Page 70 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“Congratulations. Nikki loves Milieu, though, of course, he pretends he doesn’t read it. They approached me not too long ago. But I tend to avoid interviews wherever possible.”

“Is it weird? People wanting to ask you a bunch of questions?”

She tucked a lock of hair back into the knotty thing she currently had going on. “I think it’s more…it’s always the same questions. I know it’s very selfish of me because I do care about transgender rights. But sometimes all I want to be representing is me.”

“I don’t think that’s selfish. You’re a person, not a political entity.”

“And the truth is”—her eyes glittered, revealing a glimpse of the person who liked to wander into the wilderness and scream at the sky—“it feels as though the rest of the world is fascinated by things I myself find unbelievably boring. Like the body I inhabit. Or the name my parents gave me.”

“What would you want to be asked?”

“Oh, anything that doesn’t secretly want to be ‘what happened to your penis?’ The same questions every other actor gets. I suppose I just want to talk about my job.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

And then I froze, gripped by an idea. An idea that—like my dissertation—was either great or terrible, and I wouldn’t know which until I saw what people thought of it. Except did I really want to live the rest of my life as someone who’d pissed off Poppy Carrie? But, then, if I didn’t, I’d have to live as someone who’d completely blanked what might have been a perfect opportunity.

“Well.” Oh shit. I was speaking. “I know this isn’t the best time to mention this, but you could always talk to me, if you wanted.”

Her smile, if anything, grew even warmer. “I think I’d like being interviewed by you.”

I sealed my lips before a startled “are you sure” could escape. And I didn’t faint either (though I resolved to run mad later). But, oh fuck, what was I supposed to do now? The last interview I’d conducted had been for the Sebby Hall Bog Sheet. And the subject of it had been the spider plant in the Junior Common Room.

“Do I contact your…publicist to get something set up?” I asked, doing my very best impression of a professional person. “I mean, I’m freelance at the moment so I’m available whenever.”

A slight pause. Then, “How about now?”

I managed an affirmative squeak.

She laughed. “I was thinking, perhaps, we could just keep on as we are. And see what comes out of it.”

Holy shit. An exclusive interview with Poppy Carrie. This was probably the sort of thing that changed your life. And it was happening right the fuck now. Except…as much as I wanted this, I also wanted to do it right. Which would have to involve some honesty. I braced myself for disaster. “Look, I should tell you, I’ve never done anything like this before. I might balls it up beyond redemption.”

“Maybe you will. But”—she met my eyes over the rim of her cup—“I have a feeling you won’t.”

I thought about it for a moment. Maybe I had that feeling too. “Is it okay if I record it on my phone?”

She nodded. “I’ve almost finished my tea, though. Would you like another smoothie?”

“For this?” I grinned. “I’m going to need a fucking muffin.”

* * *

Afterward, I sat in my hotel room, ate my way through a king’s ransom of snacks, and tried to translate recorded words into written words while keeping, somehow, the feeling of them. And the truth of the person who had spoken them.

And it was fucking impossible.

Give me “Ten Mineral Waters You Absolutely Must Try” or “An Intimate Guide to Tending the Boylawn” any day.

This was too vast. Too complex. Too real.

My ability to language had become this octopus, all flailing tentacles and squishiness, resisting my best attempts to corral it into the shapes I needed.

Ahhhhh.

I threw myself onto the bed and rolled about, kicking my feet, expertly converting mental distress into physical dramatics. Weirdly, it helped. Cleared my head. And, probably as a Pavlovian reaction to all the wanking I’d got up to recently, made me think of Caspian. Specifically what he’d said to me on the plane back from Kinlochbervie: that wanting something meant letting yourself be vulnerable.

And I wanted—oh how I wanted—to do a good job with this.

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