By Emancietta “Emasculetta” Berkley

I wouldn’t have stood a newt’s chance in hell to get this interview if not for the huge help of Ms Alyssa Lenz, who I happened to know and who is Dr Lindqvist’s BFF since preparatory school. I’d had several interviews with Ms Lenz – no problems there. But Dr Lindqvist was reserved for the gods and goddesses, who all happened to belong to her vast empire. The Agreement was that I should weave the interview into my interview with Ms Lenz. That was how I convinced Ms Lenz to smuggle me into Dr Lindqvist’s jet at a London private airport. Dr Lindqvist couldn’t say no to her girlfriend, apparently. We all have our Achilles’ Heels. 

Dr Lindqvist is actually more formidable in person than the stunning beauty of the media dazzle-‘em-senseless snatches. Or the adorable girl-next-door beauty with the mesmerising eyes. She’s cool. I mean like unknown abyss, adrenaline-spiker ultra cool. You can only speculate on the depth of the abyss, and while that spikes up your adrenaline, you’re shit-scared to come too close to the edge just in case you slip. You don’t know what, when, where and how your fall will end. 

Whereas Roman Castell has the arrogance of Zeus walking the face of the earth, and a presence so solid and encompassing it’s the Great Wall of China, Dr Lindqvist’s aura is the most laid-back superiority you can imagine. She had it and exuded it with no conscious efforts at all. It was as naturally a part of her as her own God-given golden skin. Beauty like hers could stop the Earth revolving in its axis if the Earth had eyes to clap on her.

A private interview with her? Well one chance in a— Go out at night and count the stars. All of them. Then you’ll probably be close to how often those interviews come by. All her interviews are called by her, over issues concerning her world empire and attended by her own media people – who are part of her empire. 

As with Castell, I request a minute of her valuable time. She gives me thirty seconds. As a favour to her BFF. Alyssa moves away from us by some tacit understanding between the two, to the beige sofa with bright yellow throw pillows at the other end of the cabin. I plunge in. Thirty seconds is zilch, but for a journalist with a chance to say I interviewed none other than… it’s pure gold.

EB: I hear you’ve finally met Europe’s undisputed Dom of Dominants, Roman Castell.

[She looks at me with a quiff of her brow. Her eyes – lethal. The most gorgeous shades of grey-blue-turquoise-mother-of-pearl blends I ever saw, that stand out against her golden skin like stars at midnight in rural Australia. The God that created her didn’t create the rest of us, I think]

SL: Indeed I have.

[I realise that’s all the answer I’m getting. My mind is dreaming away, trying to match make the two – Castell/Lindqvist – going, When these two pairs of eyes meet and lock, his unique blues and her wickedly mesmerising—]

SL: Twenty-one seconds left, Ms Berkley.

[I snap out of it]

EB: Your first meet—

[She cuts me off. She has already figured out where I’m going with the question]

SL: Roman is fast, whatever he sets his mind on doing or achieving, I believe. He possibly lands on it at one hundred k.p.h and still floors the accelerator all the way. It often forces him to crash-land, I should think. And even then, he doesn’t quite apply the breaks. That was my first impression of him the first time I met him, Ms Berkley. That impression hasn’t changed. 

[You’re worse than him, I think again, deciding that I’ll fill in most of the interview on my desk with descriptions of her jet and the now disappeared personnel who had just served us vintage Krug in tulips. I also have some photos from Ms Lenz’ websites of her family estate in Nairobi, for one. Something colonial some British lord build in the 19th century. Nice touch. Her family has about a thousand homes around the globe. Anyway, we sit facing each other in the spacious cabin, which is done up in minimalist but not frugal style. Huge designer panoramic windows – can one call those portholes, I wonder? Lots of designer virginal white with a dub of beige, brown and sun-yellow. I rest my head on the seat with her initials like some sort of monogram: SCEL – Svadishana Caroline Elizabeth Lindqvist]

EB: Any considerations on seeing Mr Castell again, Dr Lindqvist?

SL: That’s a question you should ask Ms Lenz. She’s the one romantically liaised with Mr Castell. I met him through her.

EB: But his interests are in you.

SL: Wrong, Ms Berkley. His interests have lost nothing in me. There’s hardly enough room in me for my own interests.

[Damn. She really is worse than him]

EB: I think you know what I mean, Dr Lindqvist.

[She smiles at me in a way that brings the cavewoman in me to the fore, hackles up: You can’t go having all the Alphas mounting you, you witch; we Beta females need f*ucks and spanking bairns too! And yet, even while I bristle, I can’t help thinking what an absolutely gorgeous pair they would make, Dr Lindqvist and Roman Castell. I mean, you can’t imagine George Clooney pairing off with Paris Hilton, right? Oh come on, we can’t get Roman so let’s not begrudge this gorgeous bitch that. What’s the point? He wants her with a vengeance, if what he told me in our one-minute-and-a-bit interview was the truth. And her teeth, I tell you? Alpine white, and those blue-white glaciers whose survival the environmentalists are worried about, added to her teeth for sheen]

SL: You think I read minds. [It’s a statement] I don’t. And your time is up, Ms Berkley. Thank you for stopping by. I have a skip over to Hong Kong to hop. [She calls out to Alyssa Lenz at the other end of the cabin] Hey, girlfriend. We’re done here.

I sigh but I know this is it. Thirty seconds agreed, thirty seconds of that given. To the dot. Break the Agreement and it’s your last interview with her ever. We haven’t even touched the champagne tulips. And I want more interviews with her someday, so I behave. 

I discreetly take more pics of her Gulf650 cabin on the way out, accompanied by Alyssa. Of course I couldn’t photograph her – part of the Agreement. But there were tons of photos of her in the Internet, you only had to know where to look. I had at least two banked in my Cloud that immediately come to my mind: 

One of her in evening silver reclining on the black marble steps of her recently opened mall in Shanghai or somewhere (hard to keep track off my head; she’s opening one building or other all over the globe. All I remember right now is that shimmering, slinky, silver-grey gown that only she could adorn with those African jewellery and get away with), and another very simple snapshot of her head and shoulders taken by a friend – probably Ms Lenz – and pinned on Pinterest, with those huge grey-blue-mother-of-pearl eyes gazing at the camera. Her eyes always shift hues, tones and shades depending on the lighting and surrounding colours, including those colours she wore on that natural gold of her skin.

I look over my shoulder at her as I leave – she’s got her laptop open again and she is bent over it, working. I think of some of us less privileged bitches who are reported to call her Ms Bank of Mum & Dad. Now I have the begrudging but strongest feeling that Beauty does work hard for her Beast. If only… well, you know – the cavewoman in us all that survived the evolutionary processes. So, if only she wasn’t such an effortlessly-Alpha-male-magnetic-field…