‘Oh. Right. Okay. I hope it . . .’
The rest was lost as I gathered up my bag and phone and cigarettes. A fleeting glance out of the window confirmed that it was drizzling, but there was no time to be messing about with an umbrella. I descended the stairs three at a time and stepped out into the rush-hour rain.
By the time I reached the bottleneck of Shepherd’s Bush Market, I was wet right down to my underwear. It was that damn stealth rain that feels like nothing more than a morning mist but saturates by attrition. Smoking was a logistical nightmare, and the Tube itself, needless to say, was Dante’s Fifth Circle of Hell – the one reserved for the wrathful and sullen. My carriage was full when I got on, and got progressively fuller over the next eleven stops. For half an hour I steamed in my own tights. Then, when I changed at King’s Cross, Marie Martin was everywhere – on the platforms and in the tunnels, occupying every third space on the escalators. She looked amazing, of course, shot in soft-focus black and white, with hair as dark as death and a pout to make men melt. More specifically, she looked as if she smelled amazing, by some indefinable photographic alchemy. Maybe it was those tiny, glittering beads of moisture on her upper lip. Maybe it was just a negative association on my part. I was certain that I didn’t smell particularly great at that moment. A mixture of cheap body spray and wet nylon.
Marie Martin: Séduction
Abigail Williams: Hot and Humid
My best hope was that I smelled inoffensively damp, like the Amazon rainforest.
I wanted to text my sister to vent my spleen. I wanted to text my father to tell him he was a superficial prick. I had time for neither.
I emerged from Highbury and Islington at 9.07 and ran the rest of the way to Miranda Frost’s house, a cigarette in one hand and my phone, switched to Google Maps, in the other. When I arrived, at 9.14, the hollow throb of hunger in my stomach had been replaced by a stitch.
‘Ah, Miss Williams.’ Miranda Frost glanced theatrically at the watch she wasn’t wearing. ‘I’m so pleased you could make it. It is Miss Williams, isn’t it?’
‘Uh, yes. Abby. Hello. Sorry – I had some trouble getting here.’ I waved vaguely at the sky, as if for corroboration. My mind was a sinking ship. ‘I would have rung, but . . . well, I didn’t have your number.’
‘I didn’t give you my number.’
‘No.’
‘So the fault lies with me?’
Never back down; not once you’ve committed to an excuse. ‘Yes. Incontrovertibly.’
Miranda Frost did not smile. ‘Well, you’d better come in. We haven’t got all morning. I intend to be working by ten. Shoes off, please.’
It was technically a flat, I supposed, but bore nothing in common with the shoebox I called home. It was spread across the bottom two floors of a Georgian town house overlooking Highbury Fields. It had a private rear garden and windows larger than the floor space in our kitchen; Miranda Frost’s kitchen, in turn, was larger than our entire flat. Indeed, the notion that our residences fell into the same broad category was patently absurd. Miranda Frost and I were both living in flats in the same sense that John Lennon and Ringo Starr were both respected song-writers.
‘You have a lovely home,’ I ventured.
‘This isn’t my home, Miss Williams. It belongs to a friend. I stay here whenever I’m in London, which is as seldom as possible. I couldn’t afford a place like this. I’m a poet, not a barrister.’
‘Oh.’ There was a leaden silence. ‘What about your friend? What does she do?’
‘She’s a barrister.’
‘Right.’
I busied myself with my bag.
‘Do you mind if I record this conversation? It will save time.’
‘Whatever you find most efficient.’
I delved deeper into the side pocket, spilling half its contents – cigarettes, lipstick, a tampon – over the kitchen table. ‘Shit! Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep. My co-ordination isn’t great this morning.’
‘Evidently. Part of the trouble getting here, perhaps?’
‘Yes.’ With things going as they were, there seemed little point denying it. ‘But it wasn’t entirely my fault,’ I added.
Miranda Frost shrugged. ‘Far be it from me to question your professionalism. You’re young. No doubt you lead a fascinating life. Would it help if I made some strong coffee?’
I decided to interpret this offer as sincere, despite abundant facial evidence to the contrary. ‘Yes. Thank you. That would be very kind.’
She looked at me, without comment, for several seconds. Then there might have been the briefest flicker of a smile. But more likely it was a hallucination. ‘Very well. I’d hate for this morning to be a complete waste of time.’
When she returned with the cafetière, I had already started drafting copy in my head.
We’re sitting in the
‘Mmm, caffeine. Thank you, Miranda. May I call you Miranda?’
‘You now have thirty-three minutes, Miss Williams. It’s your time to spend as you will, but I suggest that we dispense with the pleasantries and press on.’
I smiled through clenched teeth. ‘Yes, let’s. Just bear with me a second.’
The rain had permeated the outer layer of my shoulder bag and soaked through to the back page of my notebook; where once had been questions, now dwelt an unnavigable sea of blue ink. I decided to stall first and improvise second. ‘Forgive me. Do you mind if I start slightly off track?’
She sipped her coffee. ‘I’d expect no less.’
‘Okay . . . Well, you’re a notoriously private person.’
‘Is that a question or a statement?’
‘It’s a statement.’
‘And an oxymoron.’
‘Yes, perhaps. But they sometimes have their place.’
‘In Shakespeare, Miss Williams. Not in competent journalism.’
‘Right. Well, I suppose that’s not a million miles away from the point I’m trying to make. You rarely give interviews. Your last, I believe, was in 2010, for The Culture Show.’
‘Correct.’
‘So, er, I guess the question I’m asking – just for personal curiosity, really – is why now? Actually, scrap that. Not why now. Why me? I mean, I’m not exactly The Culture Show.’
Bumbling and disjointed as this was, it was nevertheless the first thing I’d said that seemed in any way to please Miranda Frost. That flicker of a smile was back.
‘It was your name, Abigail. Nothing more. Your name amused me, so I chose not to delete your email. I assume you must be aware of your literary forebear? Salem? The Crucible’s central harlot?’
‘Oh, right. Yes. Ever since I was about fifteen. We read that play in school. You have a good memory for names.’
‘Only in fiction, as a rule.’
‘It passes most people by.’
‘As it did your parents, presumably?’
‘Yes. I mean, my mum reads a little, but not widely. And my dad despises culture in all its forms; he’s in advertising. I can’t imagine he ever took my mother to the theatre.’
‘Ah, “took”. Past tense. They’re separated?’
‘Divorced.’ I was aware, of course, that Miranda Frost had somehow inverted the interview, that it was her asking the questions. But at least she was starting to warm up a little. I decided I had nothing to lose and ploughed ahead. ‘My dad left us for his secretary. It was the most appalling cliché. Now he’s hooked up with a French perfume model, four years older than me.’