‘I’ve just seen the latest figures, Ralph,’ the editor was saying to Spenser, pronouncing Ralph the American way with an ‘l’. Spenser nodded. ‘Fucking awful. We’ve not stopped the rot.’ Spenser nodded again. ‘I need something for features, something cheeky – to get people talking, to make a bit of a stir. And this’ – the editor patted the bundle on the desk ‘could be it. How did we get it?’
‘A young man has offered it to us. I’ve checked him out with the solicitors to the estate. He’s the literary executor and he’s also negotiating the book rights with publishers. He’s after serialisation.’ Spenser paused. ‘He wants a lot of money. He’s hawking it around but he came to us first.’
‘Everyone will go for it.’ The editor looked at Godfrey frostily and back to Spenser. ‘It’s what I need, Ralph. A bit of gossip about sex, a bit of chat about politicians. We can do with something like this.’
‘Not if it lands us in a million-pound libel suit,’ Spenser muttered.
‘Who’d sue? The upper-class tarts he writes about? Never. The politicians? They wouldn’t dare.’ The editor stubbed out the small cigar. ‘It’ll make a buzz, Ralph.’
‘Not on the Clapham omnibus.’
‘It will in Islington and Westminster. Who’s in it, who’s not. The chatterers will read it. The Telegram would print it all right. They won’t turn it down. They’ll take the risk.’
They, the Telegram, News’s rivals, can afford to, thought Spenser.
The editor went on, ‘We must see those bastards don’t get their hands on it, not in the middle of this fucking war.’
That’s what it was, and had been for six months: a circulation war. Ogilvy Grant, owner of the Telegram group, made no bones about it. He’d announced he was out to kill News Universal. ‘I’ll bury them,’ he’d said. He’d slashed the Telegram’s cover price and doubled the investment in editorial, bribing away top journalists from other newspapers with absurdly swollen salaries. It was costing Grant millions but he didn’t care. He had the money. He’d spend a fortune. So long as he destroyed News Universal.
In reply News had been forced to lower cover prices and pump thousands into editorial, and thousands more into a TV campaign. But News was bleeding, haemorrhaging readers week by week. If it went on, they’d bleed to death, so Spenser said nothing.
The editor turned to Godfrey and glared at him. ‘Who are you?’
Godfrey cleared his throat. ‘Lacey, legal department.’
‘Bloody lawyers,’ the editor growled, lighting another cheroot. ‘Only make trouble.’
‘We have to check the legal risks,’ said Spenser. He turned to Godfrey. ‘You’ve been through it?’
Godfrey nodded.
‘Well?’
Godfrey cleared his throat again and glanced down at his speaking note. ‘In almost every entry on every day there are references to social or political figures, usually critical, often referring specifically to their—’
The editor cut him short. ‘Sex orientation, sex activities. That’s the whole point. Richmond was an old queen, and old queens are as bitchy as hell and obsessed with sex. But so are the readers – and the potential readers. That’s why I want it. But no one’s going to sue, not about sex, not nowadays.’
‘But if the innuendoes or even the explicit statements regarding sexual orientation are untrue—’
Again the editor interrupted. ‘What if they are? Who cares nowadays whether someone’s homo or hetro? What’s defamatory in publishing a story about sexual identity or sexual preference, even if it’s wrong? Where’s the libel in that?’ Before Godfrey could speak the editor continued, ‘When I was a kid on the Star, I was taught the definition of libel – to hold someone up in the eyes of right-minded persons to hatred, ridicule or contempt. Isn’t that the bloody formula?’
‘Yes, but—’ Godfrey began.
The editor interrupted him again. ‘Are you trying to tell me that to call a person gay in the twenty-first century brings them into ridicule, hatred or contempt?’ The editor gazed balefully at him across the desk.
Godfrey tried again. ‘Someone could take great offence at being described as gay or having an innuendo published about them that they are gay if they are not.’
‘Fucking homophobia.’ The editor waved the cigar threateningly. ‘Are you saying that so-called right-minded people nowadays have contempt for gays, hate gays, ridicule gays?’
Spencer intervened. ‘I understand that you as the editor want to publish—’
‘I fucking well do.’
‘Well, the Chairman will have to be consulted. He’ll have to decide. He’ll have to balance the advantages against the risks.’
‘There’s no risk, no real risk, Ralphie boy.’
‘You are only thinking of the women. There are also the politicians,’ Spenser added.
The editor waved the cigar airily. ‘They wouldn’t dare. The politicians wouldn’t dare to take us on. No, Ralph, this could give us a boost. And kudos.’
‘I understand that but the Chairman’ll have to decide.’
‘Well, make sure he decides quick. I wanted it this Sunday. Twenty-four hours?’
‘Perhaps forty-eight. I’ll get the seller to give us forty-eight hours.’
‘Well, for fuck’s sake don’t lose it, Spenser, just because the fucking lawyers haven’t any balls.’
Spenser rose. ‘I’ll call Paris from my office.’ He beckoned to Godfrey.
They took the lift to the management offices on the top floor. This new editor of the Sunday had been the Chairman’s personal choice after he had sacked the previous one two months before. He was a Scot, canny, concerned about cost. His successor was not. The new editor was different, very different. This editor, Spenser reminded himself gloomily, thinking of the evil-smelling cigar, was female.
As they walked along from the lift to his office, Spenser said, ‘She lives with a merchant banker.’ He paused. ‘A woman merchant banker,’ he added.
It was just before nine o’clock UK time, ten in Paris, when Spenser put down the receiver after speaking to the Chairman. He buzzed for his secretary. ‘Get Lacey on the ten twenty-three Euro to Paris with an open return, the tickets to be collected at the booking office. The Chairman’s office will get him a hotel room. Have my car brought to the front door.’ To Godfrey, he said, ‘Where’s your passport?’
‘At home, in Battersea.’
‘Collect it on the way to Waterloo. Have you any money?’
‘Not much.’
Spenser called his secretary again. ‘Bring four fifty pound notes and any francs we have.’ Then he said to Godfrey, ‘Change the sterling at the station, either end. We’ll take care of your ticket.’ He scribbled on a pad. ‘Here’s the address. Get a taxi at the Gare du Nord. Run for it as soon as the train gets in. There’s usually a queue. You’ve tagged certain pages in the typescript?’
‘Yes.’
‘Make sure the Chairman reads at least the parts you’ve tagged. If possible, get him to read the whole of it. Don’t miss the train. See that he fully understands the risks. Remember, he’s not as stupid as he looks.’ He paused. Then he added to himself, ‘Nor so clever as he thinks.’
Godfrey had a seat in first class by the window at the end of a carriage. The seat opposite him was empty. His large briefcase, with the manuscript, a clean shirt and washing bag, was on the rack above his head. As he looked out of the window he saw a bareheaded young woman in jeans and a tan jacket pushing a loaded trolley hurriedly towards the carriage door. With difficulty she lifted a heavy suitcase and a wooden box on to the platform. The conductor normally stationed at the entrance to the carriage had gone. Any second the train would pull out. She struggled with the suitcase, trying to lift it up the high step of the carriage. Godfrey rose. ‘Let me give you a hand,’ he said. He hauled the luggage into the carriage and into the baggage racks opposite the door.
The young woman followed and sank into the vacant seat opposite his. ‘Thanks,’
she said. The train began to move. ‘That was close. I shouldn’t have so much kit,’ she added in an American accent. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do the other end.’
‘Another trolley,’ Godfrey said.
‘If I can lift the kit on to it,’ she replied.
‘I’ll help.’
‘Thanks,’ she repeated. She lay back in her seat and closed her eyes.
Godfrey studied her slyly over the top of his newspaper. Clear bronzed skin, oval face with a generous mouth; dark hair cut quite short. Shiny and well-kept, very different from the hair he’d left in Battersea. She knew he was staring at her and opened her eyes. ‘Have you made this trip before?’
‘Not by train.’
The stewardess came up with a tray of drinks. The young woman took some orange juice, Godfrey a glass of champagne. She lay back again and closed her eyes. As Godfrey sipped his champagne, he thought about the meeting with the Chairman of News Universal and the butterflies returned to his stomach.
The Chairman, Digby Price, a South African, lived in Paris, now and then coming to London to make sorties to Docklands to bully the staff, sack editors and threaten management. It was hands-on, personal government, the more harassing for its remote control. Godfrey was glad he had his note, hardly used in the meeting with the female editor. Would the Chairman, he wondered, read the whole manuscript? That would take time. He could be away for a couple of days. He’d like that. Perhaps he should recommend they get a member of the practising libel bar to read the manuscript and advise? But that would take more time. The editor would not like it. Above all, he must stay calm and not get fussed and make sure the Chairman understood the risks. That was what Spenser wanted.
He stared out of the window at the Kent countryside. He’d heard the train only really picked up speed on the far side of the Channel.
‘You on business?’ the young American woman asked suddenly.
He nodded.
‘What sort of business?’
‘Legal,’ he said shortly. ‘And you?’ he asked.
‘A commission to paint a portrait. That’s the reason for all the kit.’
‘So you’ll be staying in Paris for some time?’
She nodded. ‘Do you know Paris?’
‘Not very well.’
‘My first trip,’ she said. When the steward brought the menu she looked at it and waved it aside. ‘Airplane food.’
Godfrey nodded but ordered. As he unscrewed the small bottle of Bordeaux they had brought with his plastic tray, she watched him.
Then she called the steward. ‘I’ll have one of those,’ she said, pointing at Godfrey’s drink.
‘Is it an interesting commission?’ he asked.
‘Portrait of a corporate wife. A friend of mine in New York fixed it up. I’ve booked into a hotel, the Lucerne on the Left Bank. Do you know it?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll have to do sketches and take photographs,’ she went on, almost to herself. ‘I’ll have to find a studio.’
‘Where are you from?’ he asked her.
‘New York, but I’ve just got the use of a studio in London. I hadn’t settled in when this came up. I shouldn’t have brought so much kit.’
She shut her eyes once more and lay back, and again he studied her. This time she slept, her glass of wine almost untouched.
As they approached Paris he asked, ‘Have you any francs?’
‘I was told I could change pounds or dollars at the station.’
‘You’ll need 10 francs for the trolley.’
‘Hell.’
‘I’ll loan it,’ he said. ‘And put your watch on an hour,’ he added.
At the Gare du Nord he jumped out of the carriage, found her a trolley and lifted on to it her suitcase and easel. ‘I have to run. I’ve an appointment.’
She leant forward and kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks for the help.’
He felt himself blushing as he turned and hurried away, following the signs to the taxis. When he looked back he saw she was pushing the trolley slowly towards the end of the platform.
It was three o’clock Paris time when the taxi drew up at the apartment block in the rue Casimir Perrier. A man in a dark coat and striped pants opened the door.
‘Godfrey Lacey, de Londres,’ Godfrey said hesitantly.
The manservant nodded and led him to a lift. ‘Deuxième étage.’
Another man in a dark suit with silver hair but a young, unlined face was standing opposite the doors on the second floor. ‘I’m Wilson. This way.’ He led Godfrey down a corridor into a library cum office. ‘I’m the Chairman’s PA. You have the typescript?’ He had a South African accent with a very English tone superimposed.
Godfrey took the manuscript from his briefcase.
‘Wait here.’ Wilson disappeared through an inner door. Godfrey sat, the fear within him taking a hold.
Half an hour later Wilson reappeared. ‘The Chairman will see you now.’
Digby Price, a short, stocky, balding man, with a lined, gnarled face, was sitting behind a large, important-looking desk. He didn’t rise or put out his hand. ‘I’ve spoken to Spenser – and the editor,’ he began in his South African accent, uglier, more pronounced than that of Wilson. ‘You’ve tagged the most controversial items?’ Godfrey laid the bundle on the desk. ‘I’ll read it tonight. Come back seven thirty tomorrow morning. Wilson will find you a room.’ He waved his hand. Godfrey was dismissed.
In the library, Wilson asked. ‘Where do you want to stay?’
Godfrey remembered what the painter had said on the train. ‘The Lucerne,’ he replied.
Wilson looked at him quizzically. ‘You could do better.’
‘The Lucerne will do,’ Godfrey said.
‘Then take a cab. I’ll telephone ahead.’ He stretched for the phone but rose abruptly from his chair. Godfrey turned, smelling the scent.
A woman had come into the room from the corridor. She was hatless, with bobbed blonde hair, in a long dark coat and tight black trousers, her lips very red. ‘Is he in?’ she asked in heavily accented English.
‘He’s in conference,’ Wilson said. ‘He will not be able to see you.’
‘Then tell him to call me. If he doesn’t, there’ll be trouble.’ She swung on her heel and left.
Wilson shrugged and picked up the telephone. ‘Be here at seven tomorrow,’ he told Godfrey.
When Godfrey had checked in at the Lucerne and handed over his passport, he asked, ‘Has a young lady, an American, arrived this afternoon?’
The clerk shrugged. ‘We have many guests.’ He wasn’t going to say more.
Godfrey took his briefcase to his room. It was like any room in any hotel in any city in the world: small, functional, with a bathroom. After he had washed he went downstairs and sat in a chair facing the entrance.
It was six o‘clock before she appeared. ‘Hi,’ she said when she saw him. It was as if she had expected him. ‘Have you come for your ten francs?’
He smiled. ‘No, the office got me a room. I remembered you said you’d be staying here and I wondered if you were free for dinner?’
She looked at herself in the glass above the chair where he’d been sitting. ‘God,’ she said, ‘I look a fright. I’ve been chasing halfway round the whole city, talking American French.’ She looked back at Godfrey. ‘Dinner? A stiff drink is what I need. See you here in an hour.’
Chapter Two
While he waited he asked the concierge to recommend a restaurant. After an hour she appeared, in an orange shirt and black trousers.
‘It’s a fish restaurant,’ he said in the taxi. ‘Is that all right?’
‘OK,’ she replied.
‘I’m Godfrey Lacey,’ he added.
‘I’m Anna James, from New York.’
At the table in the restaurant he ordered a bottle of Chablis while he examined the menu. She pushed back a lock of hair, which kept falling over her forehead, and drank greedily, half her glass in a single swallow.
‘A salad,’ she ordere
d, ‘followed by sole meunière.’ She hadn’t even looked at the card.
She knows what she wants; different from me. He thought of the bleak house in Battersea, almost a slum. Why was he still there? Why hadn’t he left, as he’d said he would? He should have months ago. But he hadn’t. So he was still there, with a woman, and a child who wasn’t his. He ordered oysters and poached turbot. While they waited for the food, he said. ‘You looked very worried when you came into the hotel.’
She pushed back the lock of hair. ‘I spent the afternoon chasing after the woman I thought I’d come to paint. Eventually I located her husband’s secretary, their social secretary, a very superior lady who seemed to think I was crazy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was here. She said they expected me to send photographs of my work like the others. The husband – an American banker in Paris – hasn’t made up his mind whom he wants to paint his wife, although the secretary said in her superior way that he’d probably prefer someone from Paris.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I had to say I’d send photographs of my work. She’ll show them to the banker – or so she said. I left, with my tail between my legs.’ She banged her hand on the table. ‘I felt so stupid, turning up on their doorstep like a school kid.’ Anna passed a hand over her forehead. He filled her glass and she drank again. ‘June, she’s the friend in New York, said it was all fixed. I could murder her.’ He was swallowing the last of his half-dozen oysters. She watched him and pulled a face. ‘How can you eat those awful things?’
‘I like them,’ he said. Especially, he thought, when it was his employer who was paying for them.
She went on, ‘June made it sound like it was all pretty definite. I thought if I came over that would clinch it. Well, it hasn’t.’ She drank again. He watched her cut the sole with her knife, then put it aside as she ate the American way with her fork. He poured her more wine. ‘You’ll make me tight,’ she said as she drank. ‘What kind of lawyer are you?’
The Richmond Diary Page 3