you think you’re up to this job?’ I bounced the question back, classic holding technique. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yes,’ he replied without missing a beat. ‘I’m the best at what I do. That’s why I’m here. Are you?’
‘If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here,’ I said as confidently as I could. ‘Would I?’
‘You’re here because Dan Fraser, Oliver Voss, Erica Ishugruo and at least five other photographers, as far as I’m aware, were already booked and this was the only week in the next six months Bennett would give us.’ Nick didn’t flinch, didn’t pause, didn’t look away. ‘You’re here because your agent has the editor of Gloss in her pocket. You’re here because no one else could be.’
‘Right. Brilliant.’
That was me told.
‘And just repeating my questions back to me won’t work,’ he said, rolling up his shirt sleeves a tiny bit further. ‘I’m a journalist. I ask questions professionally.’
‘Right. Brilliant.’
I pressed my lips together, making my mouth into a terribly attractive tight little line, and stared back at the man across the table. He was really, really starting to piss me off.
‘It would have been easier if I had taken the photos myself.’ Nick’s voice was low enough that I couldn’t quite tell if I was supposed to be able to hear him or not.
‘You’re a photographer as well as a writer?’ I asked with forced brightness.
He raised an eyebrow and stared me down.
‘No.’
Breathing out forcefully, I rubbed my thumb along my fingernail, feeling the ragged edges where I had bitten it on the plane. Didn’t help. I prayed for Kekipi to bring out some food for me to shove in my face before I put my fist in Nick’s. His gaze was unwavering and I was completely unsettled. Mostly because he looked like he was really enjoying himself. The more awkward he could make things for me, the happier he became. I grabbed a bread roll from the basket in front of me and tore off a chunk, turning towards the horizon and ignoring the fact that I couldn’t seem to sit still while I was looking at him. Stupid vagina – it wasn’t the boss of me.
‘Tell me about yourself, Vanessa.’
Of course he waited until I’d stuffed a fistful of bread into my gob before asking me the world’s most annoying question. I chewed, coughed, swallowed and held a hand in front of my face.
‘Not much to tell,’ I replied. It wasn’t a lie, per se. Compared with the people he must have interviewed, I had to imagine that even a newly minted compulsive liar such as myself wouldn’t be terribly interesting.
‘Favourite book?’
‘Um. I don’t know.’
‘Favourite record?’
‘I like all sorts.’
‘Favourite piece of art?’
‘Do most people have a favourite piece of art?’
‘Favourite film?’
‘Top Gun,’ I answered in an instant.
‘That’s your boyfriend’s favourite film,’ he replied just as fast. ‘What’s your favourite film?’
I replied with a stony stare. My turn not to play fair.
‘Oh.’ He sipped at his wine again. ‘Recent break-up, is it?’
With absolutely no idea how to respond, I shoved another pawful of bread into my mouth and chewed slowly. My forced silence didn’t seem to have the same impact on Nick as his had on me. In fact, it appeared to have completely the opposite effect. He was grinning right at me.
‘Dinner is served.’ Kekipi strode out of the main house followed by a small army of waiters, each one laden with a platter of joy. I let the sight and smell of the food distract me from Nick’s ridiculous questioning and tried to decide what I would eat first while wondering whether Bertie Bennett always had a small army of waiters at his beck and call. I assumed he did. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘We’re fine, thanks, Kekipi,’ Nick answered for both of us before I had a chance. Another thing to go on the List of Reasons to Punch Him in the Face. ‘This looks spectacular.’
‘Mahalo, Mr Miller,’ Kekipi replied with his professional smile. ‘We’ll just be inside. Please ring the bell if you need anything at all.’
Nick did not tell Kekipi to call him Nick. Dickhead.
‘Wait, there’s a bell?’ I couldn’t quite believe it when Nick held up a small golden hand bell.
‘Fuck me,’ I breathed.
‘Maybe after dinner,’ he replied, carefully placing the bell back on the table far out of my reach while I choked on absolutely nothing. I blushed and quietly pinched myself under the table to check this was actually happening. What an absolute dickhead.
For as long as I could possibly manage, we ate in silence. I piled mounds of pork, chicken and fish onto my plate and attempted to balance it out with a respectable amount of salad for appearances. I was never going to eat that salad. After my second helping of kalua pig, I caved.
‘Have you met Mr Bennett before?’ I tried to keep my voice light and casual and not give away the fact that I’d spent almost as much time trying to work out what was a safe question to ask as I had trying not to spill a load of pig down my dress. I hoped I’d done a better job of the question than I had of getting food safely into my mouth.
‘No.’ Thankfully, Nick decided to play nice and just answer. ‘He doesn’t give interviews. This is kind of a big deal.’
‘Have you interviewed lots of fashion people?’ I pushed on while I was on a roll. And eating a roll.
‘Not many.’ He shook his head, looking as though he’d eaten something unpleasant, which I knew for a fact he hadn’t. ‘I talk to people with actual stories. There are very few fashion people with real stories.’
‘Surely everyone has a story?’ I asked. ‘Like how they say everyone has a book in them?’
He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose before replying.
‘Not everyone does have a book in them. Some people don’t even have a Post-it note.’
‘It’s just something people say,’ I sniffed, wiping greasy fingers on my heavy napkin and feeling guilty about the greasy finger marks. ‘You really don’t think it’s true?’
‘You do?’ Nick asked. ‘Take you, for example. According to you, you don’t have a favourite book, a favourite band, a favourite movie. What story would you write?’
‘For all you know, I am a fantastic writer,’ I said, starting to get a bit angry again. Fuelled by the overconfidence of far too much food, I slapped the table. It hurt. ‘How do you know I’m not writing an amazing novel about a dystopian society where a reanimated Henry VIII falls in love with a squirrel?’
‘Well, look at you and your completely insane imagination.’ He laughed a little and for the first time it didn’t sound patronizing, even if his words were. ‘I should get your back up more often if you’re going to come out with gems like that. And you should write that book. I’d read it.’
‘Whatever.’ I was annoyed. He was a game player and I hated playing games. That was one of the many wonderful things about Charlie. He was easily as handsome as this douche nozzle, if not more handsome, but he didn’t mess people around. He never fell for girl tricks and he never said anything just to provoke a reaction. Not that I was thinking about Charlie.
‘You’re really not going to tell me about the break-up?’ Nick