The Trade Off: a Novel, page 3
She needs to bide her time, make her move when others are least expecting it. But until then, she’ll toe the line and keep both sides happy.
“We’re working on some really great stuff,” she says, making it sound like a team effort, though she’s sure that anyone with half a brain will know it’s her stories that are keeping those sales from falling even further than they are.
“Glad to hear it,” he says as his assistant taps on her watch to remind him that his time is too valuable to be wasting on Stella. “If you keep up the good work, who knows what will happen?” Despite herself, she can’t help but picture herself in the editor’s office, nailing a new name plaque to the door. It’s nothing personal to Max of course, but Peter’s right: he’s a better journalist than he is an editor, and Stella fantasizes about the day he’ll gracefully stand aside and let her take the job she was deprived of eighteen months ago.
She flashes her best smile, but Peter’s already walking away, his bulk as evident from behind as it is from the front.
“Conference!” shouts Max from his office, and Stella can tell by the way he says it that he’s seriously hacked off.
The Globe’s top executives and senior journalists file into their editor’s office, each of them, no doubt, painfully aware that he’s just been hauled over the coals.
“Right, I haven’t got the time or the patience to fuck around, so hit me with your best stuff,” he says, in answer to anyone who might still be oblivious.
The less experienced would imagine that going first makes you either incredibly brave or ridiculously stupid, but most of them simply want to get the inevitable ball-crunching out of the way.
“It’s Marache’s last game as manager of Chelsea this weekend,” pipes up Mike, the Sports editor. “So we could run a profile piece on his time there: his wins, his losses, some stats…?” He looks at Max questioningly.
“Can we get a pre-match interview with him?” muses Max.
“Er, unfortunately not,” says Mike quietly, as if wishing he had a different answer. “They’re saying no one’s getting access to him until after the game on Saturday.”
“Well, what the fuck use to us is that?” roars Max.
Mike offers a resigned shrug of the shoulders.
“So we’re going to run a shitty stats story, and the Sundays will get the big exit interview?”
“That seems to be the way it’s looking,” Mike offers.
“Well, that’s not good enough. You’re the Sports editor of Britain’s biggest newspaper.”
“Well, yes, but…” stutters Mike.
Stella can’t help but feel sorry for him as she watches him squirming in his seat, wishing he were anywhere else but here. Like most of them in this room, he came into journalism to report the news, facts and figures—suffused with an innate sense of duty to highlight important topics and keep the public informed. But instead they find themselves peddling propaganda, forever conscious of staying on the right side of the political fence and sacrificing a good story if it dares to play into the hands of the opposing side.
Perhaps that’s why mild-mannered Mike chose sport as his speciality, hoping that it was the one topic where he could avoid running the gauntlet. But to his chagrin, he’s learned the hard way that there’s no subject that escapes corruption and manipulation if it’s in the public eye.
“Stella, have you got an in with Marache, or anyone connected to him?” Max snaps at her, though she learned long ago not to take it personally.
She saw this coming thirty seconds ago and has spent that time racking her brain for something to offer that might appease him. “I can speak to his wife,” she says, silently asking herself whether they’ve run anything that Señora Marache would be unhappy about, since she last bumped into her at a cancer charity do a couple of months ago. Stella vaguely recalls being offered a kiss-and-tell that showed her husband in an altogether less charitable position: on his hands and knees, if she remembers rightly, being led around a hotel room like a dog on a leash. But she’d not run it, for reasons she can’t quite remember—probably because it would have put their five million readers off their breakfast.
“Didn’t we have something on him a little while back?” asks Max, deep in thought.
Stella wishes he didn’t have quite as good a memory as he does, because she knows what’s coming next.
“Er, yeah, I think it was a mucky dominatrix story…” she says, hoping that her disinterest will throw him off the scent, but knowing it won’t.
“So, see if he wants to do a trade-off,” says Max brusquely, looking between her and Mike, waiting for one of them to take the bait. Stella watches as Mike literally shrivels into his seat, like a slug that’s had salt thrown at him.
A tightness pulls across her chest. Of all the questionable practices that come with being deputy editor on a tabloid newspaper, “The Trade-Off,” as Max always likes to refer to it, is the one thing that pricks the very small conscience Stella has left. Despite making it sound as if there’s an option, in reality it gives the target—or, rather, victim—absolutely no choice whatsoever. They either give the paper what it wants or their lives could be ruined within a few column inches. It’s blackmail—pure and simple.
“Let me see if I can reach him via his wife first,” says Stella. “Then, if that fails, we can look at other alternatives.” She tries to catch Mike’s eye, but his attention stays focused on the notebook in front of him.
“Get onto it,” barks Max. “OK, Features, what have you got?”
Gilly, the Features editor, looks decidedly smug as she rolls her pen between her teeth. “Well, after Adrianna’s groom jilted her at the altar, I’ve got three brides-to-be who were all left hanging on the big day, talking about how it felt, how they got over it—one of them even sold their dress on eBay.” She looks around the room, laughing, but Stella can tell that Max has already moved on.
“Remind me who Adrianna is,” he asks Stella, with a look of irritation on his face.
“They’re saying she’s the new Adele,” she replies. “Started off in kids’ TV in America, lost herself for a while, uploaded a few songs onto TikTok and everyone’s gone wild for her.” She knows to keep it to short, sharp soundbites when bringing Max up to speed on anyone new in the entertainment industry.
“And she’s been dumped by who?” he asks.
“Some rapper she hooked up with a year ago,” says Stella. “We ran a piece on how unsuited they were, a few months back—she comes from a religious family in the Deep South, seemingly using her wholesome image as a marketing tool, and then she meets this guy who’s done time and is known to incite gun violence … The writing was on the wall.”
Max sighs. “So we’ve got this melting pot going on and all we’ve managed to pull out of it is a spread on three randomers who have been jilted at the altar.”
Stella can’t help but savor the disappearance of Gilly’s smug smile as it slides off her face.
“I know what you’re going to say,” retorts Stella. “And I’ve got people on both sides of the Atlantic working on it, but Adrianna’s not playing ball. She’s gone to ground.”
Max’s eyes widen. “Everyone’s accessible, Stella—you know that.”
“Yes, but…”
“I want the full low-down from Adrianna herself on their relationship, an exclusive on what happened—when she first knew he was calling it off, how she felt…”
“I’m trying, but like I say, she’s gone to ground.”
“Or has someone else got to her first?”
“I guess there’s a chance,” admits Stella, knowing full well that’s exactly what’s happened. “Though I’ve checked that it’s nobody in the UK.”
“So, if a US publication have got the exclusive, find out what it’ll take to get it syndicated and get us first rights.”
“I’m already on it,” she lies.
How many pairs of hands does he think she has? She’s been orchestrating the sting on the Labor MP all morning. She can’t do that and follow up every other piece of minutiae that goes on in the world. There are simply not enough hours in the day.
“Well, then I guess we should all be thankful that the shadow home secretary is screwing a call-girl,” Max booms. “How did it go this morning?”
“Good,” says Stella, back on firmer ground. “As we hoped, we’ve got the pair of them sharing a quick kiss at the back entrance to the hotel.” She looks around, revelling in what she’s about to say. “But the money-shot was what went on inside.”
Max looks at her questioningly.
“We’ve got them kissing in the lobby of the suite, Marianne giving Jacobs oral sex in the bedroom while dressed as Maggie Thatcher, and him on tape saying that the Labor leader secretly voted for Brexit while publicly proclaiming that the UK was better off in Europe.”
Max throws his head back as his laughter booms around the room. “And we thought his wife was going to be the only thing he lost.”
“Exactly,” agrees Stella. “And did I forget to mention that this all happened after they’d snorted four lines of coke?”
Max rubs his hands together with glee. “How many pages do you want?”
“At least four,” she says, knowing she’s got enough material for six.
“Take as many as you need,” he says, still chuckling.
She smiles. There’s no better feeling than knowing that instead of having to magic words out of nowhere, manipulating the copy to make it worthy of its place in the paper, on this story she’s going to have to cut it hard, pulling out the very best bits from a rich over-abundance.
“So right now Stella is single-handedly making The Globe the paper that its readers expect,” says Max. “The rest of you need to pull your socks up.”
“Yes, boss,” murmurs Mike.
“Got it,” beams Gilly through a fake smile, as if trying to convince herself of her optimism.
Stella watches the team file out of the office and shuts the door behind the last straggler.
“Can I have a word?” she asks, while looking through the slatted blinds toward Jess.
“Make it quick,” snaps Max, looking at his watch. “I’ve got to get to Lord’s.”
It never ceased to amaze Stella how little work Max actually did. Sure, he put in long hours—even more than her—but they were invariably spent with the prime minister at a dinner party at Number Ten, lunching at Claridge’s with a veteran Hollywood star or wangling a seat in the royal box to watch live sport.
When she’s the editor, she’s going to do exactly that—edit. She’s had enough of rubbing shoulders with inept politicians and vacuous celebrities who think they can play the media to their own tune; who court them when they need something and accuse them of flouting privacy laws when they don’t. She’s already got a list, as long as her arm, of names she won’t ever allow to be featured in The Globe. Mostly consisting of people who didn’t think they needed her on their way up, but who’ll be wanting to be her best friend on the way down. They forget that the puppy that will gladly roll over to be tickled will eventually get big and bite back.
“About the new girl…” says Stella, looking at Max with raised eyebrows.
“What about her?” he says, already distracted by something on his phone.
“Well, what’s she doing here, and when were you going to tell me about it?”
Max bristles, his jaw tensing. “She’s here because I want her to be,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “We have to bring in more stories—better stories—and as much as I appreciate everything you’re doing, you’re not able to do it all on your own.”
Stella doesn’t know whether to feel angry or relieved. “She seems a bit wet behind the ears.”
“That’s because she is,” says Max. “She’s a rookie from a local gazette and I’ve brought her in to do the dirty work. If you get a lead, send her down the rabbit hole after it, let her gather all the salient information so that you can line up for the kill.”
He makes Stella sound like an assassin. Maybe she is.
5
Jess
“Oh, hello, my name’s Jess Townsend—is this Mel Sheldrake?”
“Yep, what can I do you for?” says the woman at the other end of the line.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but as I’ve already discovered, dealing with celebrities is a whole different ball game from asking the friendly firemen in Chingford about their most hazardous job of the week.
“I’m calling about your client, Yasmin Chopra,” I say. “I was wondering if she might be available for interview.”
“How about you tell me where you’re calling from first,” says Mel, with more than a hint of derision.
“Oh, right, sorry, I’m from The Globe and—”
“Let me stop you there then,” says Mel. “This isn’t going to happen.”
She sounds as if she’s a nanosecond from putting the phone down and ending the call.
“But…” I start.
“Look, Jess, is it?”
“Yes, I…”
“It’s nothing personal, but hell would have to have frozen over before I subject any of my clients to the wrath of The Globe.”
I slump back in my chair, with the last remnants of excitement and enthusiasm that had seen me skip toward the office this morning now seeping out of me. I thought working for the country’s biggest newspaper was going to make it easier to get stories, not harder.
“Can I … can I ask why?” I venture.
Mel lets out a choked snort. “I’m not sure there’s enough hours in the day.”
I straighten myself up, hoping it will kick-start my resolve. “We’d only need fifteen minutes of Yasmin’s time, and we’d be very happy to promote her book…”
“Fifteen minutes is more than enough to destroy someone’s career,” says Mel. “Mind you, Stella Thorne could probably do that in two.”
I look over to Max’s office, where the woman in question is pacing up and down in front of his desk, gesticulating in my direction.
“But I would be doing the interview,” I say, daring to assume—especially if it makes the difference between getting it and not. “The Globe has journalists other than Stella.”
Mel laughs cattily, making no attempt to mask that it’s at me, rather than with me. “No disrespect, but am I right to assume you haven’t been there very long?” she asks.
“Well, I…”
“Otherwise you’d know that Stella IS The Globe. She decides who, where, why and when to make or break careers.”
“Can you be more specific?” I ask, needing to know exactly what I’m up against.
“Well, the fact that Ms. Thorne turned up at my late client’s mother’s house, claiming to be a nurse from the hospital, in the hope of getting an exclusive on her daughter’s cancer battle will tell you everything you need to know. She hadn’t even been dead for three hours.”
I disguise a gasp.
“So thanks, but no thanks,” she goes on. “Yasmin will be sticking with the publications that don’t hound dead girls’ mothers or set up elaborate stings to sell lies on the front page.”
“What else have we got?” shouts Stella, taking me so much by surprise that I instinctively jump. “I’ve got a gaping hole on page eleven.”
I murmur my thanks to Mel and put the phone down, feeling like I’ve been caught out.
“I’ve just taken a call from Tina Mowbray,” says Lottie.
I can’t help but feel aggrieved that it came to her instead of me.
“What’s her story?” asks Stella, arching one of her impeccably shaped eyebrows.
“She’s got bruises on her face and the intimation is that her boyfriend, Rex Macy, is responsible.”
“Is she prepared to say that on record?” asks Stella.
Lottie shakes her head. “No, she won’t even say it off the record, but she’s taking the dog for a walk in Greenwich Park at four o’clock today.”
I look between the two of them, waiting to understand the inference.
Stella nods thoughtfully. “OK, so get a photographer there. Tell him not to approach Tina—she may well be with the fella—but make sure he goes in with a long lens to get a good close-up of the injuries she’s sustained.”
“She’s asked for a fee,” says Lottie, through a grimace.
Stella snorts. “What a surprise! So she doesn’t want to talk to us, but she wants everyone to know what he’s done, leaving us to do her dirty work and get the flak for taking personal photos, while she keeps her powder dry…”
“Pretty much,” sighs Lottie resignedly.
Stella tuts. “Fucking typical.”
“Is that how you get most of your exposés?” I can’t help myself from asking. “From the subjects themselves.”
Stella looks at me with disbelief and laughs. “God, what rock did he drag you out from under?”
I look at Lottie with the first sting of tears pulling at the back of my eyes. I knew that working on a national newspaper was going to be brutal, but I had no idea I’d be crying before lunch on my first day.
“Her bark is so much worse than her bite,” says Lottie, once Stella is out of earshot. “We’ve all been there. On my first day she sent me to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, where I had to pose as a relative of Josh Matthews.”
“The movie star?” I ask, remembering my whimsical conversation with Flic.
Lottie laughs. “Yeah, he’d been involved in a car accident and was being treated for his injuries, but Stella was like a rat up a drainpipe, convinced he’d been under the influence.”
I wait for the part that Lottie finds funny.
“So I turned up with a bunch of flowers, told the nurses I was his sister and, sure enough, they let me in. Luckily he was out cold, so I was able to go through the medical records in his room…”
I gasp. “Is that even legal?”
Lottie shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know—I didn’t find anything anyway, but it gave us a great scoop the next day, highlighting the security lapses at the same hospital that the Duchess of Durham was due to give birth in later that month.”
