The Trade Off: a Novel, page 4
I shake my head.
“Look, it may sound terrifying right now, but believe me, being thrown in at the deep end by Stella will be the making of you. It will certainly toughen you up.”
“What if I don’t want to toughen up?” I ask.
Lottie looks at me, almost in pity. “Then you won’t last five minutes.”
6
Stella
Stella sighs as she slips her Jimmy Choos off at the front door of her apartment. As much as she wouldn’t be seen dead in flats, the thought of giving her arches respite is increasingly appealing. She laughs at herself as her toes sink into the deep pile of the hall carpet, wondering when she became old. She’ll be buying slippers at Marks & Spencer next. She shudders at the prospect. “Over my dead body,” she says as she pads into the kitchen.
Last night’s bottle of red is standing on the worktop and she greets it like an old friend. “Am I pleased to see you,” she says, picking it up and pouring it into a large balloon glass.
She closes her eyes as the warm liquid trickles down her throat, imbuing her veins with its glow. It seeps into the hard-to-reach corners, taking the edge off another high-pressured day in the office.
She’d wanted the deputy editor’s job so badly, busting her arse to get it, but this past year has been spent holding the hands of underqualified staff and dealing with the business end of running Britain’s most successful newspaper. Sure, she was securing deals, and the adrenaline rush of getting one over on their rivals gave her a buzz that she wouldn’t give up for the world, but she missed the written word. The days she spent banging out stories on her laptop in a toilet cubicle as she rushed to be the first to file copy from a celebrity party, or the times when she’d get a tip-off that a Strictly Come Dancing couple were no longer just dancing, and would book the hotel room next to them so that she could report on their torrid night of lovemaking. That’s where the true thrill was: in following her nose and rooting out a story, not in negotiating drawn-out deals with people who always thought they were worth more than she was prepared to pay.
Still, it is the natural progression to being editor and one day, when Max finally falls on his sword, she will be perfectly placed to take over.
Speaking of the devil, his number flashes up on her phone screen and she immediately rejects it. Gone are the days when she’d take his calls at all hours.
It rings again as Stella unbuttons her blouse and reaches into the shower cubicle to turn the overhead jet on. The story-hunter in her wants to answer it, afraid that she’ll miss the big one, but the slightly jaded forty-year-old, who’s been doing this for far too long, knows that someone else further down the ladder will pick it up and run with it, if it’s urgent. She’s too tired and, frankly, too senior to be chasing stories at ten o’clock at night.
Groaning as she steps under the hot water, Stella closes her eyes as it washes away the debris of the day.
Her phone rings for the third time and she tuts in frustration, circling around the steamed-up glass with her hand to see who it is.
Harry’s number shows up, under the name of Steve, and her irritation subsides. He’s exactly who she needs right now and she reaches out of the shower, unable to get to the phone quickly enough.
“Are you nearby?” she asks, picking up.
“I can be with you in fifteen minutes,” he says.
“I’m not sure I can wait that long,” she replies, wrapping herself in a fluffy white towel.
“Make it twelve then,” he says, before hanging up.
By the time he rings the intercom an impressive ten minutes later, she’s rough-dried her hair and has poured two glasses of wine.
She buzzes him in and greets him at her door in an open silk robe and a pair of Manolos.
“Christ,” he says, looking her up and down.
“What took you so long?” she asks, pulling him to her and pushing him against the hall wall.
She kisses him, her tongue meeting his as she reaches for the zip in his trousers. He holds her head in both hands, his soft caresses at the back of her neck becoming more urgent. Wrapping her legs around him, he picks her up and carries her into the bedroom, rolling on top of her as she falls onto the mattress.
A breath is snatched away as he enters her, and Stella closes her eyes. His fingers dig into her thighs as he quickens the pace, and within seconds he’s calling out at the very same time as she is, leaving nail tracks down his back. The pair of them perfectly in sync, as always.
“You have no idea how much I needed that,” she says breathlessly, rolling into him as he falls back onto the bed.
He brushes the hair away from her face and kisses the tip of her nose. “You and me both,” he says, through a grin. “Though I could have done with a little more notice.”
“Are you complaining?” she asks, propping her head on his chest. Just looking at him makes her want to do it again; those wickedly smoldering eyes, the suggestive smile, that dimple …
“No, I’m only saying that I can’t always drop everything to come over,” he says. “If we were able to plan things a little more, maybe…”
Stella pulls herself up and off the bed.
“Where are you going?” he calls after her as she goes into the living room to retrieve her glass of wine. She hadn’t yet had the chance to give him his. “Why do you always do this?” he asks, coming into the room, doing his trousers up.
“Do what?” she asks sullenly, picking imaginary fluff off the turquoise velvet couch that she’s sitting on.
“All I’m saying is that it would be a lot easier, and far more pleasurable, if we could plan when we’re going to see each other, rather than me having to wait for you to call me when you want sex.”
“You called me tonight,” she says bitterly.
“Yes, but it wasn’t because I wanted sex,” he says, exasperated.
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was a such an inconvenience to come and make love to me,” replies Stella spitefully.
“It’s not,” sighs Harry. “It’s one of my favorite things to do, but sometimes I’d quite like to take you out, first. We could go to a bar for a few drinks or a nice restaurant for dinner.”
“You and I both know that’s not a good idea,” she says. “Imagine if we’re seen together.”
“I get that it might not be easy, but it’s not impossible—not if we’re careful.”
“Most of my work is carried out in bars and restaurants,” says Stella, staring into the bowl of her wine glass. “It’s the last thing I want to do, when I get off.”
“What about what I want?” asks Harry, turning in his seat to face her.
She can’t help but laugh. “I would have thought this is the perfect scenario for any man.”
“But have you ever thought to ask?” He looks at her intently, making her feel uncomfortable. She’s under enough pressure at the office; she certainly doesn’t need it at home as well. That’s why what she and Harry have is all she wants.
She doesn’t need to worry about where he is or what he’s doing. She doesn’t have to factor him into any decisions she makes. If she wants to stay in the office until midnight, she can. If she wants to eat cold baked beans straight out of the tin for dinner when she gets home, she can. There’s no one to answer to, and no one to take up space in her bed. It suits her. She’s happy.
“You make me feel as if I’m some kind of hired help,” he says.
“You are,” says Stella indignantly. “I pay you well.”
“For privileged police information,” he says. “Not sex.”
“Well then, perhaps you should add that, as a privileged client extra, on your next invoice,” she says acerbically.
7
Jess
“Well, would you look at that,” says Dad, squinting at my tiny byline on page eleven of yesterday’s edition of The Globe.
Mum grabs her specs from the kitchen table and peers through them, scanning the article.
“Oh my goodness,” she squeals excitedly.
I flinch at the inflammatory headline the sub-editor deemed suitable for the picture-led feature: On the Ropes! Is this Macy’s latest opponent? Underneath is a picture of Tina Mowbray walking her dog, but no matter how big her sunglasses are, they’re unable to disguise the black-and-purple bruise that spreads across her cheekbone.
“What’s happened to the poor lass?” asks Mum, looking even closer.
“She got beaten up by her boyfriend,” says Flic, attempting to snaffle the smallest roast potato from the tray that Mum had momentarily left on the side.
“Serves you right, you greedy oik,” I say, smiling, as Flic jumps around, fanning her mouth.
“Oh, leave her be,” admonishes Mum, treating her, as ever, like the younger sister I never had.
Flic pokes her tongue out in a victorious one-upmanship and I shake my head. She can be so annoying at times, but I couldn’t imagine life without her. She’s been a part of the family since we met at senior school, even going so far as moving into my room when I went off to university. But I’d never begrudge her making my parents the ones she never had.
“Tina’s become more famous than him, and I don’t think his ego can take it,” mumbles Flic. “So he lashes out because it makes him feel like more of a man.”
“She didn’t say that…”
“She didn’t have to,” says Flic. “You only have to read between the lines to see what’s really going on.”
No doubt that’s exactly what the headline and the carefully worded article were meant to imply, but at no point did Tina say that her boyfriend had raised a hand to her. In fact, she’d concocted an elaborate story about how she’d come home drunk from a wrap party and fallen out of bed when she’d attempted to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. But that version didn’t satisfy Stella Thorne’s warped desire to present Tina as an abuse victim, so I’d been instructed to drop the explanation from the article and let the pictures do the talking. And seeing Flic jump to conclusions, it seems to have created exactly the feeding frenzy Stella had hoped for.
“You’re putting two and two together and coming up with five,” I say.
“Well, in the absence of anything else, what are we supposed to do?” asks Flic.
I can feel Mum and Dad looking at me. The Globe isn’t their newspaper of choice to read, let alone to have their daughter work for, and their disquiet speaks volumes. “I do hope you’re not putting words into people’s mouths,” mumbles Dad as he pretends to check the rise of the Yorkshire puddings in the oven.
“I would never do that,” I say. “In fact, I didn’t report Tina’s side of the story at all.”
Dad pulls a face. “Leaving people to make up their own minds can sometimes be even more damaging.”
“Well, maybe I’m in the wrong job then,” I say, unable to disguise the hurt in my voice.
My phone starts ringing, from the pocket of my jacket hanging on the bannisters, and Flic turns to look at me, as if asking, Who’s that going to be?
I shrug my shoulders, not really knowing who would be after me on a Saturday night.
“Maybe it’s that hot guy that Tinder matched you up with … looking for a booty call,” says Flic, as she follows me out to the hall.
“Well, seeing as ‘hot’ to you means he only has to be breathing, I think I’ll pass.”
She turns her nose up at the slight, but doesn’t dispute the claim.
“And, anyway, I don’t want a boyfriend,” I say sanctimoniously. “I want to concentrate on my career.”
“Career girls can still get laid,” she whispers, smiling that infuriating sweet smile, which lets her get away with murder.
I stick two fingers up as I answer my phone. “Hello?” I say, and wait for a computer-generated voice to ask if I’ve been in an accident recently.
“Jess, get yourself to the Dorchester hotel, will you?” says a woman’s voice.
“Excuse me?” I ask, fearing I know who this is, but praying I don’t.
“We’ve got a big story about to go down, and Lottie’s sick, so I need you there right away.” If I was ever in any doubt about who I was speaking to, her clipped, acerbic tone confirms it.
“But … but, Stella, I can’t,” I stutter. “I’m just about to have dinner.”
An icy laugh comes down the line. “The news doesn’t wait for you to fill your stomach,” she says. “How quickly can you get here?”
Even though I lived in this house in Essex for twenty-five years until renting a flat with Flic six months ago, my brain can’t compute where the nearest station is or the quickest route from suburbia into town.
“Mmm, three-quarters of an hour, give or take,” I say, as I mentally scan the London Underground map in my head, weighing up which station is closest to Park Lane.
“Try and make it less,” barks Stella. “Call me when you get here and I’ll come and meet you.”
The line goes dead and, as I stare at the phone in my hand, a frisson of excitement ignites my nerve endings. A big story, Stella said. What could possibly have happened to warrant her needing me at such short notice?
My immediate thought is that it’s a hostile situation: an explosion or perhaps a terrorist incident. I scan my phone for the latest news as I walk slowly toward the kitchen, but nothing of any note appears to have happened in or around the Dorchester hotel. But perhaps it’s not reached the wires yet and it’ll be us breaking the story. My heart thumps in my chest as adrenaline begins to pump through my veins, my body now desperate to move toward the action. This is what I came into the newsroom for. The chance to lead the narrative; the chance to make a difference.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take a rain check,” I say, pulling on my jacket. “Something’s come in at work—a really big story.”
The three of them look at each other, unsure whether they should be excited or concerned for me.
“OK, well, be careful, won’t you?” says Dad, pulling me in for a hug.
“If it’s got anything to do with Josh Matthews, call me and I’ll be there in a flash,” says Flic, wide-eyed.
“I’ll send home a plate for later,” says Mum.
I can’t help but smile; their responses sum up their individual personalities perfectly.
I spend the train journey checking all the news apps for the latest on the situation at the Dorchester, but still nothing’s coming up and I’m almost too scared to go into the labyrinth of Tube tunnels, for fear of missing the headline when it appears. By the time I’m climbing the stairs of Green Park station I’m so desperate to know what monumental story I’m about to cover that it takes all my resolve not to call Stella and ask before I’ve reached the hotel.
“I’m here,” I pant into my phone, out of breath, as I run the last few yards along Park Lane. I’m listening out for sirens, looking up for smoke—my senses on full alert to whatever the story is.
“OK, you need to go to the service entrance at the rear,” says Stella, just as I momentarily entrap myself in the revolving doors at the front. “I’ll meet you there.”
I do a full three-sixty, coming out where I started, and head round the corner.
Unsurprisingly, the back of the hotel is at odds with the perfect facade of the front. There are no pretty flowers to mask the harsh exterior, no sound of gently trickling water from the fountain and certainly no green-suited doormen doffing their hats at my arrival.
I dodge the beeping delivery trucks as they reverse, and smile my apologies as I divide a group of kitchen staff on a cigarette break.
“Jesus,” says Stella, as she looks me up and down before manhandling me into a loud and chaotic kitchen. “Have you got nothing else with you to wear?”
I scan my body, taking in my trainers, jeans and cabled jumper, quickly picking at the fluff bobbles stubbornly attached to the wool. “I was at my parents’,” I say, as indignantly as I dare. “And it’s Saturday night.”
She tuts and rolls her eyes. “What do you take? A ten?”
I look down at myself again, as if double-checking. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Right, follow me,” she says, turning on her impressive heels. “We have to be quick, though, as we’re running out of time.”
“Where … I mean … what’s going on?” I stutter as the delicious stab of excitement and nerves penetrates my veins. “What’s the story?”
“Tilly Ashcroft is the story,” she says in a hushed voice as I half run down the corridor to keep up with her.
“As in, the soap star?” I ask, grateful the service lift that we step into is empty.
Stella pulls her mouth tight in a half smile, half grimace.
I can’t help but feel a little disappointed, because as exciting as this is, it’s not quite the hazardous drama I was expecting or hoping for.
It then occurs to me, unfathomably, that perhaps Tilly’s body has been found cold and unresponsive in one of the rooms. I shudder as the outlandish idea is slowly replaced by the unlikelihood of the press finding out before the emergency services.
Stella leads the way out of the lift and through a fire-exit door, which suddenly transports us into the decadent depths of the hotel. My trainers sink into the red-and-gold swirls in the deep-pile carpet and the sweet smell of vanilla permeates my nostrils. Wealth is imbued in these walls, seeping out from the William Morris wallpaper and wrapping itself around the gilded edges of the framed pictures.
“OK, get in here and stay out of sight,” says Stella, swiping a card against a door handle.
“Wh-where are you going?” I ask.
“To get some clothes from my car,” she snaps. “You can’t work, dressed like that.”
The door slams and I stand there looking after her, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl who’s been sent to the corner to face the wall.
“Who are you?” asks a gruff male voice, making me jump out of my skin.
I turn toward what I thought was an empty room to be met by a pair of inquisitive eyes peering over the top of a mustache and bushy beard.
