“Are we talking about the same William Huxley who was exposed by one of our competitors yesterday?”
“The very same,” I reply, perhaps a little smugly.
He slaps a newspaper on his desk.
“Take a look at the front page,” he orders.
Confused, I reach for the paper and unfold it. The front page is dominated by just four words: William Huxley: an Apology.
“The whole incest allegation was a crock of shit,” Damon confirms. “And their editor has already been forced to resign.”
Front page apologies are as rare as they are humiliating. Typically, a retraction or apology would be buried a dozen pages in, and restricted to a few column inches. Clearly the paper has royally fucked up.
“Bad luck for them,” I shrug. “But what I’m working on has nothing to do with this.”
“But it involves Huxley?”
“Yes.”
“Drop it.”
I toss the paper on the desk. “I don’t want to drop it, and just because those idiots screwed up, doesn’t mean I will.”
“It’s not open to debate. Huxley is off limits, and that’s not just my order. I received an email from legal about twenty minutes ago.”
“This is bullshit,” I snap. “Huxley was up to something yesterday and I’ve got photographic evidence.”
“Don’t care,” he says dismissively. “His lawyer is baying for blood which makes William Huxley tabloid kryptonite at the moment. A six-figure lawsuit would bankrupt us, so whatever you think you’ve got on him, we can’t print it.”
“But …”
“Close the door on your way out.”
He returns his attention to the computer monitor so misses the glare I deliver before slamming the door.
I return to my cubicle to stew. For several minutes I contemplate returning to Damon’s office and resigning but it would give him far more satisfaction than I’m willing to sacrifice. Besides, I have a mortgage to pay and living in London is bloody expensive — I need this job.
Once I’ve calmed down, I have to swallow the same conclusion I always have to swallow after a row with Damon: my options are limited. In an ideal world I’d go freelance and write what the hell I want. Most of my contemporaries work that way, but the steady income that comes with being a staff reporter is my safety net. And living as a singleton, I don’t have the benefit of a partner contributing to the mortgage payments and other bills.
Pragmatism wins the day and I try to get on with other work but William Huxley remains an itch I can’t scratch. In the end I torment myself by looking at the photos I captured yesterday, hoping to find even the tiniest thread of hope should I decide to go over Damon’s head.
Nothing comes of it.
An hour into my day and just to rub salt in my wounds, an email arrives from Stuart. For a split second I consider deleting it, unread, but I’m a slave to my own curiosity. As my mouse hovers over the email, I kind of hope he’s refused my demand for information, or confirmed neither vehicle is registered to a female owner.
I open the email.
A few lines of text dash my hopes and stoke resentment when I learn the decade-old Ford Fiesta belongs to one Amy Jones — a high likelihood she’s the dead woman. Of perhaps less interest is the Audi belongs to a Kenneth Davies, who might be the frail old man or the big guy in denim — no way of telling.
The revelation, combined with what I already know, does little to scratch my itch.
People die in accidents all the time but rarely do people accidentally stab themselves in the chest. Add that to Huxley’s presence on the same day he was front page news, and it’s enough fuel for a conspiracy bonfire. There is a story here — I just know it.
Another email arrives, from Damon.
True to form, the email is a warning. Any further investigation into William Huxley will be considered gross misconduct, with immediate dismissal the stick. To enforce the seriousness of Damon’s threat, he’s copied the email to both the paper’s legal department and the entire board of directors.
It now comes down to a simple question: what is more important — my journalistic integrity, or paying a mortgage? It’s not a question I have to ponder too long. Unless the bank is willing to take integrity as a payment, I have no choice other than to forget what happened at Kenton Stables.
I’m not sure I believe it, but as Eric once told me: some stories are best left untold.
SIX MONTHS LATER…
4.
Kilburn was always considered a bit of a shithole; it certainly was when I bought my flat back in the late nineties.
It’s now a shithole with overpriced property and too many coffee shops.
The two-bedroom flat I call home was a bargain because, at the time, it was located above a kebab shop. A year later, the food hygiene branch of the local council condemned the place and shut it down. The premises then became a pizzeria, but that only lasted eighteen months before they went out of business. Unsurprisingly, I now live above a coffee shop called The Jolly Barista. The smell of freshly ground coffee wafting through my bedroom window is preferable to that of doner kebabs or burnt pizza, for sure.
I have to settle for a mug of instant as I lie in bed and wait for the caffeine to deal with my tiredness.
Necking the dregs, I check the time on my phone: seven-thirty. I need to leave for work by eight, but my motivation levels are at an all-time low.
It’s not unusual to suffer post-Christmas blues, but to still be suffering those blues in April is unprecedented. Perhaps I’m going through a particularly bleak mid-life crisis, or God-forbid, the menopause has decided to pitch-up ahead of schedule. I don’t know why life feels so empty right now but whatever the cause, I’m struggling to shake it off.
My job isn’t helping — that much is certain.
Damon has continued to be an arsehole and opportunities to write anything worthwhile have been few and far between. As much as I’d love to blame Damon, I do fear it’s the industry as a whole rather than the editorial policy at The Daily Standard. Our profession is changing, and not for the better. The world now wants its news fast and dirty. Fake news is rampant and too many vacuous non-stories, which wouldn’t have made it to the editorial slush-pile ten years ago, are now hitting the front page. But the bills still need to be paid, so I write not for the love, but the money — more whore than journalist.
I get up and go through the same old routine, with the same low expectations of another uneventful day ahead. Operating on auto-pilot, I manage to shower, feed myself, and consume another cup of coffee. A reluctant glance in the hallway mirror and I’m ready to leave the flat.
After completing the tedious journey to work, I arrive at the office and head straight to the coffee machine. Brown sludge acquired, I slope over to my desk and check my email inbox. Time appears to stand still as I sift through the pointless and the painstaking. As I thump the delete button for the umpteenth time one of my colleagues pitches up.
“Good morning, Emma.”
I look up to find Gini Varma loitering with intent. Short, with the deepest brown eyes, lustrous black hair, and an ever-present smile, I’ve always thought Gini’s happy-go-lucky character would be better-suited to a nursery than a newsroom.
“It’s definitely a morning,” I mumble in reply.
“Sounds like someone hasn’t had enough coffee yet,” she chuckles.
Gini is a sweet girl and one of the few younger staff members I can tolerate. Unlike most of her contemporaries, she has a good work ethic and doesn’t live in a bubble of self-entitlement. In the time we’ve worked together, she’s matured into a bloody-good journalist and despite her puppy-like demeanour, Gini possesses the tenacity of a terrier. When she bites on a story, there’s no letting go.
“No amount of coffee will make this morning better,” I reply.
“Anything I can help you with?”
“No, you’re alright, but thanks for asking. Anyway, did you want something?”
“Great. Do you know what he wants?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Right, thanks.”
Gini departs and I finish my coffee before reluctantly heading to Damon’s office.
I arrive to find the door open and stride straight in.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
He hands me a single piece of paper which turns out to be a brief sheet for an interview. I quickly scan it.
“Seriously, Damon?” I groan. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He glares up at me. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“But why me?”
It’s a pertinent question. The Daily Standard has been granted an exclusive interview with some talentless bimbo from a reality show, and I’m the unfortunate sap who has to conduct said interview.
“I don’t know a thing about Stacey Stanwell,” I add.
“Precisely. I want a proper in-depth interview about her new role, and that lot out there will be too starstruck to ask the right questions.”
He waves his hand towards the newsroom.
“Her new role?”
“She’s secured a leading role in a movie; due out next month.”
“Oh, for fucks sake, Damon. This isn’t news.”
“The news is what I say it is. Miss Stanwell has a huge following on social media and an exclusive will attract a ton of visitors to our website.”
Why am I not surprised? Everything we write these days is aimed at getting more clicks to our website so the advertising department can justify their existence.
“Wouldn’t this be better suited to Gini?”
“Gini is working on something else.”
“So you thought you’d dump it on me?”
“Last time I checked we pay you a salary each month. That means I get to decide what you write, and if you don’t like it you know where the door is.”
It’s a tired old line but one Damon knows I can’t ignore. It seems I will be interviewing Stacey Stanwell after all.
“Oh, and one other thing,” he adds. “No half measures. If this interview doesn’t blow me away, I’ll see to it you spend the rest of your career writing horoscopes. Clear?”
“Clear,” I huff.
Instructions received, I return to my cubicle and sulk. I know it’s childish but I feel better for it.
It takes a lot of caffeine, and a Danish pastry, to lighten my mood. No matter how much I complain, this kind of crap is now my job, so I’ve no choice but to suck it up until something better comes along.
I grab the brief sheet and call Stacey Stanwell’s personal assistant. A taut-voiced woman answers with her name: Trina Smith.
“Hi. This is Emma Hogan from The Daily Standard.”
“Who?”
“Emma Hogan. My editor, Damon Smith, asked me to get in touch to arrange the interview with Stacey.”
“Okay, yes. Bear with me.”
I hear the repeated clicks of a mouse as Trina presumably checks Stacey’s schedule.
“How does July sixteenth work for you?”
“As in three months from now? I thought this interview was to promote her movie debut next month.”
“Is it? Oh, um, bear with me.”
More clicks of the mouse.
“I don’t suppose you could do one o’clock this afternoon?”
The only thing less appealing would be a sudden bout of thrush.
“Don’t you have anything available later in the week?”
“I’m afraid not. The only reason Stacey has a spot free this afternoon is because her nail technician has gone into labour.”
Knowing her type it comes as a surprise Stacey hasn’t insisted on a fresh set of acrylics between contractions.
“Fine. One o’clock today then.”
Trina asks for my email address so she can send over a list of subjects I’m not allowed to discuss. It’ll go straight into my junk folder: unread.
I end the call and rearrange my schedule for the day. With Damon’s warning still fresh in my mind, I suppose I’d better conduct some cursory research into Miss Stanwell’s career.
I open a web browser and search for the channel on which Chelsea Lives — the show which propelled Stacey Stanwell into the public spotlight — is apparently aired. With my headphones in, I then sit through the first hour-long episode. As best as I can tell, the show centres on a group of spoilt, two-dimensional brats living the high life courtesy of generous allowances from wealthy parents. I should be shocked at their ability to over-dramatise every minor hurdle in life but I’ve met too many similar characters over the years to know the ‘stars’ probably aren’t faking it.
As the closing credits finally roll, my opinion of Stacey Stanwell has not improved. In the hope I might find some strain of credibility, I google her name but the results are almost all about her role in Chelsea Lives. It appears her reality show fame is all she has achieved, and is all she’s likely to achieve despite her efforts to forge a career as an actress.
I click through to her sketchy Wikipedia entry, and scribble down some notes along with a dozen questions which shouldn’t prove too challenging.
Research complete, I return to the original work I had planned in the hope it’ll keep my mind from the impending horror of meeting Stacey Stanwell in a few hours.
It kind of does, until Gini finds out about the interview.
She approaches my cubicle like a kid on Christmas morning.
“I hear you’re interviewing Stacey Stanwell,” she squeals. “Can I ask a favour?”
“You want to take my place? Done.”
“I wish. No, can you get me Stacey’s autograph?”
“Seriously, Gini? Don’t ask me to do that.”
“Pretty please. I’ll buy pastries for the rest of the week.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “But you do realise I now hate you.”
She claps her hands together and mouths a thank you before skipping away to share her news.
As ridiculous as her enthusiasm is, it’s infectious, and I can’t help but smile. That smile soon withers as I think back to the last time I felt anything close to the same excitement. There’s nothing worthy in my personal life; that’s for sure. As for work; it would be that afternoon at Kenton Stables. Six months on and the itch remains.
A week after I was ordered to leave William Huxley alone, he suddenly resigned from Parliament and moved to the Isle of Wight where he is in the process of setting up a holiday retreat for disadvantaged kids. Some might say a noble act but I suspect there’s more to it. I did establish the owner of the Audi. Kenneth Davies was the frail old man but he inconveniently died soon after, shutting down that avenue of enquiry. The big guy in denim was impossible to trace without a name.
With no other leads and William Huxley himself off limits, I’ve come to accept I must wait for the next career-changing story to land in my lap.
That won’t be today.
Twelve o’clock comes around and I start gathering my things together.
After traipsing back to Hyde Park Corner tube station, I then experience the briefest of journeys to South Kensington — the nearest Tube station to Chelsea.
Emerging onto the street, I check Stacey Stanwell’s address on my phone and set off on the ten-minute walk — a cloud of apathy follows all the way.
Lined both sides with tall, brick and render townhouses, Sydney Street is not the kind of place a pleb like me could ever afford to live. I wander along while casting an envious eye towards the multi-million pound homes.
After covering a hundred yards of pavement, I finally reach my destination. Stacey’s home is across the road from a suitably well-appointed church, although I suspect the convenient location wasn’t a deciding factor when Stacey Stanwell, or more likely her parents, decided to purchase the townhouse. Something tells me Stacey
prefers worshipping in the aisles of Harvey Nichols.
I ring the doorbell and wait.
Rather than a housemaid or Trina Smith opening the door, I’m slightly taken aback when Stacey Stanwell greets me in person.
“You must be Emma,” she chirps. “Please, come in.”
I take a second to conclude my first impressions. She is shorter than I imagined and, although it pains me to say it, prettier. Despite her physical perfection, she’s under-dressed in a pair of jogging pants and a baggy sweatshirt — clearly not dressed to impress. Her dark hair is tied back into a ponytail and her face shows no obvious signs of makeup.
My first impression isn’t what I expected.
I follow her through the hallway to a surprisingly modest kitchen at the rear of the house, with patio doors leading onto a small but beautifully landscaped garden.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks, offering me a chair at a distressed oak table.
“Water would be great, thanks.”
“Still or sparkling?”
“I’m easy.”
She smiles and crosses the kitchen to the fridge. Although she’s only said a dozen words, the tone of her voice is noticeably different from the one I heard on screen earlier. That voice, although patently from a privileged background, had a whiney, fatuous lilt to it.
“Have you come far?” she calls over, while inspecting the interior of the fridge.
“Belgravia.”
Stacey returns with two bottles of sparkling water and takes a seat opposite me.
“So, you drew the short straw then?” she says with a wry smile.
“Sorry?”
“Interviewing the empty-headed reality star.”
“I, um, don’t like to judge.”
My flushing cheeks provide a different answer.
“Don’t worry — I’m used to it. I’m guessing you googled my name, for research?”
“Of course.”
“And I bet you didn’t find anything about my first-class degree in history?”
Either I’ve grossly underestimated Stacey Stanwell, or she’s one hell of a bullshitter.
“Err … can’t say I did.”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 3