‘How can you bear it?’ Rosie asked him when he joined them at their table. ‘That creep and his ghastly girlfriends.’
The waiter hovered behind him. ‘Champagne and...’ Jed rapidly scanned the menu. ‘Just scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.’
He handed the menu back to the waiter and smiled straight into Rosie’s concerned face, gently pinching her chin.
‘How do I bear it, Rosie dear? I don’t, but every time he behaves like the social incompetent that he is, I increase my expenses by ten per cent. You know me,’ he said airily, as the waiter poured icy cold Dom Perignon into his glass. ‘Art for art’s sake and money for chrissake.’
Ellie silently watched Jed as the waiter filled Rosie’s glass. As he leaned forward to fill hers, she caught and held Jed’s gaze.
Ellie knew the truth of it. So did Jed. No-one was safe.
She was also nowhere near as certain as Rosie that she was indispensable; nor could she believe in Roland’s earlier assurance. She calculated that she had a value that on balance was more useful to Jerome than not. But she was wary. Twice in the space of a week she had clashed with him about who should be interviewed for her column.
A rock star with merely a pulse where he should have had a brain had been his first choice. Ellie had gazed impassively back at him.
Nor was Jerome’s enthusiasm for the wives of his friends any easier to deal with. Women who seemed to have little to occupy themselves except to be seen lunching regularly with each other in full view of the better-known gossip columnists, were in his view prime candidates for exposure — flattering exposure — in Focus.
‘I wouldn’t mind if they were actually raising money for something, doing something useful with their position, like Lady Broughton and her environment campaigns, but just lunching and shopping. Oh God, spare me.’
Ellie’s temper rarely erupted so forcibly, but over dinner with two of her best friends she could not resist the relief of venting her anger at Jerome’s blatant hijacking of their columns for his own ends.
*
The following morning Ellie was treated to another example of how the very little ground she and Jerome had in common was shrinking fast.
‘Perhaps we could think that through a little,’ she had deflected him. ‘Nigel Barrington is a terribly well known industrialist but I think we need a little more substance for a profile than how Marianne Barrington fits her life around his. It would be difficult to get politicians, ambassadors, financiers to be interviewed if they thought the magazine was losing its prestige.’
Jerome eyed her with ill-disguised fury. Ellie stared coolly back.
‘I think circulation is more important than prestige in these trying times,’ he said, slamming his pen hard on the desk. ‘Putting a household name in your column will do more for it than any number of grey-suited City men.’
Ellie had lost track of his reasoning. At best it was erratic, at worst he seemed to have a plan of his own which no-one else was privy to. Marianne Barrington might be a household name to Jerome in whose house she often dined, but to the readers of Focus she was not only unheard of, but of no interest.
Genuinely puzzled, Ellie tried again.
‘If the magazine is to change direction, become more mass market, then I absolutely agree with you. Circulation would certainly shoot up. Is that what you intend?’
‘Change direction?’ he raged. ‘Are you crazy? Is that what you think is going on? Why do you think I’ve been brought in? Just to listen to a lot of crappy ideas rooted in the good old days when advertising was up for grabs? It’s because it was drifting from its target audience that I’ve been brought in, not to drag it away from its unique ground.’
Ellie listened to him in silence. No-one on the staff of Focus believed for a second the line that Jerome had fed them since he arrived: that he was saving them.
‘And where’s that profile on Stirling? That’s the kind of stuff we need, juicy gossip, inside track. Sex, scandal, really punching it out.’
If there had been some way to tell Jerome then what she longed to hurl into his arrogant, self-satisfied face, she would have hesitated only long enough to discover which way would hurt him the most. Is that what he thought that profile was about, a scandal-sheet piece of smoking newsprint?
Much as she wanted to prove to Theo Stirling that she had weapons every bit as lethal as his power and money, at that moment she would have willingly consigned Oliver’s livelihood to the dustheap rather than give Jerome Strachan so much as a line on the man she had threatened to ruin. Instead she took a deep breath and in a carefully controlled voice explained the special circumstances surrounding the interview with Theo.
Jerome twiddled almost neurotically with a pencil. He listened intently.
‘He won’t be interviewed by anyone. I explained all this to Roland. The only way to do it is to get other people talking about him. Maybe he’ll relent. But I think it’s unlikely. Not just yet.
‘Roland trusts — I mean, trusted my judgement,’ she amended hastily as Jerome’s eyes flew to meet hers. Ellie knew she had accidentally hit a raw nerve. Roland’s charismatic presence was a hard act to follow. ‘He left it to me to make that decision.’
Jerome snapped the pencil in half.
‘Let’s get one thing quite straight, shall we? You make requests, I make the decisions. Is that clear? I don’t know what...’ he paused and let his eyes flick insolently over her before continuing, ‘…arrangement you had with Roland, but I’ve always been told the editor’s decision is final.’
Ellie couldn’t even feel anger. Just irritation. If only he would back off, stop being so prickly. No-one expected him to know everything, or to win their confidence overnight. Talent he might have, but maturity, Ellie realized with exasperation, was still a long way off. What was Bentley Goodman thinking of?
She tried another tack.
‘You know, Jerome, I think we may just be misunderstanding each other. I’m more than happy to accommodate what you want. After all,’ she paused and smiled at him in what she hoped was a friendly fashion, ‘you are the editor and what you want is obviously the priority.’
‘I want Stirling,’ he cut across her. ‘I said it yesterday, I don’t want to have to say it again.’
Ellie hesitated, torn between loathing for the man and fear that she was dependent on his goodwill to keep her job. Fear won.
‘Okay, I’ll call his office, see if I can get a colour piece going but then why don’t I round up some other ideas and show them to you... I mean I’ll get Dixie to fit me into your schedule and maybe we could go through them to see what you want.’
Ellie was beginning to realize how much importance Jerome attached to being held in awe. Where Roland would have dropped by her office, Jerome saw such a gesture as eroding his position.
To her surprise, he suddenly smiled. ‘Sure,’ he said, reaching out and buzzing for his secretary. ‘Dixie, Ellie is just leaving, see if you can fit her in for an appointment before the end of the day.’
Ellie thought he was pathetic. Releasing the speak button, he drew a set of proofs towards him and began running his pen down the first column.
Ellie sat waiting for him to speak.
As though remembering her presence, he suddenly looked up.
‘I’m sorry, was there anything else? Dixie will see you on the way out.’ The insultingly dismissive gesture was not lost on her. He knew he had scored a point.
Ellie’s kept her anger under control and, with what dignity she could, gathered up the files she had brought with her and walked as slowly as the situation would allow from the room, shutting the door carefully and courteously behind her.
‘I’ve got a new way to spell his name,’ she whispered into Dixie’s ear as she passed her desk. ‘It’s P.R.A.T.’ Dixie rolled her eyes heavenwards in sympathy.
‘I’ll ring you about seeing him. It’s likely to be after five thirty — he’s got more audiences than the Palladium lined up.’
It sounded like heaven, but she wasn’t at all sure she could afford the luxury of a long weekend in the country right now. Reaching across her desk, she flipped open her diary. Friday afternoon didn’t look too bad, but at seven o’clock she had marked ‘WIN, Soho Square’.
Those meetings of Women Into Networking usually went on a bit, being at the end of the week, with the weekend stretching ahead, no-one in a particular rush. Maybe she could skip it for once. She decided to call Anne Copley who was this year’s joint chair with Ellie, and make her excuses. Anne would understand.
That would leave her free to leave the office maybe an hour early to beat the traffic and get down to Dorset. A thought struck her. Why not take Paul? It was ages since he had been down and he loved the atmosphere at Delcourt. Who didn’t? she thought ruefully. Maybe away from London, away from the file on Theo Stirling dominating her thoughts, they could really talk, really relax.
Ellie began to feel better. Just planning a small escape revived her spirits. She was even able to grin at the cheap shots Jerome had fired at that early morning meeting.
She put a call through to Anne Copley who instantly came on the line.
‘Ellie, you work harder than anyone for WIN. Sure, I can manage one meeting. Have a good time.’
Good. That was the first hurdle out of the way. Ellie buzzed for Lucy.
‘See if Daniel can fit me in at around one. I badly need to get my ends trimmed and call me there if Dixie rings. I’ve got to see Jerome at the end of the day. Oh and Lucy, call Paul. Tell him I’ve been trying to reach him and I’ll call before I leave the office.’
Flicking the switch back, she scanned the list of messages again. Nothing from Theo Stirling, but then, why would he ring? Jed had already broken the news in his column that Debra Carlysle and the property developer were an item around town and two or three of the tabloid papers had photographed them at exclusive receptions, looking every inch the sophisticated and international couple they were.
Each time Ellie picked up a paper she held her breath in case news of Theo’s interest in Willetts Green had leaked out. Each time she breathed a sigh of relief. His visit was being described as private and on family matters as well as to be with Carlysle, who was apparently discussing a new movie to be filmed in London.
Ellie gritted her teeth and told herself Debra Carlysle was welcome to him. Perfect for each other in fact. Both wanting their own way. Curiously enough the husky-voiced woman had made no further attempt to contact her.
Frowning, she took from her top drawer a buff folder in which the notes of all the information she had been given on and off the record about Theo were beginning to pile up. She started to flip through it and as she did so she reached for the phone and punched in the number for Stirling Industries. The switchboard put her through to Roger Nelson’s secretary. She in turn asked Ellie to hold while she consulted with her boss. Seconds later Roger Nelson took the call, hesitating when she asked him to convey her request to Theo.
‘No, don’t call back, if you wouldn’t mind just holding on. I’m not sure... I mean it’s difficult... look, just don’t go away.’
Ellie waited and while she did Lucy buzzed through to say Daniel had said okay, but she might have to wait a few minutes.
‘No matter, I can get Jerome’s meeting sorted out while I’m waiting. Say I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Roger Nelson came back on the line. ‘Would six o’clock be convenient? Unfortunately, Mr Stirling already has a dinner engagement...’
Ellie shuddered. Dinner! The thought made her choke. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve obviously misunderstood, I wasn’t suggesting dinner,’ she cut across Roger Nelson. ‘Six o’clock will be fine.’
Done it now, my girl, she groaned as she replaced the receiver.
Arming herself with a large pad and that day’s papers, she headed for the hairdresser, who fitted her into his busy schedule as much because she was a personal favourite as the fact that he liked to tell other clients that Eleanor Carter had been a client for the last three years.
By the time she got back via Bond Street, having bought a black satin jacket that she had been coveting for some time from one of its more exclusive boutiques, and her hair a shining silky mane just touching her shoulders, Lucy had rearranged her appointments for Friday and informed her that Jerome would see her at five.
‘Hope that hairstyle isn’t to impress him,’ she grinned. ‘What a waste.’
‘Not on your life, but I hope this does,’ said Ellie, brandishing a notepad with a schedule for her column that would satisfy every taste and every voice. ‘By the way, can you order a car for me at five thirty? I’ve got a brief meeting with Theo Stirling.’
She tried to keep a casual note in her voice, riffling through papers on her desk as she spoke. Lucy whistled softly, hastily amending it to a cough when she saw Ellie look up with a frown, and ducked hastily out of the room.
Ellie was still sliding out of her jacket when she noticed the proof of the interview she had done with Brook Wetherby lying on her desk. Something about it made her pause. There was a large picture of Brook’s ex-wife on the page. Puzzled, Ellie turned the proof round to study it, sliding slowly into her chair, shrugging her jacket off so that it fell in a heap behind her. She hadn’t even mentioned his ex-wife beyond recording that they had once been married, so why dominate the page with this picture?
She soon found out. Half way down the page for no apparent reason there were now four paragraphs that had not originated with Ellie. They read like an embittered attack on Brook’s estranged wife, his belief that she had married him only for his money and position and that she was no better than a muckraking bimbo.
Ellie felt as cold as ice. Horrified, she read and reread the paragraphs and as she did so she frantically buzzed the chief sub.
‘Angus, what in God’s name is going on with this feature? Who put that paragraph in about his wife? It’s got to come out. My God, she’ll ruin us. Has everyone gone mad?’
‘I’m coming round, Ellie,’ he said and minutes later while Ellie, ashen-faced, was still clutching the proof, he appeared and closed the door behind him.
‘Jerome checked the proof himself while you were in York interviewing Max Culver,’ he said. Angus looked crushed with embarrassment. ‘He said he would tell you what he was going to do. That you had discussed it with him.’
Ellie was speechless. ‘Yes, he did,’ she said at last. ‘And it’s what I told him, but not like this, not with this detail. I simply recorded Brook’s belief that his second marriage had nearly wrecked him, that in his view his wife had been more interested in her career than his. Not this. I’ve never even spoken to her.
‘Angus, this is awful, it’s so tacky. It won’t do us any good and I can’t have my name on it. I’ve already got Kathryn Renshaw baying for my blood, I don’t want this as well. I must see him.’
The older man looked alarmed. He was fond of Ellie, but he knew what a delicate line they all walked. ‘Calm down before you see him, lassie. No-one wins battles without a strategy.’
His calm good sense stopped her. She was seeing Jerome at five — better to discuss it then.
But her plans came unstuck. Just before five Dixie called through to say that Jerome had cancelled the meeting and had left the office, but would see Ellie at ten thirty next morning. Alarmed and frightened by the way things were beginning to turn out, Ellie ran down the corridor to Angus’s office.
‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’ Angus asked urgently, glancing swiftly at the clock, aware that a motorbike messenger was waiting to dash the disk to the colour house.
‘Yes, but not like this. Angus, please, I’ve got to take them out. I don’t care what you do, make the picture bigger to fill the space, anything you like, but these words are coming out.’
Even as
she spoke Ellie had called the original copy on to his screen and was rewriting the offending paragraphs. Angus sighed and put a call through to the colour repro house, saying the pages were going to be a few minutes behind schedule.
Finally, satisfied that the offending words were removed and a swift, harmless paragraph inserted, Ellie stood aside to let him read it. Angus rapidly ran an experienced eye over the new words, pronounced it ‘much better’ and the danger passed.
*
Theo Stirling’s suite of offices were on the tenth floor of the Stirling Building, five minutes’ walk from St Paul’s. The girl on reception, manicured down to the nth degree from her power suit to her black unnervingly high-heeled shoes, directed Ellie to a lift which would take her to the correct floor where she would be met by Roger Nelson’s secretary.
The lift glided silently, smoothly upwards, totally at variance with Ellie’s frame of mind. Shaken by Jerome’s deviousness, apprehensive about the forthcoming meeting, her only consolation as she looked at her reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift was that at least she didn’t look dishevelled. Fortunately, she told herself wryly, no-one could see the state of her brain.
The lift doors slid back to reveal a clone of the receptionist who introduced herself as Mr Nelson’s PA.
They went down a carpeted corridor, ending with double wooden doors through which she was led into a spacious room, which had a breathtaking vista of the City and the Thames glinting in the late-evening sunlight. The room was occupied by a bank of technology that could easily have rivalled the stock exchange. Far from being intimidated, Ellie was rapidly becoming irritated. She had asked to see Theo Stirling, not the Prime Minister, and with her nerves raw from a trying day at the office, she said so as Roger Nelson came to greet her.
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