I open a new email.
To: Julian Haversham
Subject: Interview
If you still need someone to speak publicly, I’ll do it.
The reply comes within minutes.
Call me.
I stare at my reflection in the screen before picking up the phone. If I do this, it won’t only be professional. I’m stepping up not only as an oncologist but as a widower. Someone who has lived the pain. And once I step into the fire willingly, there’s no pretending I didn’t choose it.
I retreat to my den behind the kitchen. A pocket hidden away, where I can escape when I need to. The boys are upstairs getting ready for school, or I hope they are. The bangs and clatters above my head suggest they’re at least awake.
Julian answers on the first ring. I throw myself down on the sofa.
“Are you serious?” he says, tone sharp but cynical. “This could bring you unwanted attention. I’m delighted, but want to be sure you know what you’re signing up for. No last minute drop outs.”
“Someone has to. It may as well be me.” I slide my wedding ring from my finger and place it on the table beside me. Bex doesn’t need to be part of this.
“I’ll message you the details once it’s set up. Any scheduling restrictions?”
He’s already typing an email, the bang of the keyboard filtering down the line.
“No, I’ll work around you,” I say. “Sooner rather than later.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
The call ends, and I place my cell face down on the side table, nerves already itching my throat. An endless video of possible events plays in my mind. All the ways me agreeing to this could go wrong.
As I close my eyes, leaning back in my chair, I become aware of someone watching from the doorway.
“You took your ring off,” Liam says, voice quiet, not accusatory.
My thumb and finger spin the ring again; it echoes against the wood, turning like a weathervane in strong winds. I open my eyes and turn my chair to face my son.
“I have an interview,” I tell him as way of explanation. His head cocks to one side.
“Is it important?”
“Very.” The seriousness of the situation settles in my stomach. Without Opengate, there’s no retreat. Without a good reputation, any business will slowly decompose.
“What’s it for?” he asks. “The interview.”
I smile. Liam is exact. Always wants whoever he’s speaking to understand what he’s talking about. Today is no different.
“The retreat.” I take a breath, then spin the ring again. We both watch it turn, then I lay it flat on the wood with my palm. “The future of it. The why…”
“Why what?”
“Why the retreat is necessary,” I explain. “There’s some negative press surrounding Opengate, and we need their support.”
Liam bites his lip, then opens his mouth to speak when my phone rings—Julian. I lift a finger to signal to stay, and we’ll talk after the call.
“Julian,” I say.
“Ben. Be at Opengate at three o’clock today. I’ve sorted a few reporters.” He’s clear and clinical, calmer than I’ve ever heard him. But PR is his expertise. “Email me some notes if you can. What you’re willing to speak about and what you aren’t. I can’t promise they’ll stay off unwanted topics, but I can try.”