“I don’t write news. I write…gossip.” It sounded a lot like he hated to say that word, and his gaze blinked away from Jackson toward the glass frontage of London Lights HQ.
“I don’t want you to write for a paper. I don’t want this to be news, or gossip. This is the truth. My truth.”
“I’m not sure my editor will buy into it.” Fletcher sighed. “And if she did, she’d pass it onto the more seasoned journalists.”
“I don’t want your editor. I don’t want this in your poxy magazine.” Jackson spat the word, nodding toward the office block in contempt. He wanted nothing to do with any of that. Especially not London Lights. “This has got to be independent.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you wanted an exposé?”
Jackson stepped forward, a hair’s breadth from Fletcher, so close he could taste the man’s coffee breath. “Ever want to write something different? Something good. Something that could make a name for yourself away from the trash rags? Don’t you want to see your name on a shelf?”
“What type of shelf?”
“A book shelf. I want you to write my biography. So if you ever wanted your fortune handed on a plate, Fletcher Doherty…” Jackson held out his arms. “It’s here.”
The sound of a vibrating mobile phone drilled through the announcement. For a moment, they both stared at each other.
“That won’t be me.” Jackson flapped his hand toward the vibrating from within Fletcher’s bag. “I didn’t want mine back.”
Fletcher fumbled to locate his phone. He settled it to his ear and shuffled the overfilled satchel back on his shoulder. He hovered farther away whilst he answered.
“Rose? Yes, sorry. I’ll send it now…no, I had a meeting. I’ll give that write-up along with it and you’ll have a full column by the end of play today.” He gave a fleeting glance to Jackson before lowering his voice. “Actually, I’ve just been called to something else. Can you give me an hour?” He hung up the phone, pocketing it and didn’t look at Jackson when he said, “You’ve got forty minutes to convince me why I should do this.”
Then he angled his head for Jackson to follow him down the street and headed into the nearest open coffee shop.
Here goes nothing.
chapter six
Too Good to be True
Stepping into the greasy-spoon, Fletcher wanted to pinch himself.
Walking behind him was the most famous man in the United Kingdom. Once a household name, the most loved personality, a glorified and decorated national treasure who had taken over the prime-time television slots for the past fifteen years. Jackson Young was a certified goldmine. And he was asking him—him—the gossip columnist who had barely more than a few thousand words printed to his name to write the story that everyone wanted.
Had he just found that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?
Why?
Fletcher ordered at the counter while Jackson took a seat on the corner table then he returned with two mugs of tea and said, “I’ve had enough coffee today.” Sliding into the seat opposite, he scattered sachets of sugar across the table. “If you don’t like tea, don’t drink it.”
Saying nothing, Jackson curled his hands around the mug and lifted it to his lips, gulping the lot down in one go.
“Nor is it Irish.” Fletcher flicked out a finger from around the cup handle, pointing across the table. Jackson was as much famed for his drinking as he was for anything else.
“Sober for six months.” Jackson held up the cup. “Booze doesn’t come so easily behind bars. This is about as good as it gets at the moment.” He ahh-ed and leaned back in the chair, draping his arm over the seat next to him.
The whole movement was done with ease and control. Yet there was something not quite right. Something in the way he spoke, the way he repositioned himself, the way he flinched at every movement, every sound, every flurry of air conditioning that wafted through his tousled blond hair that juxtaposed against his casual and self-assured stance.
But once he’d settled, he said, “So, Fletcher, want to write my life story?” Then raised his eyebrows in challenge.
Inhaling a deep breath, Fletcher realised that this might be for real and his chest rippled with the anticipation. Forgetting for a fleeting moment that—although freed from Her Majesty’s pleasure—Jackson was a hated man right now, this was the one thing that Fletcher had wanted his whole life. To write. To write something good. A Jackson Young biography would elevate his work to the round tables at the front of Waterstones, Foyles, feck, even Tesco!
And that was when it hit him.
This was going to be more than his usual kiss-and-tell.
“Will you tell me the truth?” he asked.
Jackson nodded. Once. Then held up his palm. “The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
Fucking hell! This story was big, fucking news. Jackson’s public breakdown six months ago had put his name on the tip of everyone’s tongues since. Questions had been left unanswered and it was Fletcher who was going to uncover them. There was so much more to Jackson Young’s life story than the usual rags to riches, rise to fame that littered the biography shelves.
A shroud of darkness loomed over Jackson.
And the nation was itching to read it.
“Why can’t you write it?” It was a valid question, and maybe, it was a way to sabotage the opportunity before Fletcher even made the decision that could make or break him. “Unless this is a ghost-writing deal?” Would that be better?
“What the fuck is a ghost writer?” Genuine confusion ran across Jackson’s face before being replaced with the more familiar seeping annoyance mixed with a flicker of—dare he think it—disconcertment?
“Where someone else writes it but the book says it’s you. You get the glory, the promotion opportunities, the awards, the royalties.”
“What do you get?”
“An upfront payment usually.”
The laughter that thundered around the café drowned out the sizzle of bacon from the kitchen and the few customers glanced their way. Jackson, obviously realising his mistake at attracting attention, shuffled forward, straightened his back and readjusted his position. His bright smile fell and in its place was something more stifled, melancholy even.
“I can’t pay you,” he admitted. “I was declared bankrupt. Some time back.”
“Oh.” That was a turn up for the books, excuse the pun. “Right. Well, that’s shite.”
“You don’t say.”
Fletcher narrowed his eyes. How could Jackson Young admit to something so degrading and yet the man’s returning words made him feel like the injured party? A gift. Jackson had the gift of ensuring people squirmed in his presence. Of making people feel that they weren’t as worthy, that they should be grateful to be within his vicinity, to be indebted by his acknowledgement.
But he was no longer perched on the pedestal that the British public had put him on.
Jackson shrugged, “You’re the writer. I’m just the performer. Well, ex-performer. I just say what other people tell me to.”