by Paul Ilett
Colin had married his career many years earlier. As far as Valerie had been concerned, Fiona was as much Colin’s mistress as the middle-aged trollop he’d be banging in every Premier Inn across the UK. Colin had never been interested in anything beyond good dinner conversation and casual sex. But then, completely out of the blue, along had come Fiona. Valerie had been surprised by their sudden marriage and had secretly wondered if Colin’s proposal had been driven by some sort of midlife crisis as much as his desire to do the right thing. Either way, she had always suspected he was going to struggle with fidelity. And within weeks of his marriage she had noticed he was already finding it difficult to balance his work life with his unexpected home life. He hadn’t tried to reduce his long hours, or modify his ever-changing shifts, or say no to the last minute instructions to jet off to some god-awful, back-of-beyond to find a celebrity who was misbehaving. And Valerie had suspected there were other parts of Colin’s ‘old life’ he might not have completely surrendered either. Adam Jaymes’ exposé, whilst terrible, hadn’t been a surprise to her.
She didn’t think badly of Colin for having sex outside of his marriage. In fact, she had always told her female readers never to pursue their suspicions if a husband appeared to be playing away from home. “Isn’t it a dark secret we all have to face at some point in our lives,” she had written, “that a successful marriage might last because of a husband’s infidelity, and not in spite of it?” But she had been disappointed with the circumstances of Colin’s affair, and found it an unnecessary complication to have cheated with his best friend’s wife. “Silly boy,” she said to him, as he lay asleep next to her. “You have an expense account. That’s what hookers are for.” She looked around the plain, economy offering of the London hotel and saw a digital alarm clock on the other side of the bed. Its large red counter was at four minutes past midnight. It was Friday. Adam Jaymes’ second victim had less than 24 hours left. “Come and get me, you bastard,” she whispered. “I’m ready for you.”
CHAPTER 7
“Explain it to me,” Twigg demanded, and stared at Oonagh who was sitting on the other side of his desk. Annoyingly, for Twigg, she didn’t flinch or stumble for words. She simply stared back at him with that contented expression that always hinted at pity. Twigg was in no mood for Oonagh’s composed and thoughtful approach to conversations. He wanted a rise out of her, a bit of passion and fight. He wasn’t going to get anywhere if she just sat there, smiling at him. Earlier that morning, he had summoned Felicity into his office and asked her to show him how dailyear.com was handling the whole Project Ear story. He was not happy with what he saw. It would appear that life on the Ear’s website had continued as normal, to the point where there were a number of articles publicising Adam’s upcoming Glee episodes. “Well?” he asked again.
“Leonard, I don’t believe it’s necessary for me to explain myself to you,” Oonagh replied, coolly.
Twigg knew she was daring him, trying to draw him into a conversation he wasn’t prepared to have. Not on that day, at least. But he felt it was time for a shot across the bows, to let Oonagh know he was watching her. He knew, however, that she was clever. She was certainly no Gayesh Perera. She wasn’t going anywhere, and would not roll over for him. “Right, well let me re-frame that. I do not think it is good for the Daily Ear’s website to deviate so completely from our editorial lines. Adam Jaymes is about to publish his second exposé. And yet to look at our website, you’d think we were his PR manager.”
Oonagh smiled at him with an expression that made him feel like he was a grandfather who was about to have a video recorder explained to him for the first time. “Leonard, I understand you have trouble grasping even the simplest aspects of the internet and social media. But I would expect you to appreciate the size of the American market dailyear.com now has. I have more readers in the US than the New York Times website. I have more than 40 million unique visitors each month, and more and more of those are in the States.”
“So?” Twigg responded indifferently as though Oonagh was waffling, avoiding the point.
“Leonard, I’m well aware of this paper’s history with Adam Jaymes. But he is incredibly popular both in this country and in the States. His True Blood storyline was a huge success, and they’re expecting his Glee episodes to deliver one of the biggest audience shares they’ve seen in a long time.”
Twigg knew all about Adam’s role in True Blood. Disgusting! The Daily Ear had been quick to criticise his decision to take the role, and the explicit nature of his “gay sex scenes” with Eric the vampire. Valerie had used her column to round on him for betraying “his young British fans, who had followed him each week as Doctor Who’s plucky side-kick”, and for “leaping gaily into a sordid adult world of explicit sex, violence, foul language and Godless values”.
“More than that, his husband also has a very high personal rating with the American public,” Oonagh continued. “His companies are considered to be ethical and clean, with some of the best health care benefits in the country. Imagine a young, gay, American version of Richard Branson. Only richer. And good looking. And no weird beard. That’s who Adam’s married to.”
Twigg narrowed his eyes and stared at Oonagh, unhappy at her use of the word ‘married’. There, right there, was an unforgiveable difference between the two of them. He would have expected better from a former Catholic school girl. “So, you are saying that my own website is going to be promoting the man who’s trying to destroy this paper?”
“No, Leonard, I’m saying that my website will cover the story if and when it needs to. But I will not be launching an online campaign against Adam Jaymes. Nor will I stop writing stories about Glee just because he’s in it. My audience is different to yours, Leonard. It’s about time you began to understand that.”
By the time Oonagh had finished speaking, Twigg was drumming his fingers on the desk. It was a passive-aggressive gesture that would have most staff at the Daily Ear running for cover. Oonagh knew she was supposed to be intimidated, but she’d grown up in a family of men – she had nine uncles and seven older brothers. Leonard Twigg couldn’t hold a candle to any of them. “You have very nice finger nails, Leonard,” she observed, sweetly. “Where do you have them manicured?”
He stopped drumming and glared across the desk at her. “Do you know the point of a Daily Ear story, Oonagh?” he asked. “Do you know what we try to achieve with every single article we print, whether it be a four-page feature or a NIB?”
“As a newspaper I’d imagine, first and foremost, we are trying to inform,” Oonagh replied, beginning to sound a little bored by the conversation.
“Wrong!” Twigg snapped. “Completely and utterly wrong.”
With a weary sigh, Oonagh slumped back into her chair, shaking her head ever so slightly. “Then please tell me, Leonard, what is the point of a Daily Ear story.”
“Every single story the Daily Ear prints should achieve one of two outcomes. Either it leaves the reader angry about something, or it leaves them hating someone. Any story that leaves a reader happy or optimistic has failed.”
Oonagh collected her things and stood up. “You’re an idiot,” she said, as though stating a fact. “And I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
Twigg was seething and continued to glare at Oonagh as she casually made her way to the door. “But I think you raise a valid point, Leonard, about the editorial lines of the print and online editions of the Ear,” she said. “I’m having brunch with Sam in an hour so I’ll let him know we had this conversation and take a view from him.”
She left the office and closed the door behind her. ‘Take a view from him’. The words sat uneasily with Twigg. Oonagh had been clever. She had given the impression she had taken his concerns on board whilst, at the same time, highlighting her working relationship with the new chief executive. He knew what she would do next. She would drop him an email, outlining their conversation and the action she had agreed to. She did that a lot. It made it difficult
to catch her out.
Almost without hesitation, Valerie popped through the door and closed it behind her. “So, what does the fat Irish whore have to say for herself?” she asked, and sat down.
“Nothing, as usual,” Twigg replied, refusing to acknowledge anything Oonagh had just said to him.
“Well, if this isn’t a good time to get rid of her I don’t know when is. You might as well take advantage when it’s all hitting the fan.” Valerie gestured toward their colleagues on the other aside of Twigg’s glass wall. “People expect a few heads to roll. I mean, every single bastard sat in that newsroom is expecting this to be my final day. I’m sure Felicity’s been asked to do a collection for me, just in case.”
Twigg had been asked to contribute to Valerie’s leaving collection, but decided to keep that to himself. “We’re all set, though,” he replied, as reassuringly as he could. “I believe we’ve got you covered. We’re still the biggest selling daily. We’re very strongly placed to influence public opinion off the back of anything Jaymes does. They’ll look to us to respond, and we will.”
“Oh, I’m not worried anymore,” Valerie declared, and then relaxed back into the old leather chair and crossed her legs. She was almost excited at the prospect of being Adam Jaymes’ next victim, especially since they had already worked out what his exposé would be and prepared for it. “You can explain anything away, if you know how. It’s just more difficult when there are other people in the firing line.”
“You’re talking about Fiona, I assume,” Twigg said. “Is there any word?”
Valerie shrugged. “I understand she’s left town for now. Colin thinks she’s gone to stay with her family in Edinburgh. Apparently she wanted to put as much space between them as she could.”
“Is he going to stay at the hotel?”
“Only for a few more days, and then he’s moving back to the house. Assuming Fiona hasn’t changed all the locks.”
“You saw him last night, didn’t you?” Twigg enquired. “Still drunk?”
“Oh, beyond drunk, the poor darling,” Valerie replied. “But he’ll be back at work soon. One of our wounded soldiers hobbling back into battle.”
Twigg noticed she had produced a packet of cigarettes, and was restlessly turning it in her hand, as though waiting to be given permission to smoke. But Twigg hated cigarettes. He had banned smoking in the building long before he’d been required to by law, and wasn’t about to let Valerie stink out his office. He knew how much the smell would hang in the air, for days afterwards.
“Completely different for me, of course,” Valerie continued. “My husband’s dead and my daughter stopped talking to me years ago. Who’s Adam Jaymes going to offend, my bloody Labrador?”
“Your husband was a good man,” Leonard said. And he meant it. Jeremy Pierce had been a Tory MP for two terms under Thatcher and one under Major. A dashing, unrelenting, unapologetic right-winger and the closest thing to a best friend Leonard had ever had. He remembered how proud Jeremy had been at serving in the House of Commons, and his terrible pain at being one of the many Tories swept from power in the Labour landslide of 97. “He would have stood by you, come hell or high-water. He was a man of honour. The sort of MP we don’t have nowadays.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” Valerie said. She had fond memories of Jeremy, and those exciting years she had spent as the wife of an MP. He hadn’t been the love of her life, but they’d been great pals and had a perfectly healthy and happy marriage that had served a purpose for both of them. They’d even had a daughter together. She had enormous respect for him as a husband, father and politician and was genuinely heartbroken when he died. “When I was at the hotel last night, looking after Colin, it made me remember how good the pair of you were when Jeremy was dying,” she said. “Those dreadful final months and all those car journeys up and down to that blasted NHS hospital. All those hours and days sat at his bedside on that horrible wooden chair, drinking god-awful tea from plastic cups and getting endless text messages from people who couldn’t be bothered to actually call. And poor Jeremy was on so many pain killers, it was as if ... . well ... it was like he was already gone. That brilliant mind of his, all that knowledge and wit. This man I was visiting, this person lying in the hospital bed, well ... it was like I was visiting a senile old uncle rather than my husband. I don’t think I’d ever felt so lonely.”
“I know,” Leonard said, partly because he remembered that period of Valerie’s life and partly because she had written about it, in great detail, so many times in the eleven years since Jeremy’s death. But there was a sadness to her voice which seemed genuine rather than affected and he wondered if she was beginning to feel uneasy at exploiting Jeremy‘s cancer to explain away a drink-drive conviction.
“I remember all those phone calls, and the visits, and the silly little presents you and Colin sent me to cheer me up, right from the moment Jeremy was diagnosed,” Valerie said, and smiled at him. “And it made such a difference to me.”
Twigg nodded his head, acknowledging Valerie’s gratitude in a typically understated way. He did angry very well. And exasperated, and indifferent. But the softer emotions didn’t run smoothly for him and he liked to keep all the fluffy stuff at arm’s length. He was concerned, however, that Valerie was too confident about that evening’s exposé. But he decided not to raise his concern and, instead, make sure she had all the support she needed for whatever was to come, especially if public reaction to her drink-driving conviction was stronger than anticipated. “We had some response to yesterday’s column,” he said, moving the conversation on. “Have you reviewed it yet?”
She groaned. “Not yet, but I guessed Adam Jaymes’ fans might take a short break from bumming each other to send a few emails.”
“Actually, it was the section on single mothers that set them off.”
“Oh, good lord.” Valerie rolled her eyes and slumped back dramatically into the chair. “There are too many bleeding heart liberals in this country who’ve put single mothers on a pedestal and make a pariah of anyone who dares to take a more critical view. I stand by what I wrote. They need to stop bleating on about how tough they think their life is and take responsibility for their predicament. If you are a single mother it’s because you chose an unsuitable partner to have a baby with. Deal with it!”
Leonard had always suspected that Valerie secretly enjoyed the notoriety that came with her outspoken opinions. He had seen her, week after week, edge closer to that fine line between valid debate and pure attention-seeking. Valerie always defended her work as a discussion of unpleasant truths, but for many it often seemed she was simply writing whatever would get the greatest reaction. Oonagh had once admitted to Twigg there was a direct link between the level of offence in any of Valerie’s columns and the amount of traffic it brought to the website. Angry readers would tweet the column to their followers, who would read it and be equally outraged and then tweet it to their followers too. And the whole time they would unwittingly drive up the hits on dailyear.com.
“I think,” he said, “that our readers see a significant difference between a woman who’s a single mother through divorce, and some squawking, chain-smoking teenager who got knocked up on purpose to get a council house.”
Valerie huffed. “So what you are saying is ... ?”
“Well, to be clear, in the future I want you to steer clear of attacking any single mothers who, say, wrote the Harry Potter books.” Twigg had seen the research. He knew who his readers did and did not want the Ear to criticise. And he was enough of a businessman to allow this research to influence some of his editorial decisions.
Of all the people Felicity had met during her time at the Daily Ear, Derek Toulson was the one she liked least. She had only spent a few weeks in his PR department and quickly realised it was not the sort of environment where she could ever feel comfortable. Derek’s outward charm and good humour masked a vindictive nature, a man who revelled in bullying his staff knowing he exercised just enough infl
uence at the company to get away with almost anything. Felicity had seen him change the team’s entire rota at the last minute just to scupper a PR manager’s plan to attend a family wedding. She had seen him threaten to sack a press officer if he left before the end of his shift, even though his wife had gone into labour. She had seen him nit-pick over the exact details of compassionate leave and then order a graphic designer back to work less than a week after the death of her father. Usually he would target one person in the department, someone who’d been in his good books for a little too long and who needed to be reminded who was boss. There would follow weeks of vicious personal emails and phone calls and threats of disciplinary action. They would be singled out for degrading comments in team meetings or department emails, until they were barely able to come to work anymore. And then suddenly and unexpectedly they would be restored as one of his favourites, as if nothing had happened. Each member of the team was relieved and grateful for the good days when his venom was aimed at someone else, but terrified of the bad days. Breaking people, Felicity realised, was Derek’s hobby.
For the women there was the added risk of sexual harassment. He wasn’t a good-looking man: in his mid-forties and of average build with thinning hair and very little by way of a chin. But regardless of this, he would flirt endlessly, aggressively in fact, with his female staff and absolutely expected his interest to be reciprocated. HR had a list of complaints so long that no one even bothered counting anymore. But the high turnover of staff ensured few were there long enough to see their complaints through to the end, and there was never enough cross-over between victims for a joint complaint to be lodged. Felicity was a modest girl who knew she was attractive simply because other people kept telling her she was. But it didn’t sit comfortably with her, and she had never enjoyed the attention it brought. Over the years she had developed a façade of plainness which prevented any unwarranted interest and this had somehow enabled her to pass quietly under Derek’s radar. He also knew she worked directly with Gayesh, Twigg, Valerie and Colin and so had always afforded her the sort of everyday pleasantries his other staff could only look at in wonder. But Felicity had seen how he behaved towards everyone else in the team and often felt sick with nerves whenever he was in the same room.