Who: Gwenyth Miracle and Alasdair Buchanan. What: A meeting to discuss Alasdair's PR situation. When: Thursday, Sept. 14 (backdated). Where: Gwen's office, Portree HQ. Warnings: None!
These meeting with the players had been a good idea, Gwen considered -- of course, most of her ideas were good. The war had shaken everything up, and Portree had more new faces than was usual at the start of a season; getting to know them all was crucial, so she could best present her team to the world.
One of those new faces was due in her office any moment, and Gwen was flicking through his personnel file in advance of seeing the man himself. Alasdair Buchanan, a local boy, formerly with Wigtown, wandered off to the Continent to play for Quiberon, now wandering back home with years of European League experience under his belt. His father was with DOMGAS, which meant he worked under Gwen’s father, a nice thing to know. She’d have to ask how closely he was related to Angus Buchanan, possibly a connection to play up when promoting him, since everyone loved Angus. Alasdair was a Ravenclaw, class of ‘89 -- Gwen remembered him vaguely from school, just another one of those Quidditch-mad boys who thought being able to throw a ball around while not falling off their brooms made them Merlin’s gift to the world. Ha.
She was dictating notes to her self-writing quill when the knock came on her door, and without looking up she called, “Come in, Mr. Buchanan.”
Walking into the room, Alasdair was strongly reminded of the notion of being called to the office of one’s head of house at Hogwarts. He'd just had time to wonder if this had been an intentional approach on Gwen’s part - the last naming and lack of eye contact DID seem very authoritarian - but he saw no point in being antagonistic, so seated himself opposite her without mentioning it. Now freshened up after practice, he was showered and neatly groomed as he sat opposite the woman he'd known at school - one who aimed to see how best to present this more mature version of Alasdair to the world.
Well, Alasdair thought, quietly and politely greeting Gwen by her professional title, he wasn't exactly appearing the way he'd done after the Quiberon PR manager had been at him, but he suspected that this one may prefer the blank slate. He certainly didn't doubt she would be asking him about his promotional commitments in France at some point over their conversation, but from everything he'd heard, this one was very much her own woman.
Stretching then crossing his long legs, he didn't look his full height as he sat before her. No, he was merely a clean cut young (ish) Scotsman, sitting in front of her like he'd done this many times before, unphased each time.
This part was, of course, completely true.
Gwen let Alasdair get settled before she looked up and offered her hand across the desk along with a smile. The smile was sincere enough, as far as that went. She really did enjoy her job, after all, and there were so many interesting possibilities with this one. "Thank you for coming in," she said. "And, though I know you'll have heard it from everyone at this point, welcome to Portree. The Pride is pleased to have you along for the season, particularly after that impressive performance in the first match. Well done indeed."
That was enough pleasantries, she thought, and so she glanced down again at his file and the fresh piece of notepaper she'd pulled out to record her thoughts and impressions. "Now, as with all the other new members of the team, I want to have an informal chat with you in order to make sure we're both on the same page in terms of how the team promotes you to the public. I have some thoughts from looking at your profile and your record in France, but I'd like you to tell me what you think our fans would most like to know about you, what sort of image you'd like to present to the world. The two-minute, magazine-profile version of Alasdair Buchanan, if you will."
She smiled and folded her hands in front of her with her eyes fixed on Alasdair, quill hovering at attention over her notepaper.
He had reseated himself correctly after shaking her hand, the expression on his face not quite surprised, but certainly one that hasn't been expecting the question right off the bat. Instinctively tilting his head to one side, a habit he always used when put on the spot, he gave the enquiry genuine thought.
“I suppose, being a Skye boy born and bred, people might wonder why I'm not one of the lifers. I doubt they'd dwell too long on it, but if it was me, that'd be the first thing that sprung to mind,” he mused aloud, rubbing the side of his face. “And as for image… I'm a pretty private person, so I suppose being all about the Quidditch, dedicated to the sport and not in it for fame, that'd work best for me and mine.”
Gwen nodded at his response, her expression extremely neutral. It wasn't an exciting answer nor a unique one, but there was a little meat there. Time to dig deeper.
"Our fans do like a hometown hero to root for, that's a clear point in your favour," she agreed. "And let's look at your years abroad as an asset, not a detriment -- you've gained experience in the continental style of play, I suppose, brought some new tricks home and so forth. It makes you a little bit exotic without being foreign, which is an excellent position to be in."
Her quill scribbled furiously on its own as she spoke, jotting down notes for future reference.
"You can be private up to a point," she went on, "but that only goes so far without becoming boring and forgettable, and no one is all about Quidditch. What else do you have in your life? Hobbies, interests, goals for the future? Pets? A touching family story, perhaps?"
“Allow me to correct myself a bit, then, if you would,” Alasdair replied, jovial enough as he crossed his legs a bit at the ankles, relaxing more into the chair. “Not all about the Quidditch in the sense of not having a life, but I had a good record at Quiberon and it’s something I’m proud of.” No sense in denying that - and anyone who did would clearly be a liar. Or patronising. Or both. “And while Scotland is a big part of who I am, France was good to me as experiences go. If there’s something I would like to be acknowledged, it’d be that going over there was a good career move, and yes, that it made me a better player than I might have been otherwise…” his voice trailed off a little, not really knowing how to finish the thought. He suspected he’d made enough of a point anyway.
“And as for privacy - well, I don’t mean in the sense of not doing press or interviews or events. I don’t really mind that. It’s not too taxing, in terms of things that are part and parcel of the job. My relationship with my partner is almost off-limits, though. She exists, and we’re happy, but I’m not one of those players who’ll be doing those big spreads in the gossip magazines at home, or selling wedding pictures and that sort of stuff.” He shrugged, a little, realising that was more open than he’d really intended to be. He meant it, though. All of it.
“As for the other stuff…” a longer pause, that time, not really knowing if anything was worth mentioning, given that it wasn’t out of the ordinary. “I like to cook. Not ridiculously fancy stuff, but simple things. It’s satisfying. I read, but mostly non-fiction.” He paused again, his head tilting in that quizzical way. “I have cats. Well, one officially, but we appear to have been adopted by some stray kittens.” Alasdair gave a shrug then that had a distinctly Gallic note, clearly saying well, what can you do?
Gwen steepled her hands and watched Alasdair as her quill noted the important things and her mind added a running commentary. (Cooking - run with that, book him as a guest on some sort of homemakers' wireless program, learning to make cockaleekie. Older witches would love him anyway, that inoffensive easy charm, the mannerisms that spoke just a little of abroad but came safely packaged in a wrapping that was all hometown-boy. Definitely a win there. Cats - fine, slip a candid or two to Witch Weekly on a slow news day after a lackluster match. Books - boring and useless, unless he'd volunteer for a literacy program or something. Note: ask how he was with small children and get him to one of the Laddie luncheons.)
"Your partner," she commented, because someone being cagey about their romantic life was a flag. Not necessarily a bad thing, but she’d picked up on the hesitance to disclose anything, even a name, and the vultures of the press definitely would if anything was said about it. "Tell me about that, please. Girlfriend? Fiancee? Is she British? Did you meet in France? How long have you been together? Does she live here?... I'm not simply being nosy," she added after a carefully-timed beat. "Wanting privacy is fine, but certain segments of the press and the fanbase will invent their own stories if we don't have one to give them, and not all of them are going to be very flattering to you. If we can head that off, we have a much better shot at controlling the narrative from the start, and it's easier on both of us to do prep work now than damage control later."
Honestly, she didn't care who this woman was -- unless she was underage, a Death Eater in hiding, or married to someone important, Gwen could work with it. After all, she'd dealt with McCormack the walking disaster for this long. Alasdair's mystery girlfriend could hardly be more challenging to spin than that.
Alasdair slowly quirked a brow as Gwen let out all of the questions. It was not an aggressive gesture, no. He was guarded in order to protect Ada, that was all. Neither of them were overly into the idea of their relationship being analysed at every turn in the papers. Thank fuck the French had left him alone when asked… it had been so much easier. “Tell me more about what you mean by controlling the narrative?” he enquired, folding his strong, long-fingered Chasers’ hands. “I suppose discussing boundaries comes hand in hand with what your suggestions are.”
Alasdair took a deep breath before he tackled Gwen’s questions one by one. He was no liar, and if this woman was his only shot at helping them keep quiet where possible, he didn't want in on her bad side.
“Her name is Adelaide. Girlfriend, but it's serious enough to be more than that in the future. She's French, with Scottish ancestry on one side. Yes, we met in France, and we've been together a wee bit under a year, but knew each other for years before that.” He was building up to the way they met. “And she's over here. We live together, have done a few months before the move. She's one of my emergency contacts. It's probably in my file,” he added, nodding at the thing.
Gwen followed his glance down to his personnel file as well, and found the name. Adélaïde Olivier. For some reason it sounded familiar, but she couldn't place where she’d heard that name before. The plot thickened.
“Imagine that you’re photographed with the doubtless lovely Ms. Olivier,” she told him, “and that photo comes out in some publication like, oh, Witch Weekly, Seeker WeeklyInquisitor. Which, by the way, will eventually happen unless the pair of you plan to never show your faces out of doors at the same time. What will the article say? If we’ve controlled the narrative we’ll have sprinkled just enough information throughout your promotional material that the caption will be ‘Portree Star Spotted On Lovely Night Out With Parisian Sweetheart’. If we haven’t prepared for that moment, the world will be reading about ‘Portree Chaser’s Mystery Mistress: What’s Buchanan Got To Hide?’.”
She smiled at him across the desk, a rueful smile, an I’m on your side, kid smile, a tell me everything and I’ll make it all okay smile. “I hope you can appreciate that I, personally, would much rather that first option, and I’d like to have all the facts so we can start crafting this story. So. What does she do? How did you meet her?”
Alasdair sighed, not one of the eye-rolling, stubborn sighs of his younger days, but a resignation to the fact that Gwen was undoubtedly right on that one. Wrong as it was, that was the media they had. And until that media changed, they had to play the system as it stood. Alasdair sat in thought for a moment, that head tilt making him look much more young and naive than he actually was. “I don't like it, but I know when the time is right to work with it,” he stated calmly, straightening back up in his seat. The bridge of his nose was rubbed between his fingertips, an instinctive gesture when he felt under pressure, thinking of the girlfriend who was waiting for him back at home. What would she think, if she could listen in on this? He didn't want to decide anything for the two of them without her input.
“Look, I only have one request, and that's that I get to check in with Ada before any information gets put out. I've heard only good things about what you do, so I'm sure you can work on the give and take like that.” He was almost apologetic as he looked at her then, definitely not wanting to seem ungrateful for the control of how much information the media actually had.
“As for Ada…” OK, so he was a little tense about telling Gwen about exactly what Ada was doing in Scotland, but this was the woman he loved that they were discussing. His shoulders may be set straight and firm in their stiffness, but a slight smile was building at the corner of his mouth, a fond quirk that was entirely one of loving restraint. “We met at Quiberon, right after I got out there. She was one of the reserve Keepers, so the Chasing team used to have to give them a run-out every now and again at training. Make sure they were match ready, you know?” He chuckled, remembering one memorable training session where the fiery Frenchwoman’s response to a catcall from an observer sent a quaffle hard at their head.
“We were friends for a long time. The Chasers and Keepers are encouraged to be a bit of a clique, a set, whether they're starters or reserves. So we'd known each other five years, until Hogmanay just gone…” he paused. Definitely didn't want to give too much away, but then, pretty much the entire Quiberon squad knew about this. “Well, let's just say that the traditional midnight kiss for luck made us both realise a few things about ourselves.” Another deep breath, and another apologetic glance at the woman across the desk. He had the distinct impression that she wasn't going to like what he was about to say, even if it was only because she didn't yet have the consent to make a real story play out of it, rather than because of its actual nature. “Quiberon let her transfer to the Magpies so she could come over here with me. She's Savage’s main stand-in.”
Gwen kept her face pleasant and attentive while Alasdair was getting to the point, though inside she was rolling her eyes a little. Romantic meet-cutes were always more interesting to the people involved than they were to anyone on the outside.
When he finally made it to who exactly he was dating, though, she raised her eyebrows high, and even her quill lifted itself from the paper in surprise. This tidbit was definitely worth the wait. “Your girlfriend is the new reserve Keeper for Montrose?” Gwen shook her head and laughed. “You certainly buried the lede there, Mr. Buchanan. Now that is a story.”
A story they apparently didn’t want told, which was a crying shame. She tsked internally. Players and their desire for privacy. “All right, here’s what I suggest. I want you to talk to Ms. Olivier about letting me make this public in a measured, tasteful sort of way. We don’t want the tabloids catching wind and blaring it like it’s some sort of scandal, after all. There would be a very good story here if we can put it out on our terms -- fans love a good love story, and yours crosses national and team boundaries. I have contacts in most of the magazines, and I can get someone to write you a flattering puff piece with a nice picture or two. From there on you can be as private as you like. Mostly.”
Her quill was working overtime again, scribbling notes with such haste that it was shedding drops of ink onto her desk. Gwen made a face and flicked her wand to clean up the mess.
Letting out a chuckle of quiet pride at the look of surprise on Gwen’s face, Alasdair had to settle himself before beginning to listen carefully to her response. He was open to suggestions, but he knew his own mind and certainly wasn't going to commit to anything without being fully certain that he understood Gwen’s ideas and intentions.
“Two things, before I talk to Ada. Just so I can make sure she's fully informed before we get back to you,” Alasdair asked, his voice still measured and calm, though his mind was clearly working fast, whirring behind the eyes. This was an intelligent man who sat opposite Gwen, one quicker on the uptake than the typical Quidditch playing brute, and he didn't like not being able to ask questions. “Firstly, you're suggesting leaking this to one of your contacts who will write something flattering, right? Well, do you have a particular one in mind? And what sort of piece, or photographs are you thinking of?” He definitely hated the idea of posing for photos for a self promotional piece. Hated it with a passion. But perhaps there was a way around it? He already had a thought or two…
“Secondly,” he went on, thinking that Gwen had probably already anticipated that question the moment the word had come out of her mouth, “what do you mean by mostly...?”
Gwen flicked her wand and Summoned her Magidex of media contacts, and rifled through the slowly revolving pages. “Let me see,” she said. “There’s Honoria Whittle over at Witch Weekly, who owes me several favours and would certainly write something flattering. She really doesn’t have any other style than glowing adoration. Or Abraham Nettles at Seeker Weekly, who’d be inclined to focus on the sporting bits, naturally, but he does have a weakness for romance, the old sap. I’d be happy with either of those, but if you have a publication you’d prefer, we could discuss other possibilities.”
She pushed the Magidex away and leaned forward to meet his eyes. “As to your other question. Once the cat is out of the bag, we will have to do some regular maintenance of the story to ensure it stays on the right path. Once you two come out with your relationship, we can put it about that you would prefer privacy and ask the journos to respect that. But, again, if we’re not saying anything about you, someone else will, and it’s not going to be the respectable publications who will actually check facts and cite sources.” She shrugged. “It’s the nature of this game, Mr. Buchanan. We’ll just drop the occasional crumb, put you in position to be photographed with the lovely Ms. Olivier while you’re out and about, and do whatever it takes to satisfy the piranhas of the press. We scratch their back and they’ll scratch ours, that’s how it’s always worked.”
Alasdair listened carefully as Gwen described their options. They both seemed reasonable for the purpose, but would presumably both have their pros and cons. Would the bloke, for example, give just enough attention to the relationship stuff to not immediately send the other reporters digging? Would an overly fluffy WW piece seem too untruthful? Not his call to make, he supposed.
Watching the Magidex flicker its way round, he mused aloud. “If it would help with either of them, the Quiberon publicist is pretty generous with her archive. She's probably got some candid photos from team training or other events, if they'd be of any use.” He was unsure which reporter to go with. It was Gwen, after all, who had to work with these people every day. “In your professional judgement, which do you think would be best? I mean, if we gave someone the information now, it would hopefully give them more incentive to work with us in the future, wouldn't it?”
He wrinkled his nose a little as she continued to elaborate on mostly, half wondering if she was hoping he'd change his mind on the promotional front, but he was somewhat reassured as she mentioned crumbs, lowering his shoulders and leaning back against the support of his chair. “Crumbs? I think we can do that,” he pondered, mind whirring again. “Red carpet stuff I don't really mind. That sort of thing goes down well, right? And as long as it's not those overly long pieces full of people gushing about each other… well. If it means we get more of what we need, I suppose we can talk. As and when the time comes, and all that.”
Gwen nodded, pleased, with visions of candid spreads filling her head. “I’ll have our admin get in contact with Quiberon,” she told him. “That’s an excellent notion, well done. And I don’t need you to gush, or be anything but your charming selves.” She sincerely hoped Ada was charming -- well, she was French, so that was close enough.
She gave a moment’s thought to which of her top journalist picks was her top top journalist pick, and decided that it was no contest. “I want to give the story to Honoria. As I said, she owes me -- I’ll make her let me look over whatever she comes up with before it goes to press, and she’s easy to nudge into the precise tone we’ll want to take: sedately positive, non-controversial, non-partisan, just a nice domestic profile of two young athletes finding love across borders.” She very carefully did not pull a face; that saccharine nonsense was too much for Gwen’s sensibilities, but the Witch Weekly audience would eat it up. “I’d also suggest sitting down with Mr. Nettles for a profile at some point, after the initial reveal, but his audience isn’t as focused on the romance angle as they will be on the competitive angle. If the two of you should happen to face one another in a match during the season, that will be a good option.”
Her quill would have been panting with exertion, if it could have done. The pages in front of her were covered with hastily jotted notes in Gwen’s bold, slanted hand, and her without a single cramped finger. She smiled across at Alasdair like the cat that got the cream. “Do you have any more questions for me? About this, or anything else we should chat about before getting this project moving?”
Where Gwen kept a straight expression and didn’t pull a face, Alasdair did. His tolerance for the saccharine, sickly sweet type of article put out by Witch Weekly was about as high as Gwen’s was - so at least, he thought wryly, they had something in common there. “No at-home pieces, that I will say,” he replied, trying to think if he’d ever met the writer they were discussing. “I’ll speak to her, but the more she can write it like we haven’t, the better. And it’d be better to speak in a less personal place - at the stadium or something, maybe?” He shrugged again. There had to be something they could come up with that would suit them all, especially if this woman owed Gwen a favour.
“And I don’t mind talking to Nettles. If he’s more about the Quidditch angle anyway and less about the personal stuff as a main angle, it won’t be as grating for anyone involved.” Alasdair was not a stupid man, and he knew full well how a big portion of the Quidditch fan public hated the emphasis on flashy, attention-seeking stuff. “And… I think that’s it. I don’t talk shite on public journal networks, don’t get into trouble with the hit wizards after a night out and I play clean. Don’t think there’s anything else to bring up in the first place, really.”
“Wonderful,” Gwen answered, sincerely. “Then I think we’re done here. You speak with Ms. Olivier, and we’ll be in touch about meeting with Honoria.” She stood to show him out of her office.
Once she was sure Alasdair was out of earshot, and only then did she allow herself one little cackle of delight. Unless she missed her guess, playing the information game on this one was going to be fun.