It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 4: The Author (Cont'd)

Coarse language. Reader Discretion Advised.

An interview? Had she heard the editor right?

The Author gaped, forgetting for the moment her exasperation. She blinked a couple of times, trying to process what she'd just been told. Alan Carr hadn't done an interview in 40 years. Part of being a mysterious, living legend is that a mysterious, living legend doesn't tend to talk to the press, nor partake in social media, nor open themselves up to any real scrutiny. Scrutiny, where legends are concerned, is an undesirable side effect in an otherwise charmed life. The idea that Alan Carr would now expose himself—the Author couldn't fathom the thought. It would be the entertainment event of the decade. Century! And the money! Jesus Christ, the money! This could be—would be, she knew—her career. Her eulogy would be structured around this supposed interview with His Greatness.

'I couldn't believe what I was hearing,' said Ms. Blanchet. 'I mean, I know that he has something wicked planned, but I'll admit I was surprised to hear from him. From what I knew, he'd shut himself away. Finally done the decent thing and given it all up after...well...'

'After what?'

Ms. Blanchet's lips thinned. 'Darling...why must you act so stupid all the time?'

What would be more satisfying, considered the Author, the potential oodles of money that could make smiling and keeping up appearances, or the satisfaction of punching Ms. Blanchet's overly exposed cheekbones? Money would last longer, but the Author couldn't discount the satisfaction a punch would bring her. After all, satisfaction can last a life time if properly achieved.

'Didn't you hear about the scandal he caused?'

No, the problem with punching Ms. Blanchet was that when one punches someone, that someone had better deserve it. Though grating, Ms. Blanchet's insensitivity didn't come from a place of malice, which would have made the act of punching all the more pleasing, but from a place of isolation. A product of years swimming in the bowels of elite society's most entitled circles, where her abrupt and acerbic attitude was considered an alluring and desirable feature, rather than the whack worthy one that it was.

'I haven't really been keeping up—'

'Well, Darling that's no excuse. You need to be at your best. Your best! This isn't just anyone, you know?'

'Yes, I—'

'No, you don't! You have no fucking idea, girl. He'll eat you alive if you're not careful. I've seen him do it. If you aren't prepared, if he smells frailty on you, he'll devour you. I won't have him feasting on one of my employees. I feast on you, not him! If I'm going to trust you with this assignment, I need to know you're not going to cock it up with your irrational desire to give voice to every vapid thought that springs into your simple, little head.'

Fuck you, you scrawny cow! was the Author's next thought, but she said instead, 'what scandal do you mean, Ms. Blanchet?' in the hopes that the mention of scandal would sufficiently distract the editor.

It did.

Ms. Blanchet took a deep drag of her cigarette, exhaling in a tightly thin line of smoke that hugged the Author's head and made her eyes water.

'He didn't go to the funeral, and everyone went to the funeral. Even I dragged myself out to there. But not him. The official line was he was sick, but I don't believe it. How do you not go to your own sister's funeral? After all she did for him...no. No! I don't think so. I think he's fallen apart without her. Total and complete breakdown. I saw it coming years ago. The way he clung to her. It was unnatural. And she could be a real cunt. I liked her—Christ! Look at your face. You're clueless, aren't you?'

'No, I'm just not as familiar with—'

'Yes, that's what clueless means,' and Ms. Blanchet couldn't resist a grotesquely gleeful leer, 'but it's understandable. You're too young to remember when Vera Carr was Vera Carr! Half the charm of her brother, but triple the smarts. If they'd gave her battlements, she'd have died on them. He ruined it. She was something and then...he was such a disaster...you can thank Vera that he didn't end up on the trash heap.'

'But she died?'

'Several months back. Keeled right over. I suppose the stress of managing her brother finally did her in. What a waste.' The editor sucked on her teeth and stubbed out her cigarette. She took a sip of cold tea that lay in fine china upon the desk, and swilled it around in her mouth so as to wash the taste of tobacco from her palate. 'Everything is all set for you. Janine has put together your itinerary. He has a guest house he's offered you. The flight leaves first thing in the morning, and he said he'll have a car waiting for you.'

The Author blinked. 'Flight?'

'Yes, Darling, that's what I said. You'll be doing the interview at his house in California. Four days. His specific request.'

'But I can't go to California for four days,' blurted the Author before she could stop herself. Thoughts of her mother and the persistent 'forgetful moments' that could easily burn down their humble home raced through her mind.

'Of course you can! What? Do you expect him to come all the way out here just to accommodate you?'

'But I don't mind doing it over Zoom—'

'You do not make a man like Alan Carr sit on a fucking Zoom call!' Rage and tea stained spittle flew from the editor, and for the second time in her life, the Author felt shamed and cowed for having unintentionally besmirched the sovereignty that was Alan Carr. And the gall of Ms. Blanchet! All her talk and bluster, and when push came to shove she was just as common in her feelings for the icon as the rest of the peasants who worshiped at the altar of Carr.

'Goddamn it, girl! Do you want this job or not?!'

'Yes, I do. I just have—'

'Then we'll have no more of your stupidity today. It's giving me a migraine and I don't have time for a migraine. Go on. Get out!' Then, as she always did at a dismissal of an employee, Ms. Blanchet waved her hand and gave her familiar mantra: 'And don't you dare come back here empty handed!'

The Author didn't need telling twice. She stumbled to her feet and beat a hasty retreat back across the waxed floors, towards her shoes and those foreboding doors.

'Darling?' The Author clenched her jaw and turned for a final reaming. 'Remember what I told you. He's a chimera.' The dramatics were gone, replaced by something akin to worry.

'A what?'

'A fantasy, Darling. An illusion. If you're not careful, he'll enjoy devouring you. Don't try and play along. Get the story and get the fuck out.'

Something sank low in the Author's gut, but before she could ask for clarification, Ms. Blanchet lowered her head. The dismissal was final this time.