The Feature

II

Surely it wasn't as easy as this, you thought. It couldn't be.

You were standing, eyes narrowed, looking up at the house that your Maps app had brought you to, the address you'd taken straight from your emails. The street was dark and quiet; soft, warm lights glowing through the windows of the house, a car parked on the driveway, porch light on. No, this couldn't be the right place. He was a celebrity, a huge, filthy rich, world-famous celebrity. There was no way he wouldn't at least have a gate, a guard of some kind, cctv- oh.

You looked up to see a small camera blinking above the door. Great. By now there was probably a security team somewhere debating whether to call the police on the strange woman loitering around Benedict Cumberbatch's house. God, you were going to end up in the papers.

The front door opened, interrupting your internal fretting. You glanced up to see a head peering around at you, a set of pale blue eyes staring at you in confusion.

"Can I help you?" he called out.

Shit.

"H-hi, Benedict?" you shouted back, making your way up the path. "I'm Quinn Armitage with Draft Magazine, I've come to interview you."

He regarded you for a moment, his gaze trailing up and down the length of you a few times. "Right, okay. Do you have any credentials?"

"Er, yeah, sure." You dug around in your bag and pulled out your work pass, along with a business card. You dusted them off and handed them both to him. "Do you want to see my driving license too?"

Oh god. Why did you say that? You hadn't even made it through the door and you were already terrified you'd offended him.

"I'd prefer a passport," he replied, his mouth twitching with a smile.

You laughed; half with relief, half because it was actually quite funny.

He stepped aside and invited you in. "I apologise for the interrogation, I just had to be sure you were... well, you. I usually get to speak with the person beforehand and I wasn't expecting you to be so..."

"Unbelievably beautiful and gorgeous?" you joked, walking past him into the hallway.

He chuckled and closed the door.

"Yeah," you continued more seriously. "Sorry about not getting in touch beforehand. It's all just been very last minute. I assure you I'm not a crazed fan posing as a journalist."

"Somewhat of a fan at least, I hope?" he laughed, reaching out his hand. "Can I take your..."

"Oh, sure, thanks." You slipped off your coat and handed it to him. "And of course I am. A fan, I mean. Is there a person out there who isn't?"

"Actually there's many." He laughed again.

"Ah, well I know the feeling. I got a death threat once over an article I wrote."

"What was it about?"

"Aromatherapy."

He scoffed. "People get pissed off about the weirdest things."

You nodded absentmindedly, too busy gazing around the beautifully decorated hallway, the tall ceilings and glossy wooden staircase.

"This is a nice house," you said.

"Thank you," he replied, ushering you down the hall.

"I was honestly quite surprised when you opened the door," you said as you walked with him. "I was half-expecting some kind of airport-level security procedure before I actually got to you."