“Isn’t it?” said Blair. “And for what? So I get more TV appearances and more adulation and money?”

“When you put it like that . . .” said Carmen, but she still wasn’t interested in her food. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“What were your teeth like before?”

“Fine,” said Blair sadly. “I wouldn’t mind, but people keep coming up and telling me their terrible problems like I can help, and all I can think about are my sore teeth.”

“Your books have helped loads of people,” said Carmen. “Otherwise people wouldn’t buy them.”

“People buy things in the hope that it will make them feel better,” said Blair. “It gives you a momentary boost, just buying it, but not for long. It’s just a stupid dopamine hit whereby I tell you things are going to be great and you fantasize that they are and you feel better. Then you go back to your shit normality and it’s all shit again, and guess what? You’re not living the life you imagined, you’re living the life that got dumped in your lap when your parent got sick or your partner became a drunk or your children became disappointments. So you think you’ll make yourself better and you buy another book. That’s my entire business plan.” He frowned. “I don’t normally talk like this. Jet lag.”

“And Champagne.”

“Oh yeah. And you’re a good listener.”

Carmen didn’t want to say that she hadn’t really been able to get a word in edgewise, so she just smiled.

“Well, stop doing it then,” she said.

“If I stop doing it, Emily loses her job,” he said, looking at her then—not in his “hey, let me grasp your hand and do full eye contact” way, but quite straightforwardly. “So do half the publishing team at my office, who, by the way, when they’re not publishing any old rubbish by me, are publishing really good books that nobody reads.” He sighed. “I can’t do that. I just can’t.” He glanced at his watch. “And soon I have to go to a children’s hospital.”

“So you’d skip the interviews but not the children’s hospital?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m a cynic, sweetie, not a monster.”

She smiled at him, feeling surprisingly slightly sympathetic. “Can’t you write a book about being authentic?” she said. “Then you could be authentic.”

“I did!” he said despairingly. “It sold millions—you really have never heard of me, have you?”

“I totally almost have,” protested Carmen.

“It was called Live Your Happy, Authentic Life for a Better, More Confident You.”

“But you didn’t try it on yourself.”

“I’m trying it right now,” he said. “I think I might be a bit of a drag.”

“You’re all right,” said Carmen.

“Thank you,” he said. “Could I possibly ask you to forget all of this and not sell it to a newspaper?”