Janet Jackson has a cold. It is the hottest day of the year in London; outside, the tarmac is melting and the tube is operating as a sauna, but when I catch a first glimpse of her – buttoned up and cinched into black wool Thom Browne tuxedo pants and blazer over box-fresh platform sneakers – she looks perfectly serene, untouched by civilian inconveniences such as weather, the passing of time – or even a case of the sniffles.
I’m guided into a windowless room at the Peninsula hotel, and ask a member of the PR team about which of the two club chairs to take. I’m reassured that “the good thing about Janet is that she really doesn’t have a ‘side’. She honestly has no preference.” In superstar terms, this is meant to code Jackson as refreshingly low-key. But then, of course, she walks through the door, braids loose, posture taut. Hand sanitiser is swiftly pumped into her open palms by an assistant as Jackson apologises for being unwell. She turns to me to dispense a firm handshake and an undeniably dazzling smile. She is every bit as starry as I’d hoped: charming, expensive-smelling, comfortable being fussed over in a way only a lifetime of fame will do for you.
