This might sound like a very odd thing to do, but interviewing your characters before you put pen to paper was an idea given to me by the lovely Claire Walker whom I met on a writing retreat at Weetwood Hall in Leeds.
Just as I’m beginning to think he isn’t going to show, the door opens. My head whips round and I’m greeted by JC, hotelier and billionaire.
Wow, he’s so tall, of Spanish descent I’m told, with over-long dark, curly hair and brown eyes. Incredibly handsome, in a rugged sort of way, he has broad, muscular shoulders and well-developed arms and chest. He works out for sure. My mouth drops open. His presence is mesmerising. He holds himself incredibly well, and immediately comes across as quietly confident, dominant, and proud of what and who he is. And why not? JC is filthy rich, with more money than he knows what to do with.
The next thing I notice when he walks into the room is the jagged scar on the right hand side of his temple. This, I’ve been told, is a result of the car accident that almost cost him his life. Luckily, he walked away to live another day, but I wonder how this has affected him deep down? Is he still the same man? I certainly intend to ask him.
I’ve seen him in photographs but these haven’t prepared me for the utter size of him. He’s at least six feet three, with shoulders in proportion to his stature. It’s a warm day and he’s carrying his jacket over one muscular arm. I can’t take my eyes off the width of his shoulders, outlined beautifully in the crisp, white shirt he’s wearing. His legs are incased in trousers that even to my inexperienced eye are quite obviously bespoke. The fabric is first class, top quality. He looks long, lean and lithe, and I shiver involuntarily. I rise to my feet on trembling legs.
He reaches over and shakes my hand. His grip is firm, and for some reason it sends a tingle through my flesh.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me, Mr C.”
“I can spare you an hour. That should suffice, shouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know. My readers are voracious and interested in everything about you. Can we reschedule if we don’t get through it all?”
“I talk fast,” he says. “We won’t need to reschedule.”
His reply doesn’t faze me. I've been doing this job long enough to realise that not all interviews are likely to run smoothly. His eyes meet mine and I’m memorised by how dark they are, or is it because we’re indoors in artificial light?
“I thought my office had made that plain?”
So - he values his privacy, but I can’t blame him for that, especially after what’s happened to him recently. I sink back down onto the leather sofa. For some stupid reason my legs feel like jelly and I don’t know why.
I take a deep breath. “Okay, shall we make a start? Can I just say, first of all, how sorry I was to hear about your recent car accident.”
“Thanks.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
He sits down in an adjoining chair and raises a dark eyebrow. “I don’t remember.”
“What - nothing?”
He rubs his temple near to his scar. “No. I hit my head, and my brain - or so the doctors tell me - has blocked it out.”
“What other injuries did you sustain?”
“I was trapped by my left leg which has been left slightly weaker. With time it should recover. Fortunately, intensive physiotherapy is helping with that.”
I speak bluntly. “Does the fact that you now have a scar on your face bother you?”
“I would rather it wasn’t there, obviously.”
“But, does it affect your day-to-day life? I mean, what about your relationships with the opposite sex?
His gaze is even. “It doesn’t hold me back in the slightest. I can assure you of that.”
I flush. “Do you remember anything previous to the accident?”
“Some.”
“Like what?”
“Most of my business dealings - boardroom stuff, mainly. Fortunately, I lost very little of those details. Some things are still a little scratchy, but coming back bit by bit.”
“Getting clearer, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything that you’re still finding hard to remember?”
“I still don’t know why I was in the car that night, and where I was going. Whilst I was in the hospital for the two months after the accident, I had a regular visitor who swore she knew me intimately. She insisted she’d been a passenger in the car with me.”
My ears prick up. “Really? Can’t you check it out? I mean, are there no witnesses who can corroborate her story?”
He lets out his breath. “Unfortunately not. There was no mention of anyone else being in the vehicle with me. I’ve also had all the medical records checked out too. Nothing.”
“So, she wasn’t injured? Maybe she’s lying.”
“She’s an opportunist.”
“You mean you think she’s seen it all in the press, and decided to try her luck?”
“Yes.”
“Honestly, some people. Do you feel any connection with this woman?”
He swallows harshly. “Yes, unfortunately there is a connection. I can feel it. So, that just makes things worse.”
“Really?”
“She’s stunning. I’m drawn to her, like I’ve never been drawn to anyone before. Physically, I’m very attracted to her. She also tells me I got her pregnant.”
“Oh, my God, really?”
So there you go. I think talking to yourself can sometimes work.
Hope you all have a wonderful Christmas.
Until next time
Kim x
