The Trade Off: a Novel, page 15
“How can this be allowed to go on? I thought Max was on my side. I believed we were stamping it out.”
Flic sighs. “But isn’t that what tabloids do? This poor woman gave them an opportunity and they ran with it. It’s what they’ve always done.”
“She’s dead!” I shout. “How is that OK?”
“I’m not saying it’s OK,” says Flic. “I’m just saying that her indiscretion was deemed to be news, and in the public interest.”
“What someone does in their private life shouldn’t be cannon fodder for the masses … Not without their permission.”
“Come on,” says Flic, not unkindly. “You know how it works. You can’t be surprised.”
“But this hounding of people needs to stop,” I say. “It can’t be allowed to carry on.”
“And who’s going to be brave enough to take them on?” asks Flic. “It’s not going to be the government or the police, because they’re up to their eyeballs in it as well.”
My mind races, desperately trying to imagine a sea change whereby the tabloids are held accountable for their actions. But Flic’s right, everyone’s running scared of them, lowering their own standards to get into bed with them, throwing their morals to the wolves if it means keeping on their right side.
“I’m coming home,” she says as my brain continues to whir. “You shouldn’t be on your own right now.”
By the time she arrives thirty minutes later, I’m drowning in the depths of the internet, entrenched in the lost causes of former celebrities who have found themselves on the front pages for all the wrong reasons:
Hollywood Star in Hooker Shame
MP in Drug Orgy
Premiership Footballer’s Cocaine Deal
Name after name, sting after sting, careers and lives ruined—all for less than the price of a coffee to you and me. Few have fought back. All have lost.
“Look at all these people,” I cry as Flic wraps her arms around me.
“Are you going on a one-woman crusade?” she asks gently.
“I’ve got to do something,” I say. “None of these poor people deserve what’s happened to them.”
She looks at my computer screen, where a staunch anti-drugs campaigner is pictured at a party with a powdered nose. “Mmm, well, maybe some of them do.”
“I don’t mean the likes of him,” I say, sniffing. “I’m talking about the Tilly Ashcrofts of this world. I stood by and watched them ply her with drink, lured by the promise of a multi-million-dollar movie contract, then ask her if she could get hold of any drugs.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “They courted her for months. Giving her first-class plane tickets to Dubai. Putting her up in the best suites. All to reel her in, gain her trust, make her feel she was indebted to them.”
“So what are you going to do?” Flic asks.
“I’m going to put a stop to it,” I say, aware of how naive I must sound. “I’m going to make them accountable—make them realize they’re destroying people’s lives.”
Flic frowns. “Look, you’re my best friend,” she starts, “and I love you to the moon and back, but you can’t possibly change the media landscape all on your own.”
“They’re killing people, Flic!”
She pulls me close. “I know, and I can’t begin to imagine how you’re feeling, but this has been going on since the start of time, and there is nothing you, I or anyone else can do about it.”
I narrow my eyes, knowing she’s probably right, but refusing to accept it.
“You can’t change the world all on your own,” she says gently.
“Just watch me,” I say, defiantly.
28
Stella
It has felt like the longest week of her life, and all Stella really wants to do is go home. But to do that will mean making herself vulnerable to whatever is waiting for her there. She shudders involuntarily at the thought. If only she could see into Ray McAllister’s world; know what he’s planning to do, because the anticipation is killing her. She’d almost rather he simply inflict the damage he’s intending now, so that she doesn’t have to live in fear waiting for it.
Even as the car that Peter has sent for her weaves its way through the narrow lanes of Wiltshire, she can’t help but imagine a van coming out of a side road, with four hooded men jumping out, ready to ambush her. What will McAllister do with her, once he’s got her? she wonders.
As the driver looks at her in the rearview mirror, his once-friendly eyes appear sinister in the narrow reflection, shrouded in the shadows of the passing trees as their branches tap against the bodywork of the car.
“Nearly there, Miss,” he says as Stella forces a tight smile, pushing away the picture of a derelict barn in the middle of nowhere, with McAllister lying in wait. It’s only when she hears the sound of gravel under the car’s tires, and sees the welcoming manor house at the end of the drive, that her coiled insides begin to relax.
Standing at the front door, she adjusts the crossover neckline of her jumpsuit, wishing she’d worn something more conservative. It doesn’t show anything, apart from the top crease of her cleavage, but still, if this party is going to have the ratio of men to women that she expects it to have, it would have been wiser to have thought it through more. But then she wonders why the hell she should.
When she pulls the gold decorative handbell, the double doors swing open and a man standing in a full white-tie service suit greets her with a nod and a sweep of the arm.
“Welcome to Chiltern Place,” he says. “Mr. Kingsley is waiting for you in the drawing room.” He makes it sound as if she’s the only guest they’re expecting.
Stepping onto the black-and-white checkered tile floor, Stella wonders if she’d got this all wrong. Had Peter actually said it was a party or is she about to walk into a cozy one-on-one dinner? Although in this house she’d imagine it would be the pair of them seated at either end of a twenty-foot-long gilded dining table.
She’s relieved to hear voices drift down the hallway, and the gentle hum of small talk and imposed pleasantries, although it’s Peter’s voice that she can hear holding court, regaling his minions about his close friendship with the prime minister.
“Aha, our guest of honor has arrived,” he bellows, throwing open his arms.
All heads turn toward Stella, each of them no doubt checking out the next recipient of Peter’s well-rehearsed routine.
“Peter,” she says, bending to give him a kiss on each cheek. “Wow, this place is really something.”
“Only achievable by your hard work,” he says, without an iota of irony. He takes a cut-glass flute of champagne from the tray beside him and hands it to her. “Come and meet my other esteemed guests.”
Stella forces a smile as she scans the ten or so faces of Peter’s inner sanctum, feeling disappointed, but unsurprised, that there’s only one other woman.
“Paul, come on over here,” says Peter, beckoning to a balding man who looks exactly like a stretched-out version of him. “This is your counterpart over in the States,” he says, turning to Stella, with his arm around her waist.
“Well, not quite,” she replies, knowing that Paul Hogarth is the fearsome editor of The Oracle.
“Who knows what’s around the corner,” teases Peter, his hand moving ever lower.
Stella purposefully moves out of reach when a waiter carrying a silver platter of hors d’oeuvres passes by. “Thank you,” she says gratefully.
“Terrible business about that young chef,” says Paul, his eyes glancing slyly toward Peter to make sure he’s listening. “It seems to have caused national outrage.”
“It’s deeply regrettable,” says Stella, taking a long slug of her champagne, its chilled bubbles fizzing as they hit the back of her throat.
“Regrettable that you ran the pictures or that she took her life, because of them?” asks Paul.
“I don’t regret running them for one second,” butts in Peter.
Stella imagines he’d eat his words, if he knew what she knew.
“But somebody has to be held accountable,” says Paul, clearly out to make a point. “You can’t have young women taking their own lives because of something that’s written in a newspaper.”
“It’s a free press,” says Peter, putting his arm around him in a power-play move. A gentle reminder of who’s boss. “And the UK are pretty damn good at reporting the facts, compared to the fake news peddled on certain US outlets.” He arches his eyebrows in an attempt to distance himself from being party to any such organization, even though everyone who’s anyone knows he’s currently trying to buy one of them. “But I, for one, happen to believe that if somebody in the public eye does something that is deemed in the public’s interest, then it should be printed.”
Stella swallows the acid reflux that burns the back of her throat.
“We sold more copies yesterday than any other edition in the last two years,” Peter continues, his expression less in party mode now, and more like the pit bull Stella is used to in the office. “Every TV channel I turn to, they’re talking about The Globe. Every social-media platform is hashtagging The Globe.”
Stella wants to tell him that it’s not in a good way, but Peter’s not stupid. He must know what’s really going on—he’s just going on the defensive, and she doesn’t blame him. It’s a terrible position for them to be in, but he doesn’t know the half of it yet. She swallows, knowing she’s got to tell him sooner rather than later.
“Peter, could I have a word?” she says. “Privately.”
“Of course,” he says, his eyes widening.
Pinpricks of sweat jump to the surface of Stella’s skin as he guides her out of the room and down a mahogany-paneled hallway, turning the corner at the end so that they’re hidden from view. Of all the rooms that must exist in this house, she wonders why they’re standing in front of a bookcase in a dead-end corridor.
He takes a book half out of its place and, in true James Bond style, the wall moves silently inward, opening onto a windowless room lined with bookcases adorned with awards, plaques and framed photos of Peter with American presidents, British prime ministers and Nobel Prize winners.
“Welcome to my trophy room,” he says, sweeping his arms open. “I’m glad of this opportunity as there’s something I need to talk to you about as well, somewhere we won’t be overheard.” He smiles, but it only makes Stella all the more uncomfortable. She looks around surreptitiously, checking for an escape route, but it’s already impossible to see the door that she came in through, the walls all refusing to give up their secret opening.
She holds her clutch bag in front of her, a metaphorical barrier to ward off any unwanted advances.
“I wanted to get the latest on all this nasty business with the chef,” he starts, propping himself up against the desk that sits in the middle of the room.
Stella bites down on her tongue, wondering why everyone is finding it so difficult to say Yasmin’s name. Or maybe it’s not important enough for them to bother retaining it. But as she pictures Yasmin’s lifeless body, hanging from the ceiling of that hotel room, she knows she’ll never be able to forget it—even if she wanted to.
“Well, it’s actually Yasmin Chopra I wanted to talk to you about,” she says, her mouth drying up. “There’s been a development that I think you should be made aware of.”
“Is it the rookie?” Peter asks impatiently. “Have we managed to track her down yet? What was her name again?”
“Jess,” she says.
“So where have we got to with her?”
Stella takes a deep breath, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ve called a couple of times,” she says. “But she’s not picked up and, to be honest, I don’t think we’ll get much out of her.”
Peter nods thoughtfully as he takes a cigar out of a polished wooden box and taps its end on the leather-inlaid desktop.
“So,” he says, striking a match, “nothing further that would help us build a case to strengthen our position?”
Stella shifts from one foot to the other, sensing a change in the atmosphere. Peter’s jaw has tightened and his eyes have narrowed, as if he’s hatching a plan.
“Even if Jess had something, she isn’t likely to tell us,” she replies, trying her best to manage his expectations. “Her moral standards were set pretty high to start with, so if she did have something that might allude to why Yasmin did what she did, then you’ll have the devil’s own job getting it out of her now.”
Peter closes his eyes and purses his lips around the rolled tobacco leaves, making Stella’s stomach churn with the sucking noises that he makes.
“Well, something’s going to have to give, because I’m not going to let my newspaper bear the brunt of a woman’s selfish actions.”
Stella tries hard to disguise the look of abject horror that she knows is on her face, but then she wonders why she should. Whether he’s Peter Kingsley or not, how could anyone be so blatantly merciless?
“No disrespect, Peter, but I think we need to let things settle a little before looking to apportion blame to Yasmin, or heap the responsibility on a young reporter to find something that isn’t there. The public need time to accept what’s happened and the part we played.”
“What the public needs,” says Peter, “is to know that The Globe is in no way accountable for a woman taking her own life. We need to prove that she would have done it anyway.”
“We can’t magic up something that doesn’t exist.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what we need to do,” says Peter, looking at her intently.
Stella shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand … What are you suggesting?”
He narrows his eyes, as if weighing up whether or not he can trust her.
“You have real potential,” he says. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Thank you,” she says, looking at the floor.
“Max is not performing as well as I’d hoped—as I’m sure you’re already aware. He’s making silly mistakes that are costing me, and the company.”
Stella is tempted to ask for specifics, but she doesn’t want to break Peter’s flow. She rather likes the sound of where this is going.
“So, in the not-too-distant future, I’m going to be needing a new editor.”
Stella’s stomach somersaults and her fingertips tingle. This is it! This is what she’s been waiting for.
“And you would be the natural first choice.”
Stella smiles. “I’m very flattered.”
“I can make all your dreams come true, but I expect a pound of flesh in return.”
She swallows and nods. “I’m prepared to give you whatever you need,” she says. “I give my word that I’d work twenty-four-seven to ensure that The Globe is the best newspaper it can possibly be. I won’t let you down.”
He makes that vile sound with his mouth again.
“So why don’t we see how well you do with this rookie reporter,” he goes on. “Go pay her a visit and see what you can do to turn this around.”
Stella’s chest tightens, knowing that it’s an impossible task before she’s even started. She’s doomed to fail.
“As I said,” she starts, “Jess wouldn’t give it up, even if she had something.”
“Well then, it’s up to you to change her mind,” he says matter-of-factly. “Find a way to help her remember something the chef woman said that will change the narrative.”
Stella looks at Peter as the enormity of what he’s suggesting sinks in. “And if she doesn’t ‘remember something’?” she asks, drawing speech marks in the air with her fingers.
“Well then, I’ll be bitterly disappointed,” he says. “And I’ll have to find another way to convince her that it’ll be in her best interests to give us what we need.”
Stella nods, as if in agreement, but a sickening sensation is swirling in the pit of her stomach at the veiled threat. She pushes the feeling away, along with the notion that telling him about Carlos Moreno is a good idea.
“Rest assured,” she says, “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure The Globe gets what it deserves.”
29
Jess
I can see the throng of people outside the modest semidetached house as soon as I turn the corner and my heart sinks. There are vans parked up in the dead-end of the cul-de-sac, their crews milling around with headsets and boom microphones, ready to pounce as soon as the front door opens.
It’s the first time I’ve witnessed the cause and effect that a news story can have, and the fact that I played a large, albeit unknowing part in this witch hunt makes me feel sick to the pit of my stomach.
“Is anyone in?” I ask one of the reporters loitering at the end of the short path leading up to the house.
“Yeah, we’ve got reason to believe that Ashcroft’s in there,” he says absentmindedly. “We’ve seen a shadow at the window.”
I look at the house, its occupants thankfully shielded from view by white net curtains, yet while we may not be able to see them, they must certainly see us, having set up equipment on their neatly manicured lawn, trampling over their flowerbeds as if we have a right to be here.
Taking a deep breath, I push my shoulders back and head toward the front door.
The other journalists bristle as I walk past them, their body language reeking of indignation and pity. “There’s no point knocking, love,” one of them calls out. “Someone came out earlier to say they’ll be making no further comment.”
“So what are you all still doing here then?” I snap, without looking back.
I ring the bell, and my stomach lurches at the thought of the reaction I’m going to get if Tilly Ashcroft opens the door. Is she going to recognize me? If she does, and I don’t get the chance to say what I need to say, then she’s going to hate me more than all the other hacks put together.
The tiniest crack appears in the door, and a puffy pair of eyes looks me up and down warily. “I’ve got nothing to say, so will you please go away and leave me alone.”
