexy voice that we should make use of this suite together when we’re further along in the process, which is also, you know, not a bad call.

I’ve directed myself so many times in the field that I’m wearing my director’s hat and my editor’s hat and my interviewer’s hat all piled on top of the only hat I’msupposedto be wearing right now—that of an interviewee.

When you’re put on a last-minute flight to DC or Eurostar to Paris to report on breaking news or a catastrophic bombing, you often end up doing everything. I can’t count the number of times it’s been me and a hastily-arranged camera operator from wherever the BBC could pull one.

Often, there is no producer. Even more often, there’s no time for editing, because if we’re not broadcasting live then we may only have an hour or two to get our footage to London in time for the news.

In these situations, I’m my own editor. Every line I spout, every question I ask, is with the hyper-focused goal of achieving our objective from this broadcast.

What is happening here, at its very essence?

What is the the most important message the public needs to hear?

And, if my broadcast involves an interviewee:What is the message I want to have this person say?

I’m editing as I speak. As I question. As I listen.Is this useful? Is this just filler? Have we gotten to the crux of the matter yet? Has this person said what I want them to say? Have they divulged anything new or interesting? Have they clarified their position? Given their agenda away? Have I been too tough on them? Tough enough? Have I been too conciliatory? Why aren’t they sweating as much as I am right now?

And always, always:Have I gotten the soundbite yet?

It sounds like that last question risks the temptation of encouraging salacious reporting. Oversimplifying staggeringly complex issues. But it’s less about finding a salacious headline and more about achieving clarity. About distilling an event to its essence.

I always know when I’ve gotten it. My body tells me. The goosebumps that race over my skin, under however many layers of clothes I’m wearing. The quickening of my heartbeat.

And I can never relax in a field broadcast until I know we’ve gotten that soundbite.

Today’s interview isn’t live, obviously. And yet, my editor’s brain is working. Whirring. It’s taking in every optic of every detail in a way that I hope will preempt how the viewers perceive us. It’s assessing this set. The proximity of my and Cal’s chairs to each other. Our body language. It’s doing all this when, really, it should just be focusing on answering the damn questions.

I’m glad we’re in chairs. A couch would have been awkward. Cal’s relaxed, back straight but legs at ease. I’m the one who hasto remind myself to chill the fuck out. I’m fresh out of hair and makeup, my shoulder-length bob immaculately curled under and my makeup perfect. To differentiate from Newsroom Aida, I’ve opted to go heavier, smokier, on the eyes. I’m in a red sheath dress that matches my lips and heels. It’s long enough to be classy, short enough to show off my legs in the chair.

‘So.’ Finished with her warmup, Simone turns to me. ‘Tomorrow is your first session with Callum, correct?’

She emphasisessessionslightly in a way that acknowledges what an inadequate word it is for what lies ahead.

I nod and make myself smile. ‘Yep.’

‘How are you feeling about it?’

‘Terrified.’ I bark out a laugh as I glance over at Callum. He’s grinning at me, and, God bless him, his smile is sexy and fond and perfect, and I mentally note that we should focus in on that smile in the edits.

He leans sideways on his chair and grabs my hand. ‘You’re allowed to be terrified. But I’ve got you.’

Even as I smile gratefully at him, I’m noting how our body contact in this moment will go over on camera. His touch is spontaneous. Warm, friendly, almost brotherly. Not flirtatious, even though he’s running his thumb over my knuckles.

‘You’re going to be great,’ he says. I lay our joined hands on my thigh. It’s part calculated move and part driven by the comfort I get from his touch. Obviously what the good folks watching at home won’t know is that we’ve already been intimate. He’s already made me come.

And while I don’t want to suggest to our viewers that our relationship is further along than it’s supposed to be, I do want to demonstrate a level of connection. Of chemistry, though it’s more than that. I want heat, yeah. I want tension.If I’m being honest, I want everyone urging us on to fuck right out of the gate.

But, more than that, I want to show a human connection. I want to show that this isn’t calculated or awkward or excruciating. It’s okay for me to show vulnerability. To show how nervous I am. More than okay—it’s crucial to the authenticity I’m trying to bring to this programme. But I don’t want anyone thinking that the idea of Cal and me fucking is weird or uncomfortable.

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