“You have?” He turns his head looking at me surprised.
“Of course I have,” I smile. “Music is my job.” His face falls and instantly I know I’ve done it again. “But that’s not the only reason,” I hastily add. “I wanted to see how you were doing. And you’ve just achieved so much. I was really proud watching you on TV and reading the articles about your music, and when you set up your own label – I was like, ‘Wow’ … and I’ve bought all your albums, of course. And they’re really brilliant.” I’m babbling. Someone stop me, please.
He’s staring at me again, but there’s something different in his eyes this time.
“Why didn’t you get in touch with me, Tru?”
His question throws me. I stare at him confused.
Why didn’t I get in touch with him? He was the one who stopped calling me. Stopped writing. Ignored my letters.
And I didn’t know where he was until he became famous, and then it’s not like I could get anywhere near him even if I’d wanted to.
I mean of course I wanted to but, I just couldn’t.
“Um…” My mouth’s gone dry. “You’re not exactly easy to get in touch with – Mr Famous Rock Star.” I try to come off as light-hearted, but even I can hear the edge to my voice.
“Yeah, that’s me. One of the most accessible, inaccessible people on the planet.” His stare is hard on me.
Have I pissed him off or something?
And now I just feel totally uncomfortable, because if anyone should be pissed off it’s me. He stopped contact with me.
I feel a sudden rush of unexplained anger toward him and have the urge to yell at him. I want to ask why he never got in touch with me. He could have found me so easily.
He was the one that stopped the contact, not me, so he should have been the one to get in touch.
I want to know why he just disappeared off the face of the planet, and didn’t rock back up until he was sitting in my TV.
But I don’t ask any of those things. Fear is keeping my mouth shut. I have half-an-hour max with him and the last thing I want to do is waste it arguing about things that happened twelve years ago, or fuck this interview up – it’s way too important to Vicky, and the magazine as a whole.
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jean pocket and gets one out. He puts it between his lips, holding a lighter up, he pauses.
“Do you smoke?” he asks, cigarette still perched between his lips.
“No.”
“Good,” he replies.
Hypocrite, I think.
“You mind if I do?”
“No.”
He lights his cigarette, dropping the pack and lighter onto the table and takes a long drag.
I watch the smoke trickle out of his mouth and billow up into the air.
He really does have nice lips.
My phone starts to sing a text in my bag. Shit, I forgot to turn it off. It’s unprofessional of me to have it on in an interview.
Jake’s eyes follow mine down to my bag.
“Sorry,” I mumble. I get my phone, silencing it. “It might be my boss.”
It’s not. It’s Will asking how my day is going and that he misses me, and is looking forward to seeing me tonight. He really is sweet.
“Adele?” Jake grins, inferring to the tune just playing on my phone.
“I like her,” I respond defensively.
“Oh, me too.” He nods. “She’s a nice girl. I just figured from what I remember of you, I’d have been hearing the Stones playing on your phone.”
“Yeah, well I’ve changed a lot since you knew me.” That actually came out a lot sharper than I meant.
Avoiding his eyes, I turn my phone off, drop it in my bag and, pull out my notebook and pen, ready to get this interview started.
I have got my Dictaphone with me. But right now, I need something to concentrate on, something to do with my hands and writing seems like as good as anything, and my questions are all in here anyway.
When I look up, Jake’s eyes are on my notepad. They lift to meet with mine. For a moment, I think I see disappointment there.
“So, I should get started with the interview – I’m sure you’re really busy and I don’t want to keep you for longer than necessary.”
“You’re not keeping me.” His tone is dry. He takes a long, drag of his cigarette. “And I’m not busy today. My schedule is clear.”
“Oh. You haven’t got any other interviews after mine?”
A smile flickers over his face. “Well I did have … consider them cancelled.”
“No! Don’t do that on my account.” My voice shoots out.
I know how hard it must have been for those journalists to get this interview with him. It seems to have cost Vicky dearly from the reaction I got yesterday when I probed her about it. But I do like the fact he would do that for me.
I like it a lot.
His face darkens, prompting me to add, “I don’t mean I’m not happy to see you, of course I am, and would love to talk old times with you, but I don’t want others to miss out on a great opportunity because of me.”
“A great opportunity?” he smirks.
I shrug. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
“Look Tru.” He turns his body toward me. “I haven’t seen you for twelve years. The last thing I want to do right now is talk business with you, or anyone else for that matter. I want to know all about you – what you’ve been doing since I last saw you.” He looks at me curiously. His blue eyes piercing intrusively into mine.
A shiver runs through me.
“Not much,” I shrug, looking down.
“I’m sure you’ve done a lot more than ‘not much’.” His tone is surprisingly firm.
He seems so much more forceful than he used to be. But then of course, he was teenager back then. He’s a man now.
A very rich and very famous man.
And I instantly feel intimidated in a whole other way.
“What did I do after you left Manchester?” I shrug, looking up at him. “I lived my life, I finished school.” My voice suddenly sounds a little bitter, it surprises even me.
“How was it?” His face stays impassive, eyes trained on me.
“School? It was school. A little lonely after you left, but I got through it.”
That was a dig meant to hurt him. But if it does, then it doesn’t show on his face.
His just continues to stare impassively at me, and I’m starting to squirm under his heavy gaze.
“You still see anyone from school?”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “No, I’m friends with a couple of people on Facebook but that’s about it. What about you?” I ask.
I’ve always wondered if he kept in touch with anyone else; not that he had many other friends aside from me, after he binned me off that was.
He laughs. “No. Then what did you do after school?”
“Moved here to go to uni. I got my degree in journalism. Then I landed a job at Etiquette, the magazine I work for, and I’ve worked there ever since.”
“Cool.” Another drag of his cigarette. “You’re not married.” His words come out with the smoke, and I see his eyes flicker to my left hand.
“No.”
“Boyfriend?” He takes another drag, then leans over and stubs his cigarette out in the waiting ashtray.
My heart halts. I don’t know why but I have the sudden urge to not want to tell him about Will.
“Yes,” I say slowly.
“Live together?”
“No.” This seems a little personal and a lot grilling. Why is he so interested? “I live with my flat mate Simone in Camden.”
His face stays impassive. “How long have you been with the boyfriend?”
“His name is Will, and we’ve been together for two years.”
“And what does Will do for a living?”
Why is he suddenly so interested in Will?
“He’s an investment banker.”
“Smart guy.” I can’t actually tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.
“He is.” I nod. “He’s very smart – top of his class at uni and he’s climbing the ladder at work very quickly.”
I don’t know why but I suddenly feel the urge to needle him with Will and how great he is.
Seeing as though Jake is a rich mega star, I don’t want to seem so left behind I guess, even though all I can sell myself with, is Will.
Jake gets another cigarette out of his pack and lights it up.
Wow, he smokes a lot.
I curl my fingers around the edge of my notebook.
The atmosphere has shifted, and I’m not entirely sure where to. And I suddenly just want to get out of here. I want to get this interview done, so I can leave.
He’s not the Jake I remember. Or the Jake from the papers. I‘m not actually sure who this Jake is that’s sitting before me.
I unclip my pen from my notebook, and open it up to the page where my prepared questions are.
“It’s been really nice catching up with you, Jake, but I really should get to the interview - especially if I want to keep my job.” I try to keep my tone professional and add a smile for good measure.
Not that Vicky would ever fire me, well I hope she wouldn’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“You won’t get fired.”
“You sound pretty confident of that.” I force a little laugh out.
“I am.”
He takes another long drag of his cigarette, eyes fixed on mine.
Looking away, I shift nervously in my seat.
“You okay?” he asks. “You seem a little uncomfortable.”
Still as direct as ever. That obviously hasn’t changed obviously.
“Of course I’m not uncomfortable.”
Yes, I am. I’m a little intimidated by you and confused by your questions, and flustered and ready to leave to be honest.
“I just need to–”
“Do your job.” He finishes for me. “Okay, go ahead, ask me anything. I’m all yours Tru, for the next thirty minutes.” He glances at his expensive watch, then leans back against the sofa, putting one arm to rest on the back and smiles at me. It’s a smile with something behind it. A cheeky kind of smile.
And it doesn’t relax me at all. Not one single bit. If anything it makes me even more nervous.
Putting the end of my pen in my mouth, I glance down at my first question, but now it just seems so lame and I feel embarrassed. I’ve done so many interviews in my time, but I can honestly say this is my hardest to date. Maybe it’s because I know … knew him so well.
I know his eyes are still on me, I can feel them, and a heat is fast rising up my neck.
I get my water from the table, have a drink of it, put it down and without looking at him, say, “It’s been said in the past that you’re a perfectionist when it comes to your work – your music, and because of that you can be … at times, difficult to work with. Do you agree with that? Do you consider yourself a perfectionist?”
The question was actually fourth on my list, but I decide to go straight in with the question that may possibly piss him off first. I’m just in that kind of mood now.