The Spoiler by Annalena McAfee Page B

the core of steel in her heart.
    “It’s a formula, yes. But it’s a formula that works. You must have asked the same questions, now and again, of your soldiers and politicians, your actors and artists, your writers. The questions might be the same but the answers are always different. It’s the answers that make the story.”
    She had a point. But Honor was not going to concede it, and, perversely, it spurred her to attack.
    “In that case, why did you bother coming here at all? Why not send me a multiple-choice questionnaire? How would it go, your ‘standard interview’ questionnaire? ‘One: As a child were you—(a) abused? (b) happy? (c) witness to an unspeakable family tragedy? Two: As an adult did you have—(a) ten lovers or fewer? (b) twenty lovers or fewer? (c) numberless hordes?’ ”
    Tamara’s face coloured. She thought again of her interview with the psychopathically arrogant American TV star.
    “I loathe your TV show,” she had wanted to tell him. “And above all I loathe you, you ridiculous, bloated has-been.”
    But she had thought of her salary, clenched her fists and, instead, asked him: “What are your impressions of Sydenham? Do you have any plans to see more of the area?”
    Now she was fighting the urge to tell Honor Tait that she had no interest in her, her work, her family or her so-called book.
    “I’m sorry,” Tamara mumbled. “I know the really important stuff is about your work … politics, history and all that. But we need the human angle too, to bring all this to life. Our readers need to get an impression of you as a person.”
    An existential fatigue began to settle over Honor like an autumn mist.
    “As a person? What I look like now, as opposed to then? Whether I’m kindly or crotchety? Fragrant or malodorous? Whether I’m a fascinating raconteur or a tedious old bore?”
    Tamara wrote: “malodorous, tedious old bore.” She compressed her lips in a grim smile.
    “No. No. We just need something about your life outside of work. Your parents—what were they like? A few sentences, that’s all. What kind of child were you? Your love life, home life, hopes, dreams, fears … Then we can get down to the real story.”
    “I’m afraid, Tara,” Honor said, her voice strained with the effort of patience, “that, like most journalists of my generation, I have an allergy to the first-person singular. You wouldn’t understand this, of course. Youbelieve in ‘letting it all hang out,’ don’t you? That’s still the phrase, isn’t it? Well, my view is, ‘Put it away. It’s neither interesting nor decent. No one else wants to see it.’ ”
    “But they
do
want to know! You’ve seen a lot. You’re wise. We could learn from you.”
    Honor wondered what possible “wisdom” might be imparted in an account of her “love life,” past and present. Her love affairs had been another subject for the analyst’s parlour, but her agonised monologues, occasionally punctuated by Dr. Kohler’s neutral yet encouraging murmurs, had yielded no insights or pleasures. She could more usefully have spent the fees retaining the services of a full-time gigolo.
    “ ‘The man with insight enough to accept his limitations comes nearest to perfection,’ ” Honor said. “Goethe. That’s wisdom for you. But it requires a certain intelligence, which may be beyond you, to learn from it.”
    Tamara’s eyes were smarting. She should get up and leave right now. How much did she really want this contract?
    “A few simple questions, that’s all,” she pleaded. “What did you do when you filed your pieces and headed for home? When and where were you happiest? And who with? Hobbies. Family. Pet peeves. Most embarrassing moment. Your husbands, lovers. Just a word or two. Name-checking, really. That sort of thing.”
    “Really? Look around you at the state of the world, the injustice, the suffering.” Honor gestured, with trembling arms, as if her room contained the sum of the