Tess shook her head. ‘Great for inside, Jon, but we can’t run a nipple shot on the cover.’
‘Yes, the nips are out in every shot,’ replied Jon, looking a little deflated. ‘Although we could always put globes over her tits for the cover–shot. Readers might think it’s funny,’ he said, gaining a few sniggers from the younger members of staff.
‘I think people want to see Serena’s nips,’ said Ben Leith, seizing another opportunity to put pressure on Tess. She reminded herself that the news editor was best friends with the editor, Andy, and would no doubt be reporting everything back to their boss.
‘Maybe we can run something next to the logo’, said Tess, firmly, ‘but it’s not the big story.’
Leith looked sulky and muttered something about feminist bullshit under his breath, but Tess ignored him.
‘Let’s take a view at four o’clock conference. Ben, can we meet after lunch? I have a stringer working on a story which we might be able to turn into the front page.’
She stalked back to her office, sat in her chair, and swivelled it to stare out of the window. Her reflection stared back at her. Dark eyes, a strong brow, creamy skin with good bone structure; a face to be reckoned with. A glamorous newspaper editor’s face, she smiled grimly. That meeting was exactly the reason she was struggling to enjoy this week as editor. There had been none of the empowering buzz she always thought she would feel in the editor’s chair, and she had been tense and crotchety all week. It was not that she didn’t think she was up to the job – she had spent her whole adult life wanting to be a newspaper editor, from the first time she’d seen The Front Page and His Girl Friday as a little girl, to the day when she had got her first paying job as news assistant at her local rag in Suffolk, where she’d covered village fetes and bicycle thefts, and she knew she could do it better than anyone. What bothered her was the acknowledgement that she was just wasting her time. That the new editor and the CEO were just biding their time until they could get rid of her in the most inexpensive way possible.
Just then, the phone rang. It was Andy’s assistant Tracey.
‘I have a Mark Wilson in reception for you.’
Tess didn’t recognize the name, but had an instant intuition that whatever Mark Wilson wanted it was going to be trouble.
‘He says he’s acting for the Asgills, if that makes any sense to you?’ said Tracey.
‘Oh shit,’ groaned Tess under her breath. This was exactly why she hadn’t broken the Asgill story in the meeting: she wanted to be sure of it; she didn’t want word to get back to Andy of the story that never was. She walked over to the small window of her office and snapped the blinds shut just as there was a sharp rap on her door.
Mark Wilson was mid–forties, dressed in a conservative tailored suit and carrying a silver briefcase. He held out a card, but Tess simply slipped it into her pocket. She didn’t need Mark Wilson to tell her he was an expensive lawyer, because he looked exactly like every other expensive lawyer she had ever met.
‘Tea? Coffee? Water?’ Tess asked, motioning towards a seat in front of her desk.
‘Straight to business I think, Ms Garrett,’ he said as he settled down. ‘Some illegal photographs were taken of my client at a party in St John’s Wood last night.’
‘I know,’ said Tess, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Sean Asgill was partying so hard he ended up in a high–dependency unit at a North London hospital.’
Wilson looked slightly taken aback by the blunt, attractive woman seated across from him, but quickly rallied.
‘Well Ms Garrett, you’re an experienced journalist, one assumes,’ he said. ‘So I don’t need to remind you of the privacy laws at issue here. Sean Asgill was enjoying a night out in a private place and that privacy has been invaded.’
Tess looked at him, determined to stand her ground, particularly after Wilson’s snipe about her experience. In fact, Tess had been in this situation many times before. Andy Davidson didn’t do much hands–on editing and was more often to be found schmoozing politicians and publicists; he certainly never dealt with Rottweiler lawyers. It was Tess who was sent to deal with them, and, as barely a week went by without some celebrity publicist or media lawyer threatening the Globe with injunctions, Tess knew the law backwards.
‘I’m well aware of the law, Mr Wilson,’ said Tess, counting the points off on her slim fingers. ‘Number one, and correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t this incident involve heavyweight drug usage? Heavyweight illegal drugs, I might add? Number two, it didn’t happen at Mr Asgill’s private residence; in fact it was at a public event, and a morally controversial public event at that.’
Wilson smiled thinly. ‘That’s rich. Your newspaper talking about morals.’
Tess took a sip from the glass of water in front of her. ‘This is a drug overdose at a sex party, Mr Wilson. It’s not as if we stormed into the Pope’s bedroom. You and I both know that no judge in England will grant an injunction on those photos based on privacy. Besides, as your client is very high profile, I believe we could argue public interest, given the circumstances.’
‘Please, this is a young, vulnerable man who ingested ketamine mistakenly,’ said Wilson in a more conciliatory voice.
‘Vulnerable?’ snorted Tess. ‘Well, I don’t know Sean Asgill, but from what I read he’s hardly Tiny Tim. He’s a playboy whose fast living has finally caught up with him.’
Mark Wilson’s face was impassive but Tess knew she had got him. He stared at her for a few moments, then shrugged slightly.
‘I take it you haven’t written your splash story yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Who owns the photographs?’
She paused for a moment. ‘We do,’ she said. Actually, this was technically true, even if the paper was unaware of it. Tess was paying cash–strapped Jemma a one–hundred–pounds–a–day freelancer rate and hiding the fee in her office expenses. That meant the Globe owned the copyright to Jemma’s photographs, although no one except Tess and Jemma – and Sean Asgill’s people – even knew of their existence. Mark Wilson nodded slowly.
‘Well, I’m sure we can work something out,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cheque, placing it carefully on the desk in front of Tess.
‘One hundred thousand pounds,’ he said simply. ‘It’s yours if you kill the story, give the photographs to us, and forget any of this ever happened.’
Tess stared down at the table, feeling her heartbeat increase. She knew deals like this had been done before: celebrities paying to have photographs taken off the market. Some of the most amazing, career–shaking exposés and inflammatory pap shots were fated to lay forever unseen, tightly locked in the vaults of newspapers. But this was different; this cheque was made out to her. None of her colleagues knew about the sex party photographs, no one knew that the paper technically owned the copyright, and Jemma had already been paid for a week’s work. Although her friend could potentially get tens of thousands for them if she realized the international impact this story could have, Tess knew she could fob Jemma off by saying there were legal problems with the story. But could she? Almost involuntarily, her hand moved forward, her fingertips resting on the cheque. What she could do with a hundred grand! Pay off the mortgage. Buy a sports car and a brand–new designer wardrobe. Go on a fantastic two–week break to somewhere incredible: Le Touessrok, the Amanpuri, somewhere hot and luxurious where she could have a beach butler and personal masseuse. Or she could simply refuse the bribe, run the story, and take the glory. What should she do? What would her father have told her to do? She tried to lift her fingers, but found her hand didn’t want to move. Finally, reluctantly, she breathed out.
‘I can’t help you,’ said Tess, pushing the cheque across the desk towards him.
Wilson raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
Tess nodded.
‘Then make sure your mobile is turned on over the weekend,’ he said briskly as he got up to leave. ‘And you’d better war
n your lawyer.’
*
Tess walked home. It took over an hour to stroll from the Globe office, close to Lambeth Bridge, to Battersea, and on balmy summer nights she did it regularly. But tonight, feeling so unsettled, so confused, she just wanted to clear her head. She set off along the river, the cold wind pinching at her cheeks.
A hundred grand she thought. Today I turned down a hundred grand. No matter how hard she tried to tell herself she had done the right thing, a small voice inside Tess’s head kept nagging away at her: ‘You bloody idiot! You coward! You just weren’t ruthless enough to take the bribe.’
An even more depressing thought had also occurred to her: what if Mark Wilson had some sort of sway with a judge and did manage to get his injunction to stop the photographs being published? Then there’d be no big fat cheque in her bank account, no story, and a humiliatingly blank front page on Sunday. Tess Garrett would have failed. She had brought herself up to be tough, spending her entire twenties surrounding herself with a hard protective shell, so that sentimentality would not get in the way of her ambition. But did she really have half the mettle she thought she had?
The worst thing was that she couldn’t even talk it through with anyone. She certainly couldn’t discuss it with Jemma, and Dom would have gone through the roof. For years, they had dreamed of buying a smart flat over the water in Chelsea, the sort of place Dom’s posy public school friends were now living in. A hundred thousand pounds wouldn’t buy them that, of course, but paying off the mortgage and having full equity on their current home would put them in a strong position to finally trade up to the apartments that twinkled on the other side of the Thames.
Tess was now walking past the New Covent Garden Market where she loved buying armfuls of beautiful flowers on weekend mornings. Suddenly she could hear the soft purr of a car engine behind her. Glancing over her shoulder she saw a shiny black car hugging the pavement. What the hell? Tess began walking a little faster, her heart beating a little quicker than usual, but the car overtook her and stopped thirty yards ahead. Tess didn’t scare easily, but she was still unsettled. The street was dark and, on a cold night like this, she was the only person walking. As she drew level, the rear window of the Mercedes purred down.
‘Tess Garrett?’ called a voice.
Tess stopped and warily looked into the car. Leaning towards the window was an elegant, sixty–something woman with fine–boned features and a cloud of champagne–blonde hair that fell to the sable mink collar of her coat. She looked familiar, but for the moment Tess could not place her.
‘Meredith Asgill,’ said the woman with a faint nod. ‘I’d very much like to talk to you. It’s a cold night, isn’t it? Perhaps you’d like to step inside the car.’
Tess exhaled, her breath making a small white cloud in the night air. Meredith Asgill, Mark Wilson’s employer; she didn’t know whether to be anxious or relieved. Before her was the matriarch of the Asgill family, head of the cosmetics dynasty and, of course, Sean Asgill’s mother. Tess opened the car door and stepped inside, sinking into the black leather seat as Meredith leant forward to instruct the driver to head for Mayfair.
‘I didn’t think I’d find you walking home,’ said Meredith with quiet amusement. ‘I thought British newspaper proprietors might provide drivers for senior members of staff, but when I called at your office your PA tipped me off that you were walking home this way.’
Tess smiled politely. ‘How can I help you, Mrs Asgill?’
Meredith nodded, as if to signify that she too preferred to get down to business. ‘Mark Wilson tells me you intend to run with the story in Sunday’s edition,’ she said, folding her hands on the lap of her blue silk dress.
‘No disrespect to you or your family, Mrs Asgill,’ said Tess, trying to keep her cool. ‘But I am simply doing my job. I’m the acting editor of the Sunday Globe and obviously I have to pick the best stories for our readers.’
‘Of course,’ said Meredith with a faint smile. ‘And of course it will be a boost to your career. I know you were passed over for the editor’s job. I know you have a point to prove with Mr Davidson being away; you want the most salacious stories for a big–selling issue.’
‘And is there anything wrong with that?’ asked Tess.
‘Not at all. It’s what I would expect from someone of your capabilities and ambition. In fact, I was not surprised at all that you turned down Mr Wilson’s generous offer. You have a reputation of making it on your own merits.’
Tess tried not to betray her surprise. It was unsettling how much this woman knew about her, but she supposed a quick Internet search and some join–the–dots suppositions would do the rest. Out of the window, Battersea came into view.
‘This is all very flattering, Mrs Asgill, but is there anything else I can help you with? You’ll appreciate this is a very busy time for me.’
Meredith paused, scanning Tess’s face. ‘Actually, the point of this conversation is how I can help you,’ she said.
Tess gave a quiet, low laugh.
‘Really?’ she asked.
‘Indeed. In fact, I like to think of the proposal I have as a win–win situation.’
Tess held her breath. Was she going to up the offer of a hundred grand? And more importantly, would she be able to turn it down? Meredith looked out of the window.
‘I expect you know a little about my family,’ she began. ‘I expect you know that last week my daughter Brooke became engaged to David Billington?’
‘Yes, “Manhattan’s new John Kennedy Junior”,’ nodded Tess. ‘I think that’s how People described him. And I assume that’s why you’ve been particularly keen to keep your son’s adventures out of the tabloids. I imagine sex scandals don’t go down too well with rich, powerful families like the Billingtons.’
Meredith nodded slightly. ‘David’s family is very rich, very powerful and, as you would expect of one of New York’s oldest families, very conservative. They are more established than the Kennedys, as rich as the Rockefellers. They are also very politically active. Over the last four generations, the Billingtons have provided America with a Secretaries of State, four governors, a vice–president and half–a–dozen senators, but in David they see the potential to finally add a president to the tally.’
‘Really?’ said Tess, intrigued now. ‘I didn’t know David was in politics. Isn’t he a news reporter?’
Meredith laughed. ‘For the moment, yes. He’s due to run for Congress next year and, naturally, he will be elected.’
All at once, Tess felt the pieces fall into place. She looked across at this elegant woman and realized the look on Meredith Asgill’s face was not composure, but controlled fear. She knew that if Jemma’s photos were ever seen, the whole Asgill family would be damned and the Billingtons would not risk being tarred by the same brush. Given those circumstances, one hundred thousand pounds seemed a small sum to keep everyone’s reputations squeaky clean.
‘Mrs Asgill, I wish your daughter and David Billington well,’ said Tess carefully, ‘but it’s my professional responsibility to run the story on your son.’
Meredith looked at her. ‘Your responsibility as acting editor?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what if you weren’t acting editor of the Globe?’ asked Meredith.
Tess felt a flutter of panic. Even without the marriage to David Billington, the Asgills were a rich and powerful family in their own right, and Tess wondered how far Meredith’s influence reached. Cosmetics companies certainly had a lot of power in the publishing industry and, although the Globe didn’t run any beauty advertising, it was still very possible that Meredith had the connections to have Tess removed from her job.
‘Are you threatening to have me fired?’ asked Tess, her face flushing.
‘Fired?’ laughed Meredith, gently tapping Tess’s knee. ‘No darling, I want to offer you a job.’
‘A job?’
Meredith leaned forward. ‘I want you to come and be my family’s personal publ
icist, to promote the Asgills’ image and to keep scandal – should there be any – out of the media.’
Tess gaped, completely taken by surprise. ‘But I’m a hack, not a flack,’ she stammered, using the industry slang expression for PR.
Meredith nodded. ‘And many top publicists are ex–journalists.’
Tess began to say something, then stopped. She didn’t really know what to say. She gazed out of the window, watching the lights of London, trying to think it through, surprised at her own interest in the idea.
‘But surely a New York journalist would suit you better?’ said Tess. ‘My contacts are largely UK–based.’
Meredith smiled. ‘You have friends working at the Post, the Times, and the Daily News.’
Tess conceded the point, again a little unsettled by the depth of the woman’s knowledge of her.
‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘Of course,’ said Meredith. ‘We can offer a good six–figure salary, one I feel sure is more generous than the one you are currently on, plus a rent–free apartment in the West Village.’
‘I already have a well–paid job on one of the biggest papers in the country,’ said Tess, playing for time.
‘Yes, but you’re unhappy, unmotivated and … ’ Meredith paused. ‘ … You’re about to get the sack.’
‘I am not!’ said Tess indignantly. ‘What on earth–’
Meredith held up a dainty hand. ‘It’s a matter of public record that the Globe Group are streamlining, making redundancies, and pushing people out. I read the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times, Miss Garrett. I also keep my ear to the ground, and I hear that your editor is bringing someone in to be co–deputy editor. I’m sorry, I don’t wish to be rude, but it does appear your days at the Globe are numbered.’
Tess could only stare in front of her. Meredith Asgill might have been playing hardball, but her words had the ring of truth to them. It stung her to hear them from a stranger.
‘I’ve got a good reputation,’ said Tess, with more bravado than she was feeling. ‘I don’t think I’ll have any problems walking into a new job.’
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