Hello people!
Thank you for joining me on this new journey, and thank you for all the alerts and reviews! I treasure each and every one of them.
A couple of housekeeping items:
1. My other stories Correct the Narrative and Business Class Girl are nominated in Twifanfictionrecs' Poll for the Top 10 Completed Fics in 2021. Voting is open daily until Feb 25. If you loved the stories, please vote! I won't post the link because ffnet eats them up, but if you Google "Twifanfictionrecs", it's the first result that comes up.
2. Big thanks to Team Momo who work tirelessly to help me make this readable.
Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.
3. I continue to own nothing of this, it's all SM's sandbox and I just like to play in it - with EditorWard.
4. A small clarification, because I got a lot of comments on this in reviews. No, Alice does NOT know Bella in real life. That's not what Alice says at the staff meeting. What she DOES say is that she's a fervent fan of her music, and as a fan she knows a LOT about her favorite musician. Like a lot of us Twipeople know a LOT about certain other people. But alas, we don't KNOW them in real life. We know ABOUT them. After all, if Alice knew Bella in real life, a) Jasper would have had another "hook" to get an interview from her, instead of resorting to sweet-talking Jacob Black's people and b) Edward and Jasper and the rest of the newsroom would have commented on that friendship at the staff meeting, but they did not.
On with the show ;-)
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 5
The rest of November trudges on without too many bumps. At times, it's sluggish like the fog that cloaks the bay in a slow motion of days repeating in a loop; at others, hurtling down the hill, careening into Thanksgiving in a mad dash for a forgotten can of cranberry jelly.
Senator Caulfield announced his re-election bid last week, to no one's astonishment. In a perfectly polished photo op, he welcomed his glamazon of a daughter on the dais because, "My Katherine has her own announcement today." At that, glamazon number two, Lauren Mallory—a perfectly coiffed, manicured, and clad replica of Kate, only platinum blonde—appeared beside her, and they regaled the cohort of press with their whirlwind romance and prospective happy ever after. The entire spectacle was staged at a pre-Thanksgiving campaign stop out in the glitzy country club neighborhood where the Caulfields live. On a Sunday. After church.
Since I actually gave in to my mother's entreaties to join her and Dad for Sunday brunch, the three of us witnessed the grand event on live television because my mother cannot handle pulling the plug from CNN even on the weekends. Her reaction, though predictable, still gave me a wry chuckle, considering.
"I hope his campaign manager gets compensated accordingly for putting up a comedy of manners like that. Lying, conniving bunch. The lot of them. I damn well hope he loses."
"Come now, Es, what happened to fair and balanced?" my father asked as he replenished our drinks.
"It's a crock of shit and you know it, Carl. That girl is as much of a lying, conniving bitch as her father. Climbers, the lot of them."
When Esme Platt-Cullen's vocabulary devolves into curse words, and synonyms are thin on the ground, you can tell she's incensed. She regains her objectivity and linguistic variety once she cools off. Based on the op-ed she published this morning in The Globe, she has a way to go before that. It stands to reason that the doyenne of Boston political reporters—Our Lady of The Globe, as Dad often calls her with the cheeky, uneven smile I inherited—would be tasked with commenting on the senator's re-election bid after the announcement. It fits the mold of an op-ed on the editorial page that she'd intersperse her article with some prickly barbs at the senator's expense when it comes to "flip-flopping on core beliefs" and "exploiting the personal for the sake of the political." She isn't known for tiptoeing around issues; it's not how she's made her name. But some of those barbs reek of animosity; if anyone cared to dig a little deeper, it wouldn't take them long to connect the dots and resurface old reports about Katherine's meteoric rise to fame and how it came about, and most of all, at the expense of whom.
I could give Mom a call and chide her a tad for it, which is probably what she wants me to do. But I won't. She'd use it as an excuse to ferret out how I feel about it, and almost three weeks to the day, I first heard about Kate's latest stunt, I still have no handle on any of it.
As I finish re-reading Mom's article, I shake my head at some of her turns of phrase. All signature Esme Cullen descriptors. I can almost picture her stabbing her keyboard as she wrote the piece. I don't envy her editor in chief. Oh wait, the woman is actually her own boss—almost—since she edits the editorial page. I guess The Globe's editor in chief is the only one who could potentially chew her out—if he dared. I still don't envy the guy.
In between sips of coffee, I leaf through a pile of mail that accumulated on the kitchen island for the last week. Nothing of note. A whole lot of paper for the recycle bin, though.
With a sidelong glance at the clock, which tells me I still have time for a less than hurried shower before running to the office, I gulp down the last of my coffee and walk toward the bathroom when my phone starts ringing, interrupting my, so far, quiet morning routine.
Now, where the hell did I throw the bloody thing last night? Ah, yes. Coffee table. The charging station. If there's one thing news people are religious about, it's their tech—always juiced up and ready to go. You never know when you might get "the" call.
"Cullen," I answer mechanically, scratching at my beard with absent, still-groggy movements.
"Ah, good. You're awake," Jasper groans through the line.
"You sound like you got beat up in a pub brawl, man. What's up?"
"Well, that's actually pretty close. No, Mary Alice, I don't need another chamomile tea," he hisses into the phone. Jasper never hisses. And he only calls the wife "Mary Alice" when she's well and trodden on his nerves. "Ed, you already at the office?" He tacks on with belabored breaths.
"Matter of fact, no. Why? Aren't you supposed to be interviewing the piano player extraordinaire this morning?"
Isabella Swan's and Jacob Black's interviews have been the talk of the newsroom for the last three weeks. Mac got the go-ahead from Black to stage the photoshoot at the yet-under-construction club. Like a good CFO, Alice panicked about liability and waivers, but apparently, Mac sweet-talked Black and his people into covering all that since Black liked the idea of showing how radical of a transformation the new club would go through before its grand opening. I heard Mac talk enthusiastically to Alice about giant music notes and symbols carved out of Styrofoam, then spray-painted and glittered. Alice's colorful little heart melted in contentment at the thought. At the time, I just shook my head, wondering where Mac got those ideas in the first place.
Other than my occasional eavesdropping, I've remained hands-off. Once I gave my approval to bump Jess's article to February to make space for the Sharps & Flats piece in the January issue and doled out my guidelines to Mac and Jazz on how to handle the entire thing, my work as editor in chief was done. That is until I need to sign off on the final draft of the two interviews, on Jasper's piece on the club, and on the cover shot. Mac likes to talk it out with me, and we normally bring in Ben—he's the graphics guy, besides being the digital editor. The Tatler is a small operation, and we all end up being jacks-of-all-trades at times. One of the tiny million things we need to do to make sure we stay afloat.
He coughs into the phone. "About that. I'm not going to be able to make it."
I plop down on the couch, cursing the fact I don't have more coffee with me, because I have a bad feeling about this conversation all of a sudden. Coffee. I walk over to the kitchen, thankful I haven't turned off the percolator yet, and pour myself another mug. "How so, J? What happened?"
"I threw my back out. Fuck, that hurts. Mary Alice, for pity's sake, leave me alone. I need to talk to Ed now," he hisses into the phone again.
"How in the ever-loving fuck did that happen?" I ask again, returning to my seat on the couch. Most of all, it suddenly occurs to me—who's going to interview the piano player? Maybe they can Skype it?
"Yeah, well. I had to move some things around the house. Alice's orders."
Alice and Jasper live in a renovated Victorian in Beacon Hill. They got it for a song through the good offices of Brandon Senior and his real estate deals, and got away with renovating the interiors into a palace of minimalist wonders because it was a dump through and through when they bought it. One of Alice's side passions is decorating, and she normally enlists Jasper as her gofer. The man is powerless in the face of her persuasion, which she unleashes on him without any qualms.
"And you can't get out of bed? Can't walk? How serious is this?"
"I'd go to the ER for a morphine drip if I could psyche myself into getting off the couch and into the car. I can't do that interview, Ed."
"Reschedule it. They'll understand since you're basically at death's door."
"Not feasible. This was the only day that worked in Isabella Swan's calendar."
Talk about working on an overflowing agenda. Who is this girl? The Speaker of the House? The Queen? Lady Gaga?
"Can't you talk them into it? It's an emergency after all. Sort of," I add with a chuckle.
"No. They were adamant about scheduling. She's leaving tomorrow on a two-month tour of Europe, and she won't be back in Boston until early February. It's now or never, Ed."
"You can't even try to move this to Skype? Phone interview?" I'm trying to be sympathetic to his plight, and I'm wondering at the same time why I'm being involved. Worst-case scenario—we bump the feature to a later issue.
"No, it wouldn't work. This isn't a routine thing with someone who's used to the press and dials in, recites a soundbite, and then logs off. It's a sit-down for a profile that's going to run into five-six thousand words. I hope longer. And it's the first interview she's giving anyone in years. Come on, Ed. You have to see my side of things."
I consider all of it for a moment. He has a point. You don't want your interview subject to feel like they're not being prioritized. Relegating a major interview like this to a Skype session would be disrespectful. "Okay, you're right. No Skype. Who can we send in your place?"
"I was hoping you'd do this, Ed."
Dead silence. I don't do interviews. At least, I haven't done one in six years. Those days for me are over. "No, Jasper. Forget it. Anyone else?"
"I can't foist this on someone else in the newsroom. Mac is doing the photoshoot. Cheney is a geek who knows zilch about music. Alice is not an interviewer, and you ordered her to stay away from Bella Swan. Jessica is a society columnist, and if I handed this off to her, Bella Swan would refuse to sit for the interview. It's the gossip press that put her through the wringer four years ago. I can't do that to her."
And he's pretty much run the gamut of the entire newsroom, short of asking Tanya to interview the piano player herself. Come to think of it, it might not be a totally outlandish idea …
"No. Don't say Tanya. She also knows zilch about music, other than to pin down your moods based on what Pearl Jam song you're blasting in the office. Come on, Ed. Be serious."
My turn to groan into the phone. "Why, Jasper? Why?"
"Because other than me, you're the only one in the newsroom with the chops to do this. I'm going to call and apologize for being bedridden. But if I tell her people that I'm sending the editor in chief instead, the honor might mollify them."
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I start rifling through my cluttered headspace to find long-forgotten interview skills. This has disaster written all over it.
"Tell me again. Why should I be doing this, Jasper?"
"You know, if I didn't know you as well as I do, I'd bet a pint at Alistair's that you're trying to talk your way out of it."
"I'm the editor in chief. I don't go gallivanting around town interviewing people." And I'm normally not this hoity-toity about my job title. Quite the contrary, in fact. But I'm grasping at straws.
"After you spent the best part of a decade doing just that? You ain't fooling me, Ed."
And I have a Peabody Award on a shelf in my office that reminds me of it whenever I feel particularly sorry for myself. Whenever this job looms over me like an intolerable failure, a distant second best, a faint travesty of everything I achieved—before.
Before those nineteen days of hell.
Before the bombs and missile blasts.
Before the tons of rubble above me.
Before I emerged from all of that—not remotely the same man I'd been. Before.
There are no interviews in my … after. After is a parade of days behind a desk in a well-appointed building, in a chaotic newsroom bustling with busy people, where the only hostile noises are irritated fists banging on the sides of vending machines. After is predictable. After is reliable. After is safe.
"Again, do we have no hope or prayer of rescheduling this thing? Is this piano player more in demand than Angela Merkel?"
"She's actually going to play in Angela Merkel's presence in Europe. But, no. I almost had to give up a kidney to get this one interview; you know that. Rescheduling is a non-starter. You gotta do it, man."
Before my breath gets shallower, and my brain backfires on me, I look around the room.
Five things I see around me—coffee table, bowl made of turned wood with my house keys in it, my Red Sox hat, the latest print issue of the Tatler, my empty coffee mug.
Four things I can touch—phone in my hand, my flannel sleep pants, the chenille throw blanket Mom gave me when I moved in, my hair that I'm tormenting as per standard operating procedure.
Three things I can hear—Jasper on the phone trying to cajole me into this, my breath getting deeper and more regular, the neighbor's dog yapping next door.
Two things I can smell—the toasted bagel I just inhaled, a lingering whiff of my cologne on the throw blanket.
One thing I can taste—coffee. The darkest coffee you can find in Boston.
I finally take a long, deep, calming breath and get my bearings. Jasper's caught on—I tuned him out a while ago.
"Ed, you okay over there? Do you need to go?"
"No. I'm fine. But let the record reflect I'm doing this under duress."
Jasper lets out his own sigh of relief. "You spent years eating dictators for breakfast, and now one tiny composer has you all twisted up in a knot?"
"It's not the composer, J." I don't even know the girl. Nor do I care to know her. I'm going to go in, ask the questions, and get out. Quick and possibly painless. "It's the principle of the thing. But I get it; we're in a bind, and we have to make the scheduling work, otherwise we're out of a cover feature for January. Which won't do after we had to defer Jessica's piece."
"Well, I know this is a big thing for you. I wouldn't have asked if I had an alternative. Thank you, Ed."
"Gee, thanks. You know how to flatter a guy, Hale. So, how does this work? Give me what you got because I still know jack squat about Isabella Swan."
Before he dives headlong into his answer, I send a silent goodbye to the leisurely shower I was looking forward to; move over to the kitchen island to retrieve my laptop, notepad, and pen; and sit down with another cup of coffee to get Jasper's briefing.
"Now, it's at Sharps & Flats. It's technically still a construction site, but they've cleared out the workmen for the day. Bella Swan's manager will let you in. Ask for Ross Whitlock. I can't give you a crash course on Bella Swan 101, but you know what to do for research, right? Take a look at her Twitter and Instagram feeds if you want to get a feel for her public persona and her audience. I just sent you an email with the questions I planned to ask her. Whatever you do, never—and I'm going to say this again, NEVER—bring up James Fray's name. Ever."
"Who would that be?"
"That's the piece of shit fiancé who dumped her at their engagement party. Just don't go there. No personal questions. Only the music. Stick to the music. But you know this shit."
"Yeah, well. I appreciate the refresher. I'm a tad out of practice, but I'm not a novice. No personal questions. Okay. I can do that."
It looks like I have a composer to interview this morning.
&&&IVORIES&&&
Two hours later, after I took my much-desired shower and dropped by the Tatler to update Tanya on my whereabouts, I find myself standing outside the massive building that will become Sharps & Flats.
As Jasper said, it's still a construction site. There's no bouncer, no intercom, no nothing. Only a white, standard-issue permit box nailed to a two-by-four out front indicates that, indeed, work is in progress here. The obnoxious neon sign for Howl at the Moon has been dismantled, and there's no hint of what may occupy the building in the future. Jacob Black seems to be moving into the neighborhood on tiptoes rather than stomping in like the proverbial bull in a china shop.
I look around for a way in until a statuesque blonde appears from the barred front door, arms to her hips, with a stance that would send a defensive lineman cowering back to his momma's skirts.
"And you are?"
"Good morning, miss. Edward Cullen from The Back Bay Tatler," I respond.
She gives me a once over, which, for a change, doesn't reek of flirting. Brownie points for Blondie. She nods but speaks no further.
"I'm looking for Ross Whitlock. Could you please direct me to him?"
"Him?" she replies with a sneer and a raised eyebrow.
"He isn't here? I'm scheduled to interview Isabella Swan this morning."
"Are you?" she asks, then pushes one of the well-hidden entrance doors and calls out inside. "Shock, the reporter from the Tatler is here! You ready?"
I briefly wonder why she refers to Isabella Swan as "Shock"—provided I heard that right. Weird choice for a nickname. Inside joke, perhaps?
There's no answer from inside the club as far as I can discern, but before long, Blondie shouts out, "Okay. Will do." Then she opens the door and ushers me inside.
"Oh, by the way, I'm Ross Whitlock. And you know what happens to those who assume."
Dammit. Strike one. Why didn't I ask Jasper if Ross was a he or a she? Chastising myself for my sexist, clumsy blunder, I follow Miss Whitlock inside.
"Watch your step, Mr. Cullen. The crew cleared out for the day but only just. They dropped their shit every which way."
She has a way with words—besides being irrefutably right. Between pieces of cardboard and plywood cutouts, candy wrappers, empty paper cups, and empty water bottles strewn all over the floor, it's a bit of an obstacle course. With nary another word and entirely businesslike manners, Ross Whitlock leads me to the raised dais that occupies the farthest wall of the club. Evidently, the stage—all-black but scuffed, dinged plywood, banged up here and there, no doubt because of all the equipment loaded up, and moved around on top of it over the years.
Two chairs and a small table—salvaged from the club's previous furnishings, as the old logo seems to indicate—have been set out right by the side of the stage, a few yards away from a door marked "private." Presumably, the door leading to whatever green room they may have in the back.
"Mr. Hale called and explained," Miss Whitlock says, startling me out of my observations.
I nod, encouraging her to continue. "I apologize, too. This isn't exactly my field of expertise."
Why am I justifying myself with this person? Baring my vulnerability to her? I don't know. Something in her steely gaze—a stunning pair of blue eyes the shade of cornflower—pins me down. She appears inflexible but protective at the same time. It's kind of unraveling.
"We vet everyone, Mr. Cullen. You came highly recommended, and we understand Mr. Hale's condition today couldn't be helped."
"Still, seems unprofessional when there were precise agreements in place." Why, again, am I justifying myself? Oh, right. Because I still feel like a chauvinistic ass for mistaking her for a guy. And maybe because she is slightly intimidating. I must've lost my touch.
"But again, we know our scheduling has been … rather non-flexible. That's on us. So thank you for being accommodating. Please, take a seat. I'll fetch Isabella for you."
I watch her disappear behind the stage while I divest my winter coat on the back of the chair and take a seat, setting out my notepad, pen, and phone. Gone are the days of handheld recording devices.
A few minutes later, accompanied by shuffling feet and indiscernible murmurs, Miss Whitlock reappears, and this time, she's not alone. I raise my eyes from the endless string of newswires scrolling on my screen—another reporter habit I haven't broken.
I did spend my commute on the T perusing Isabella Swan's social media feeds. It didn't prepare me for her, however. Sure, her figure was featured in her posts, but she's clearly not the kind of internet influencer whose brand begins and ends with her face. Far from it.
Her posts focus mainly on her music and travels. She showcases her audiences wherever she goes and never forgets to thank her fans for following her and filling up venues at her shows. She shares inspirational quotes. Sometimes handwritten drafts of her music. Sometimes snippets of videos, of her seated at the piano, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
She's young—fresh-faced, innocent even, but with a steel core that shines through somehow. It's in her fluid, self-assured gait; her back, held ramrod straight as she advances toward me, walking beside Miss Whitlock, who whispers something in her ear. Something Miss Swan clearly dismisses with a wave of her hand and an unguarded smile.
Knowing Jasper will want my impressions for his piece in addition to the recorded interview, I curse myself for giving in to him and take a good, long look at Isabella Swan.
And that's when it floors me—how utterly unprepared I am for what I'm about to do.
Beside Miss Whitlock's statuesque height and build, Isabella Swan is a wisp of a girl. I suspect she'd barely graze my shoulder height. Five-foot four, or three more like, to my six-foot four. And while she's minute, she isn't lacking feminine curves, by any means. In her casual, form-fitting attire—a battle uniform of sorts, as Jasper described it: all-black skinny jeans, a V-neck T-shirt, and hi-top Chucks—they are hard to miss. And then her heart-shaped face, adorned with an expanse of unblemished honey-kissed skin entirely devoid of make-up, framed by a riot of curly mahogany hair restrained by a cobalt-blue silk scarf, turns toward me. The smile that just graced it dissolves when her gaze—chocolate-colored eyes speckled with jade and gold, almost too big for her face, expressive and keen—lands on me.
Is it because she acts in a naturally guarded manner before an unknown quantity, or because something in me puts her off? What is that imperceptible blip of awareness that flashes in her eyes? Is she psyching herself into this as much as I must? Or in my lack of practice, I've left on display something I normally hide?
No, that can't be it. As I stand to greet her, she cannot know that a titanium rod holds together my left femur, that a haphazard mosaic of cuts and scar tissue blanket the left side of my upper body, my face and neck included. She cannot know. She doesn't. Because the trimmed but full beard I grew after weeks and months of being unable to shave myself remains in place to this day. Even after I've regained weight and muscle tone through the merciless regime I've kept up with physical therapy first, and workouts later—the beard stayed. It hid the scars when I desperately wanted people not to look at me differently. I made the mistake of shaving it off only once, out of habit. And rammed my fist into the mirror as soon as I was done because the face looking back at me wasn't me. Or rather, it was me … after.
"Miss Swan, thank you for meeting with us today," I say automatically.
I extend my proffered hand toward her after I've shoved all these thoughts into a dusty, forgotten compartment of my brain.
"Mr. Cullen. Please call me Bella," she responds, giving me a firm but fleeting handshake.
When we take our seats again, something compels me to avert my gaze from her and direct it, instead, to Jasper's questions.
They look like hastily jotted down notes rather than full-fledged questions, per his standard operating procedure. I should have known to grill him on the phone about it, but the aftershocks of what I'd just agreed to do paralyzed me into momentary inaction. One more crack in my stellar plan for this interview also suddenly glares back at me.— I did peruse Isabella Swan's social media feeds while the T jostled me around Boston, but I made a fundamental mistake. Because I watched all that with the sound off, I didn't listen to one single scrap of her music. Not one note. Nada. Zilch. Niet.
That could be a problem, and now it's too late to fix it. Like with a host of other things in this interview, I'll have to fly by the seat of my pants, which is not conducive to keeping my anxiety at bay. Well, I'll just have to gird my loins.
With a deep breath, I take one last look at the email printout of Jasper's notes and wonder how I'll concoct questions that make sense from them.
Isabella—or Bella, rather—clears her throat. Right. I'm ignoring her. Big no-no. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Bella. I apologize again for the last minute change of plans." My steady voice mimics a self-confidence I normally don't have to fake. But now? Now I need it like a crutch, and I can't summon it. Not quite.
"Mr. Hale explained. I hope he feels better soon," she answers in a steady, sweet voice, still not quite looking at me.
"I'll convey your well wishes," I respond, fiddling with the recording app on my phone. "You don't mind if I record this, do you?" Finally, I lift my gaze and look at her squarely.
She shakes her head, but produces her own recording device. "As long as you don't mind if I do, too?"
"Of course not. Shall we?"
She nods, clearing her throat again. I get a fleeting feeling that we're both crippled with nerves at the thought of going through with this interview, even though our respective motivations might be light years apart. I glance at Jasper's notes again and curse him to the fiery pits of Hades. They're a few letters away from being in code. I just hope I don't botch this any further.
"You're back in the United States after an extended stay in Europe. How does it feel to be back?"
Softball question. Feel out your subject—who shifts in her seat as if the answer to this might be more loaded than usual.
"It's odd, to be honest. I'll be flying out again tomorrow, and I won't be back for a couple months. An artist's existence tends to be nomadic at best."
"How are you liking Boston so far?"
She grimaces. "I'm not new to Boston, but I haven't been here in a while."
This I would have known if I'd done my research properly, taken two seconds to google her. But no. Dammit.
"The new Sharps & Flats is poised to shake the Boston live music scene when it opens. It's a big responsibility to be the first live act, right on grand opening day."
She shrugs with an almost impatient look on her face. The question is a tad on the trite side, but I'm still feeling her out; I need to go through J's notes, and this is one of them. It's a legit question—she is the opening act for the club. Or will be, whenever the club opens.
"Jacob—Mr. Black, I mean—has steadfastly supported me and my career for years. He believed in me when nobody in the industry would, and I owe part of my current success to him. I'm just paying back that trust. Or forward, depending on how you look at it."
Her tone gets more spirited as she progresses through her answer. This issue touches a nerve. Based on what J told me, her close relationship with Black has been one of the recurring strains of criticism against her—that his patronage of her was more personal than musical, and that she's taken advantage of it unfairly.
"You've often been criticized within the music community for a variety of reasons. How do you respond to your critics?"
She huffs. "I don't."
"How so?" The follow-up question comes up unprompted. Besides, she didn't really elaborate. If I didn't prod, Jasper would have my grilled backside for lunch. My question is vague and broad—but so is J's note. He sure as heck knows every single critique lobbed at this girl, but I don't. So again, I'll have to fake it 'til I make it. Or not.
"What would be the use? Critics are entitled to their own opinions. I give them all the consideration they deserve."
Not exactly what I'm going for, but even with my lack of knowledge, I can see she has a point. Sometimes, there's no use arguing with people who are uninterested in genuine debate.
"You've conquered a substantial slice of public from audiences who generally don't like or know classical or jazz music that much. Does this lend any credence to your critics?"
She shrugs again. "I think it's a pointless question." Her tone of voice cuts harder this time. With her beautiful face contorted in a displeased grimace, she clears her throat again. "Let's move on, please."
"You didn't answer my question."
Annoyance—so vivid it stops me in my tracks—flashes in her eyes, flattening her lips into a hard, nervous line. "But I did, Mr. Cullen. Let's move on," she rebuts, enunciating every word with disdain.
This interview is going south fast. From a quick glance at J's notes, the remaining questions are no softballs either. The potential for impending disaster just increased tenfold. The fact that I only have the faintest idea of the subject matter doesn't help me at all. I'm piling up rookie mistakes like a serial shopper on Black Friday.
"Other frequent points of criticism focus on the commercial appeal your music has. Now, record sales are an objective metric that can't be refuted."
She raises an eyebrow at me. "I didn't hear a question in there, Mr. Cullen."
"Still, would you like to comment on that?" This would be an effective, pretty standard rebuttal for a reluctant politician, but will it be beneficial to building a rapport with a musician?
"No. The numbers speak for themselves. You just said so." Evidently not. I've lost count of how many strikes I've accumulated against this girl. Going down like a damn newbie, and it's starting to irritate me.
"Well, a few prominent, celebrated ad campaigns for high-end products—Ferrari, right?—featured your music. Doesn't that make it commercial? I believe the descriptor 'sell-out' was used."
"William Shakespeare filled theatres routinely in his lifetime. Would you accuse him of being commercial?" she replies in clipped, staccato tones. If she were playing her instrument now, she'd be banging on the keys. Or rather, on my head.
There would be ample room for follow-up questions here, especially since she made a great point with her answers. I don't listen to her music, but at some point, the entire commercial versus non-commercial diatribe has riven every other genre—heavy metal, rock, grunge, alternative, you name it—with raucous rivalries on either side. Nobody ever sees eye to eye. It's a never-ending debate. And frankly pointless, in my opinion. But heaven forbid I should mention my own opinion to Miss Swan. She'd probably bite my head off without remorse.
"What about your collaborations with some hip-hop artists? Doesn't that dilute your brand?"
Another shrug. "I'm not a brand. I'm an artist. Art is eminently subjective."
Damn Jasper and his cryptic notes. Damn me and my reluctance to research this girl and her music. Damn my non-existent spine that gave in to Jasper's demands without a fight. Damn this fucking interview from hell.
I check questions off my list, and with dread, I notice there are only two left when a longer, deeper huff—or is it a tortured sigh—from Miss Swan interrupts my musings.
"Please turn that recorder off."
"What? The interview isn't over." I'm shooting myself in the foot, but my words pour out on autopilot, reverting to old scripts embedded in my brain. The brain used to interview people who didn't want to answer my questions in the first place. People who needed to be goaded into a corner until they broke or said the quiet part out loud.
"The interview is over when I say it is, Mr. Cullen. Please, turn off your recorder."
I examine my options quickly. It's been an uphill battle since I sat down at this table twenty minutes ago, if I'm objective enough … and now I botched the interview. On the only motherfucking day Isabella Swan had available before her two-month tour of Europe. On the only day she had available that still allowed us to make our own publication deadline. Jasper is going to have my head. Or my balls. Or both.
"This interview was a strange mix of confrontational questions and vague barbs. Your knowledge of the topic was shaky at best. I was assured you were a professional, Mr. Cullen. I must say I'm not impressed."
With a resigned sigh, I turn off the recording app. But I can't resist a barb of my own at Bella Swan's expense.
"I'm doing a favor for a colleague, as we both disclosed before the interview. You decided to go through with it. He gave me the questions. I ask the questions. You answer them. This, Miss Swan, is how an interview works, in case you're not aware."
I've broken some big interview rules today.
Know your subject? Strike one. I couldn't name one of her pieces if I tried. As a rule, interview prep can last anywhere from a few hours, to days, or even weeks. My meager twenty minutes don't qualify as suitable interview prep. Fuck, I didn't even connect my brain enough to google her name and look at the results.
Build a rapport? Strike two. She hates me; that much I can tell.
Do not give up your game right away. Check—and fuck Jasper and his notes. At this point, I stop counting my strikes.
Do not antagonize your subject unnecessarily. Check—boy, did I antagonize her.
Be polite—forget it.
Oh, for fuck's sake. Who am I kidding? I've made a big, stinking mess of this whole thing.
The last rule isn't taught at the Columbia School of Journalism. It's simply an Esme Platt-Cullen rule. Damn. I've been condescending to say the least. A chauvinistic, condescending, irritable asshole. After assuming her manager was a guy, it all snowballed from there.
Why am I doing Hale a favor again?
"I know full well how interviews work, Mr. Cullen. That's why I hardly give any," she says scathingly, breaking through the haze of my irritation.
J even told me. This interview with the piano player extraordinaire was a big "get." Not just for him, but for the Tatler. And I just screwed that up. Big time.
"If you know how it works, let's get back to it then. I'm on a deadline here." I can't help myself. I just keep digging a little deeper every time I open my damn mouth. Although, what more I can hope to get out of her now, I don't even know. Hope springs eternal.
"Not so fast," she counters, crossing her legs and looking over her shoulder. "Ross! Why am I doing this interview, again?" she asks, her voice teetering between irritation and petulance.
At least we have something in common. We're both wondering what the fuck we're doing here.
Miss Whitlock's voice thunders from somewhere backstage. "You're doing Jake a favor, Shock." That nickname again.
At these words, Bella Swan runs her hands through her hair, straightens her cobalt blue scarf, then rubs at her eyes with her lithe, graceful, piano-player fingers. After that, pools of molten chocolate speckled with gold meet my gaze through narrow, tired slits.
"When your ilk are careless with my words, it's my career that suffers, Mr. Cullen. It's clear as day to me that you don't want to be here. I won't make the gift of my craft and professional life to someone who doesn't care. I won't cancel the interview because it would jeopardize Jacob's plans for his grand opening, and I don't make a habit of screwing over my friends. But I'll postpone it until you send me someone who cares, because you don't. Give my apologies to Mr. Hale. He can reschedule with Ross at his earliest convenience. We're done here."
I've been dismissed.
Fuck—Jasper won't let me live this one down.
Meet? Yes. Cute? Not so much.
A few of you who'd read the Sneak Peek on TLS wondered how Edward would end up interviewing Bella. NOW you know.
EditorWard is not feeling great right now. We'll get to hear more from him next week.
