The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  Sure enough, all the other teams were splashing across the green, brandishing cameras and waving microphones in a race to be first to talk to the main man.

  ‘Buggeroony!’ Thea yelped. All right, her home hadn’t disappeared under five feet of water, but in her eyes this was still a disaster. When the prime minister appeared it was a chance for the reporter to tackle him fiercely about how and why the government had managed so spectacularly to cock up. It was the kind of thing that gave a programme its reputation – the knowledge that its reporters weren’t afraid to ask frank and fearless questions. But if Marco wasn’t there, then there was nothing she could do. She jabbed at his number, but the phone was still switching to voicemail. ‘Shit, shit, shit. This is a nightmare,’ she hissed. Francesca Broome from Sky had her bloody microphone under the Prime Minister’s nose and was nodding energetically.

  ‘… appalled at the situation here. Promising a full aid package and an enquiry…’

  Thea’s phone started ringing. ‘Marco!’ she yelled.

  ‘No, this is not fucking Marco, it’s Dean. Where is Marco? We can’t see him anywhere.’

  Shit. That was the problem with bloody Sky. It ran 24/7 in the office, so whenever you were out on a job with the pack, which was more than 90 per cent of the time, your bosses could easily keep an eye on you.

  ‘Marco’s gone AWOL,’ Thea snapped at Dean. ‘We’re trying to raise him.’

  ‘A professional like Marco? Not like him not to be on the spot.’

  ‘He’ll be here any second.’ Thea hung up and grabbed the arm of a skinny young man she took to be a press officer. ‘What the hell is going on? Why didn’t anyone warn us the PM was coming?’

  ‘It was meant to be a surprise visit. We knew you’d all be here anyway.’

  ‘Shit!’ This was hideously embarrassing. They couldn’t have all the other news networks tackling the PM and nothing on Channel 6. It would look ridiculous. Heads would roll.

  ‘Will he be having a word with all of us?’ she asked the press officer, as Lola Brindleman from the BBC stood forward to take her turn.

  ‘Of course. But he’s only going to be here for the next ten minutes. The helicopter’s waiting to take him to Brize Norton, then he’s flying straight to Germany for a banquet with the heads of the EU.’

  ‘Marco,’ Thea hissed into his voicemail for the fourth time, ‘where the hell are you? Bloody hurry up.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the press officer said, ‘he’s really got to go now.’

  ‘OK, OK! I’ll do the interview!’ Fumbling with the microphone, Thea stepped forward. ‘Prime Minister, Thea Mackharven, Seven Thirty News.’

  Seeing her sodden hair and streaked mascara, the prime minister took a nervous step backwards.

  ‘Just wondering how the government can possibly justify introducing this aid package so late. After all, this is the third time in three years this area has flooded.’

  George was a pro. He kept the camera steadily focused on the prime minister’s face, as – despite his alarm at being accosted by a mad gypsy woman who might try to pin some lucky heather to his lapel – he still smoothly spun out the usual array of platitudes.

  ‘Thea!’ shouted a voice behind them. Thea glanced over her shoulder. Marco was galumphing towards them, the collar of his raincoat turned up so he looked like a glamorous private eye.

  ‘It’s OK, Marco’s here,’ she said to the press officer. ‘Quick, can we do it just one more time with him asking the questions?’

  ‘No, no, sorry. Got to go now.’ And the prime minister was ushered away to dry land in a flurry of crackling radios.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Thea yelled.

  ‘You know where I’ve been. In the hotel. Why the fuck didn’t you raise me?’

  ‘I did raise you. I’ve been calling and calling.’

  ‘No you haven’t.’ But Marco’s face made it clear he was lying. He’d bloody been on the phone to Stephanie and had been ignoring the bleep of his call waiting. Thea knew better than actually to tell him he was a liar.

  ‘Whatever. You should have been here already.’

  ‘You told me I didn’t have to get here until six forty-five.’

  Thea stared at him coldly. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said with slow deliberation. ‘I said six fifteen.’

  ‘You said six forty-five.’ They eyed each other like two dogs about to go for each other’s throats. Marco was going to lie, Thea realized with a pang. The shit was going to hit the fan and Marco was going to make out it was all her fault.

  Already her phone was ringing. Recriminations had begun.

  ‘Thea!’ said Dean’s voice menacingly. ‘What the fuck has been going on?’

  21

  Dean wasn’t just angry. He was livid, furious, choleric, enraged, incensed, riled, splenetic or – as he put it – ‘Fucking pissed off!’

  ‘I am about as happy as a rhinoceros on a date with a big-game hunter. Last night’s cock-up was inexcusable. We looked like total tits in front of all the other networks.’

  Jammed into his office for morning conference, the staff of the Seven Thirty News looked at their feet, their fingernails, anywhere but at Thea.

  Dean lifted his finger and pointed like a Roman emperor ordering the lions to be let loose on the Christians. ‘Thea! You were responsible for this lumpen turd. I’d sack you if I could, but Roxanne says I’ve got to give you an official warning first. So here you go, Thea, you are officially warned. Fuck up again and you swim with the fishes.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘OK,’ Thea said eventually. She looked meaningfully at Marco, still hoping despite herself he might shoulder just a milligram of the blame, but he was staring into space. Only his left foot twitching in his Prada loafers hinted that he might be experiencing even a smidgeon of guilt.

  ‘Good.’ Dean turned to that day’s programme editor. ‘Sunil! I want tonight’s show improved fifteen trillion per cent. And I want the Cancer Dad.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Sunil Syal pushed his glasses up his sweaty nose.

  ‘Get with the programme! The fucking Cancer Dad. It’s page five in today’s Express. He’s a single father of three, because his wife died in childbirth with twins and he’s just been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Having never smoked. Isn’t that great? We need to get an interview with him.’

  ‘Oh the Cancer Dad. Of course. Rhys is on the case already. Aren’t you, Rhys?’

  ‘No. I—’ A look from Sunil silenced him. Fortunately, Dean didn’t notice so carried away was he with his vision.

  ‘We want him weeping; all the kids round him, their little faces distorted with grief. It’ll be great.’

  ‘No worries,’ Rhys gabbled.

  ‘It’s still not enough,’ Dean warned them all. ‘I’m looking for something extra special. Thea, I can’t have you horsewhipped, unfortunately, but I’m going to look into buying a rack to spreadeagle you on. I brought you back from the States because I thought you were talented. So after last night’s cock-up I am going to be looking for a super-duper scoop from you and I don’t mean of dog poop. A revelation that brings the government down. Or better… a showbiz exclusive. An interview with Tom Cruise where he confesses he’s really a woman. Elvis revealed to be working as a lift operator in Harrod’s. Prince Philip admitting he murdered Princess Diana. In other words, something really fucking special. Capeesh?’

  ‘No problem,’ Thea said, as smooth as a duck pond on a windless day.

  Inside, however, she was a raft on the Atlantic tossed by a force-ten gale. Thea had never had such a public dressing-down. The injustice of it all made her want to throw something hard against a wall. All the way back to London the previous night (Dean had ordered them home for the inquest) they’d argued about who’d been at fault. Marco had simply denied she’d asked him to be in place for six fifteen. It was his word against hers and she was merely the producer, while Marco was the talent. And, as all behind-the-scenes pla
yers knew, the talent always got the benefit of the doubt. Channel 6 might miss Thea if she left, but the outside world would know nothing about it. If Marco departed Women’s Institutes across the land would commit mass suicide. She could do nothing, just repeatedly tell herself she’d been in the right.

  What made things worse was that no one outside the news industry would ever understand what all the fuss was about. After all, the package had run smoothly. Marco had still been in place for the ‘live’ to the studio, in fact the only element that had been dodgy had been the interview with the PM. They’d still managed to drop it in as an extra half minute of ‘breaking news since we came on air’ but while the other networks all had a slot where their reporters ferociously grilled him for his government’s lack of foresight and not caring about the countryside, Seven Thirty News viewers had just got thirty seconds of footage of bland remarks about how this was a terrible disaster and the government would do its utmost to help. Either way, Thea knew, it wasn’t going to change the history of journalism, but in offices where they prided themselves on perfection, it was an almighty cock-up.

  Having been dismissed, she returned to her desk, head held high, back straight. Everyone was avoiding her gaze. She stared at her screen, unable to focus because of the tears swimming in her eyes. Find a scoop. Yes, fine, Dean, she’d just order one on the internet. She needed a sympathetic ear. Picking up her phone she dialled Rachel.

  ‘Hi, I’m busy right now. If you—’

  Thea hung up and dialled Dumberley.

  ‘Dumberley, six nine oh two seven.’

  ‘Hi, Mum, it’s me.’

  ‘Thea?’ Jan sounded thrilled, but then an anxious note crept in. ‘Won’t you get in trouble calling from work?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ She paused, wanting to tell her mother how bruised she felt, but – as always – wanting to protect her feelings. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Really well. Are you watching that Andrew Lloyd Webber show? All competing for parts in his musical. Oh, Thea, it’s marvellous. They’re all so good, I don’t know who to single out, though if I was forced to choose…’

  Thea was overwhelmed with an unexpected rush of affection. ‘Would you like me to book you tickets for the show? We could go together. You could come up to London and stay the night.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, darling, but no thanks. Who would cook Trevor’s tea?’

  ‘Can’t he microwave it for once?’ Thea felt very alone. Gran would have understood. She sensed a presence behind her. She glanced round to see Luke.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  Her face turned terracotta. ‘Hi,’ she mouthed, then, ‘Just a minute.’ She turned back to the phone, cutting her mother off mid-sentence. ‘Mum, Mum, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go. Work problem. I just wanted to check you were OK. I’ll call you soon… Yes… Great… all right, see you then. Bye!’ She hung up and tried to smile.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘how are you doing?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. You?’

  ‘Great.’ Luke smiled, then lowered his voice. ‘That was out of order. Dean’s an arsehole. He completely overreacted.’

  Thea smiled faintly. ‘Thanks, Luke.’

  ‘Well, it’s true.’ Luke looked at her. Direct eye contact. Thea felt like butter being spread on hot toast. ‘Look,’ he said under his breath, ‘everyone knows that that little prat Jensen landed you in it. George is putting the word about. Don’t worry; it’ll get back to Dean quickly enough. In any case, how about a drink tonight?’

  Thea’s stomach swooped, like when she skied a black run. She’d often fantasized about this moment, how she would turn Luke down flat, tell him she was too busy eloping with Sir Trevor McDonald. But now the moment had arrived all she could come out with was. ‘I… ah…’

  Luke started to move away. ‘If you’re busy don’t worry.’

  ‘No! I’m not busy!’ she said, just as Rhys appeared behind him. ‘That would be great.’

  ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down. See you later, then. And sod the idea of a drink, let’s make it dinner.’ He walked off. For a second, Thea stared after him, then said, ‘Hi, Rhys. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Um, sorry about what happened to you.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ Thea couldn’t stand it. A GA who’d been learning his five times table when she was jetting round the world getting exclusives on the Taliban was feeling sorry for her.

  ‘I had an idea. For a possible big interview.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I was wondering about Minnie Maltravers.’

  Thea smiled politely, deeply unimpressed at the unoriginality of the suggestion. Minnie Maltravers was a forty-something supermodel turned all-round phenomenon. She was famous mainly for three things: being gorgeous, being angry and being very, very late for everything. She was American, from humble origins, who’d risen to fame in the eighties, spent most of the nineties having a drug problem and most of the noughties in rehab. Now she was sober, married to a British film director called Max Williams and lived in a castle in Scotland and little was heard of her, apart from the occasional court case when a maid or whoever would sue her for wrongful dismissal among tearful tales of how Minnie had thrown a fax machine at her. Everyone was fascinated by Minnie, everyone would love to watch an interview with her, there was just one problem…

  ‘Rhys, you know Minnie never gives interviews. That’s the whole point of her. Her mystique.’

  ‘Yes, but’ – Rhys proffered a print-out – ‘I saw this tiny piece on the news wires. Apparently, she’s about to go to Guatemala on a charity visit. I thought maybe we could tie something in with that. Even if she only talks about her charity work it would be getting Minnie Maltravers to talk and that would be something.’

  Slowly, Thea took the piece of paper. ‘Guatemala, you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Thea read the brief print-out from Reuters.

  Guatemala City

  There was excitement this morning as rumours spread that supermodel Minnie Maltravers is planning a visit in association with the charity Guatemala Children to open a new health clinic and visit some orphanages and children’s centres…

  ‘You have email,’ her computer trilled. She glanced at the screen. ‘Luke Norton’. He’d written in the header field:

  Booked Wolseley for 8.30. Looking forward to catching up x.

  Glancing anxiously at Rhys as if she were browsing nude pictures of Justin Timberlake, Thea pressed delete.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Rhys asked.

  ‘I think there could be something in this,’ Thea said calmly. ‘I’ve got a contact at Guatemala Children. I’ll give him a call.’

  ‘You don’t want me to do it?’ Rhys was disappointed.

  ‘No thanks. It’s my contact. In fact he’d already hinted to me this could be a way to Minnie.’ Thea ignored the look of disbelief on Rhys’s face. She felt a bit ashamed, after all, he’d made a good spot and was entitled to want to run with it, but after how Marco had stabbed her in the back she wasn’t feeling charitable towards anyone. ‘It probably won’t lead to anything, but it’s worth a shot.’ A beat and then, ‘Good work, Rhys.’

  ‘Thanks.’ As Rhys moved off dispiritedly, Thea – knowing it would take too long to sift through her bag – googled Guatemala Children. It was a number beginning 7485, which meant Camden Town. Rapidly, she dialled.

  ‘Hello? Yes. Jake Kaplan please.’

  As she waited to be put through, she typed an email.

  Afraid can’t make tonight. Urgent work thing. Sorry. Another time.

  As she pressed send, regret crashed over her. Quickly, she pressed a mental button and her emotional portcullis came down. Luke had got to her in a moment of vulnerability. She should never have said yes to him. She wouldn’t do it again. It was all long over between them and Thea was not going to look back.

  22

  Jake didn’t sound surprised to hear from Thea, but he did sound quite pleased.

 
‘Sorry I was so brusque when you called the other day,’ she said. ‘We were coming up to deadline and it was a bit tense. I’d love to meet soon if you’re free.’

  He laughed. ‘So you’ve heard about Minnie?’

  ‘Minnie who?’ Thea tried to sound innocent.

  ‘Minnie Maltravers. There was some tiny mention on her website about her going out to Guatemala with us. Popped up five minutes ago and since then the phones haven’t stopped ringing.’

  ‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’ Thea asked.

  ‘I told you I had a hot story.’

  ‘I believed you,’ she lied. ‘I was just so busy I didn’t see how we could meet. But, like I say, if you’re still up for it…’

  Jake sighed teasingly. ‘How do you know I didn’t give the story to the BBC? Or ITN? Or Sky?’

  There were all the people gossiping about Channel 6’s failure to knobble the PM. ‘Did the BBC or ITN or Sky ask if you’d like to have dinner at a restaurant of your choice to discuss the story?’ Thea tried.

  There was a brief pause, then Jake said, ‘You’re lucky, Thea, for some reason I decided to hold on to the story until things were a bit firmer, so it’s still up for grabs. But I may be too busy for dinner now. Things are crazy here today and they’re not going to get any quieter. And I’m back off to Guatemala bright and early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You have to eat!’ Thea yelped. ‘Just a quick bite tonight while you fill me in.’

  ‘Oh well, if I must,’ Jake said cheerily.

  ‘Good,’ Thea said after just the tiniest pause. She was right, Jake definitely fancied her. Which was odd, given he was so much younger than her. And too short. Still, if it led her to Minnie Maltravers she wasn’t complaining. ‘Where would you like to go?’ she asked. ‘Gordon Ramsay at Claridge’s? Locanda Locatelli?’

  He laughed. ‘Both if possible. And maybe the Savoy Grill as well? We could have a course in each.’

  ‘Um…’ That wouldn’t go down too well with Foxy Roxy.