hope I’m right.
I take my eyes off the edge of the woods and sit back at the table. It’s the place that gives me the strongest sense of security—my back to the wall and the door within eyeshot.
If Lenzen wants to sit opposite me, he’ll have to sit with his back to the door. That makes most people nervous and reduces their powers of concentration, but he accepts without protest. If he notices at all, he doesn’t let it show.
‘Shall we?’ I ask.
Lenzen nods and takes a seat opposite me.
He takes out notepad, pen and digital recorder from the bag that he has placed on the floor beside his chair. I wonder what else he has in there. He’s focusing his mind. I sit up straight. I feel the urge to cross my legs and fold my arms, but I resist. No protective gestures. I place both feet firmly on the ground. I rest my lower arm on the table and lean forwards, taking up space, asserting myself—what Dr Christensen calls ‘power poses’. I watch Lenzen straighten his papers and square up the recorder with the corner of the table.
‘Well,’ he begins. ‘First of all I’d like to thank you for your time. I know that you rarely give interviews and I feel honoured that you’ve invited me to your house.’
‘I’m a great admirer of your work,’ I say, hoping to sound noncommittal.
‘Really?’ He puts on a face, as if he were genuinely flattered. There is a pause and I realise that he’s expecting me to elaborate.
‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘Your reports from Afghanistan, Iran, Syria—you do some important work.’
He lowers his eyes and smiles modestly, as if embarrassed by the praise that he has elicited from me.
What are you playing at, Herr Lenzen?
With my upright posture and my controlled, steady breathing, I am sending my body all the signals it needs to be focused yet relaxed, but still my nerves are tense, almost snapping. I can’t wait to find out what questions Lenzen has prepared and how he intends to conduct the interview. He must be just as tense, wondering what I’m hoping to achieve, what kind of a hand I’ve dealt myself, what trumps I have up my sleeve. He clears his throat and glances at his notes. The photographer is busy with his camera; he takes a trial shot, then goes back to looking at his light meter.
‘All right,’ says Lenzen. ‘My first question is the one all your readers must be asking. You’re famous for your literary, almost poetic novels. Now, with Blood Sisters , you’ve written your first thriller. Why the switch in genre?’
That is the question I’d expected him to start with and I relax a little. I do not, however, get round to answering, because at that moment I hear noises coming from the hall—a key turning in the lock, then footsteps.
I catch my breath.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, and get up.
I have to leave Lenzen alone for a minute. But the photographer is there with him, and the idea that he might be in cahoots with Lenzen doesn’t make any sense at all.
I go out into the hall and my heart sinks.
‘Charlotte!’ I cry, unable to conceal my dismay. ‘What are you doing here?’
She frowns at me, her coat dripping.
‘Isn’t it the interview today?’
She hears the murmurs of the two men coming from the dining room and looks at her watch in bewilderment.
‘Oh God, I’m not late, am I? I thought the whole thing didn’t start until twelve!’
‘I wasn’t actually expecting you at all,’ I whisper, because I don’t want Lenzen to hear. ‘I left a message on your voicemail. Didn’t you get it?’
‘Oh, I lost my mobile the other day,’ Charlotte says casually. ‘But now that I’m here…’
She leaves me standing there, puts her bunch of keys down on the sideboard next to the door and hangs up her flimsy Little Red Riding Hood coat.
‘What can I do for you?’
I have to restrain myself from slapping her and pushing her back out with force. The murmuring in the dining room has stopped—the men must be eavesdropping.
I need to get a
I take my eyes off the edge of the woods and sit back at the table. It’s the place that gives me the strongest sense of security—my back to the wall and the door within eyeshot.
If Lenzen wants to sit opposite me, he’ll have to sit with his back to the door. That makes most people nervous and reduces their powers of concentration, but he accepts without protest. If he notices at all, he doesn’t let it show.
‘Shall we?’ I ask.
Lenzen nods and takes a seat opposite me.
He takes out notepad, pen and digital recorder from the bag that he has placed on the floor beside his chair. I wonder what else he has in there. He’s focusing his mind. I sit up straight. I feel the urge to cross my legs and fold my arms, but I resist. No protective gestures. I place both feet firmly on the ground. I rest my lower arm on the table and lean forwards, taking up space, asserting myself—what Dr Christensen calls ‘power poses’. I watch Lenzen straighten his papers and square up the recorder with the corner of the table.
‘Well,’ he begins. ‘First of all I’d like to thank you for your time. I know that you rarely give interviews and I feel honoured that you’ve invited me to your house.’
‘I’m a great admirer of your work,’ I say, hoping to sound noncommittal.
‘Really?’ He puts on a face, as if he were genuinely flattered. There is a pause and I realise that he’s expecting me to elaborate.
‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘Your reports from Afghanistan, Iran, Syria—you do some important work.’
He lowers his eyes and smiles modestly, as if embarrassed by the praise that he has elicited from me.
What are you playing at, Herr Lenzen?
With my upright posture and my controlled, steady breathing, I am sending my body all the signals it needs to be focused yet relaxed, but still my nerves are tense, almost snapping. I can’t wait to find out what questions Lenzen has prepared and how he intends to conduct the interview. He must be just as tense, wondering what I’m hoping to achieve, what kind of a hand I’ve dealt myself, what trumps I have up my sleeve. He clears his throat and glances at his notes. The photographer is busy with his camera; he takes a trial shot, then goes back to looking at his light meter.
‘All right,’ says Lenzen. ‘My first question is the one all your readers must be asking. You’re famous for your literary, almost poetic novels. Now, with Blood Sisters , you’ve written your first thriller. Why the switch in genre?’
That is the question I’d expected him to start with and I relax a little. I do not, however, get round to answering, because at that moment I hear noises coming from the hall—a key turning in the lock, then footsteps.
I catch my breath.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, and get up.
I have to leave Lenzen alone for a minute. But the photographer is there with him, and the idea that he might be in cahoots with Lenzen doesn’t make any sense at all.
I go out into the hall and my heart sinks.
‘Charlotte!’ I cry, unable to conceal my dismay. ‘What are you doing here?’
She frowns at me, her coat dripping.
‘Isn’t it the interview today?’
She hears the murmurs of the two men coming from the dining room and looks at her watch in bewilderment.
‘Oh God, I’m not late, am I? I thought the whole thing didn’t start until twelve!’
‘I wasn’t actually expecting you at all,’ I whisper, because I don’t want Lenzen to hear. ‘I left a message on your voicemail. Didn’t you get it?’
‘Oh, I lost my mobile the other day,’ Charlotte says casually. ‘But now that I’m here…’
She leaves me standing there, puts her bunch of keys down on the sideboard next to the door and hangs up her flimsy Little Red Riding Hood coat.
‘What can I do for you?’
I have to restrain myself from slapping her and pushing her back out with force. The murmuring in the dining room has stopped—the men must be eavesdropping.
I need to get a
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