Читать книгу Original Sin - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 7

1

Present day, London

‘Wake up. I’ve got something for you.’

Tess Garrett forced her eyes open and peered over the top of her duvet to see her flatmate Jemma Davies sitting on the bed.

‘You gave me a fright. What time is it?’ sighed Tess, casting her glance to the bedside clock next to her. Five thirty! As deputy editor of one of the UK’s Sunday tabloids she was used to early starts, but the birds weren’t even singing yet. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that her friend was dressed head to toe in black.

‘What are you wearing?’ asked Tess warily. ‘You look like a cat burglar.’

‘Come on, shake a leg,’ said Jemma, bouncing on the mattress impatiently, ‘this is important!’

‘So is my sleep,’ mumbled Tess, pulling the covers back over her head.

Seeing that Tess was going to take some shifting, Jemma stood up again.

‘Okay, I’ll go and make some tea. Then we can talk. Five minutes, okay?’

As soon as Jemma had left the bedroom, Tess heard a muffled groan coming from under the pillow next to her.

‘You know I can’t hear you through six inches of goose down,’ said Tess.

A hand flung back the pillow and the handsome face of her boyfriend Dom Barton popped up, squinting into the light.

‘I said, “Remind me when Jemma said she was moving out?”’

‘Shhh! Keep your voice down,’ said Tess, peering through the open bedroom door where she could see Jemma filling the kettle in the galley kitchen across the hall. ‘Cut her a bit of slack, eh? She’s been through a rough time.’

‘She finished with Chris three months ago, Tess,’ hissed Dom, leaning back on his elbows. ‘Plus, the flat is a tip, and how can I use the study to write my book when all of Jemma’s belongings are in it?’

Tess glanced around and had to admit that things were a tight squeeze in their two-bedroomed Battersea flat, but Jemma was her best friend’s sister, she had known her since school; and besides, Jemma’s line of work sometimes came in handy.

‘Honey, you are never going to write that novel, with or without anyone living in our spare room. You’ve been talking about it for as long as I’ve known you. Come on. It’s time to get up anyway. Your flight leaves at eight thirty – shouldn’t you be at Heathrow in an hour?’

Dom was the deputy travel editor of the broadsheet, the Sunday Chronicle, which meant he was on some exotic press trip at least once a month. Groaning, he slid out of bed, scratching his tousled hair. Tess rubbed her eyes as she watched his gym-honed bum cheeks vanish into their en-suite bathroom. Jemma returned with two mugs of tea and thrust one towards Tess.

‘So, what’s worth a five thirty summit meeting?’ Tess smiled.

Jemma took a slurp of tea. ‘I’ve been to a Venus party,’ she said with a grin.

Tess’s eyes opened wide and she sat cross-legged on the bed, feeling suddenly energized. Jemma was a paparazzo photographer who usually sold her work into one of the big picture agencies, but sometimes Tess asked her to work on solo projects for her. Tess had been hearing rumours of organized ‘membership only’ sex parties in London for years but, despite the best efforts of Fleet Street’s finest, no one had ever been able to track them down. She had begun to suspect they were one of those wishful-thinking urban myths, like Diana’s love child, but, around three months ago, Jemma had got the scent of a new underground scene called ‘Venus parties’ and the whisper was that they took decadence to a whole new level. Understandably, access to them was near impossible – entry was via personal recommendation and the vetting process rigorous – but the guest list was said to be dynamite: senior politicians, Hollywood stars and players, high-ranking police, Premiership footballers – and that was just for starters. Tess had put Jemma on a retainer to work on tracking them down.

‘There was a Venus party last night at a big house in Wycombe Square out in St John’s Wood,’ said Jemma gleefully. ‘I got in.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ said Tess, barely able to hide her excitement. ‘How on earth did you get past the checks?’

Jemma glanced behind her, making sure that Dom was still in the shower. Tess understood; Dom might have been her boyfriend, but he still worked for a rival publication.

‘I was a security guard,’ she whispered.

Tess laughed. ‘You? A bouncer?’

Although she was dressed completely in black, the pocket-sized busty blonde looked more like a glamour model than a security guard.

‘Don’t laugh,’ said Jemma huffily. ‘These parties need women at the door. Ironically they’re to frisk the female guests to make sure nobody’s taking in cameras. It took me two months to get the gig. I had to moonlight on the door of a club in Chelsea first.’

‘Was it worth it?’

Jemma smiled. ‘Oh yes.’

Tess was practically salivating; this would be an excellent story at any time, but Jemma’s timing was perfect. All week she had been acting editor of the Sunday Globe. Her boss Andy Davidson was on holiday and she had picked up the reins. This could be her big chance to make her mark.

‘So, come on,’ she said impatiently, ‘who was there?’

Jemma rattled off a list of household names. ‘There were a few Hollywood names as well. I had the misfortunate of seeing that foul producer Larry Goldman in the buff. He has man-breasts the size of space-hoppers.’

‘What about photos? We need photos.’

In her twelve years in newspapers, the unwritten law had always been ‘assume they won’t sue’, and Tess had always found that it was an accurate enough yardstick. She had a little black book of litigious stars and those who rarely took legal action, but when anybody did seek to challenge a story they had printed, the onus was on the newspaper to prove what they had written was true. That was why photographs were essential for a story like this.

‘The quality isn’t great,’ said Jemma, opening her laptop to flick through the digital images she had taken. ‘I used a spy camera that I’d hidden in the house during the afternoon.’

Tess leaned over her shoulder and pointed at an image of a flaxen-haired blonde. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked. The woman was wearing nothing but a strap-on and a Venetian mask and stood astride a naked fat man on his hands and knees.

‘That’s Larry.’

‘But who’s the woman?’ said Tess hopefully.

Jemma shrugged. ‘Some hooker, I think.’

Tess’s excitement was starting to wane. So far, this wasn’t the big-noise story she was hoping for. Ten years ago, a cheating MP had been front-page news; but today hookers and studio heads did not shift newspapers like footballers and soap stars.

‘Do we have anything clearer of a bigger name?’ she asked hopefully. ‘What about a soap actress?’

‘How about this?’ said Jemma, enlarging an image with a triumphant look.

The picture was grainy. The man in the shot was naked and bent over what appeared to be a line of cocaine. Tess frowned and squinted.

‘Don’t you recognize him?’

Tess shook her head. ‘Who is it?’

‘Well, maybe you’ll see better in this one.’

Jemma clicked onto an image of a black van. You could clearly make out that somebody was being carried into the back of it on a stretcher.

‘Shit,’ said Tess, her eyes widening. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘The same guy being stretchered into a private ambulance,’ said Jemma with a smile. ‘He’s at a private hospital in North London now.’

‘So who is it?’ asked Tess.

‘Sean Asgill.’

It took Tess a second to recognize the name. Sean Asgill was a New York playboy. Heir to a cosmetics family fortune. Handsome and wealthy, he was a fixture in the society pages with a string of model and actress girlfriends. It was a headline all right: ‘Tragedy at A-list Sex Party.’

‘Christ,’ said Tess. ‘Did he … die?’

Tess felt bad asking, but it was an occupational hazard for someone in her job, wishing the worst on people because it made a better headline.

‘I followed the ambulance on my scooter and I told the nurse I was family. She told me it was a suspected ketamine overdose. Asgill probably thought it was a line of coke. Apparently he’s in a coma. I hung around for a bit and, after half an hour, this guy of about fifty turned up. His dad maybe? I scarpered pretty quickly.’

Jemma looked at Tess hopefully. ‘So what do you think? Is it the splash?’

Tess shook her head. The irony was that, in the States, this would not only be front-page news, it would also lead the TV news and would probably even make waves in Washington. Sean Asgill’s sister had just become engaged to the son of one of America’s richest and most powerful men, which made her brother’s drugs overdose at a sex party very hot gossip indeed. But over here, Sean Asgill was virtually unknown outside society columns.

‘We’ll talk about this later,’ whispered Tess, snapping the laptop closed as Dom walked back into the room, naked except for a small towel wrapped around his waist, his tanned skin glistening with droplets of shower-water.

‘What are you two gossiping about?’ he smiled, clearly enjoying the two women’s eyes on him. ‘And where’s my tea?’

The Sunday Globe was a newspaper whose glory days were long gone. Tess sat back in her chair and looked at the chipped paintwork and tired carpet: the state of the office reflected the paper’s decline. After twenty years as a Daily Mail wannabe with a dwindling circulation, it had been bought by ruthless media mogul Matthew Jenkins, who had turned it into a red-top tabloid, but the change of direction had failed to boost sales; Jenkins had drastically cut costs and jobs to keep afloat. He certainly hadn’t spent any money on improving the working conditions, thought Tess, shutting down her temperamental and near-obsolete computer. When the Globe’s much-loved editor, the jolly, corpulent, fifty-something Derek Bradford had had a heart attack and died, Tess had been considered a shoo-in for the top job. Even though she was only twenty-nine, she had paid her dues: three years in local papers doing hard news, women’s editor at the Mirror, features editor at the Sunday Globe, and finally deputy editor. Quite a CV for someone her age. She’d been disappointed but not entirely surprised when, six weeks ago, the vacant editorship had been given to Andy Davidson, number three on the daily paper and Wentworth golfing buddy of the proprietor. Jenkins had long been labelled a misogynist; she’d even heard that he’d once laughed that, as far as the editorship of one of his flagship titles was concerned, he ‘wanted to fuck Tess Garrett, not give her the top job’. Well, he could go and fuck himself, thought Tess angrily, taking a quick swig of coffee. It was why she was determined to use this week in the editor’s chair to prove her boss had made the wrong decision.

Tess stood up, smoothed down her Armani skirt and slipped on her sharply tailored jacket; it was time to show them who was boss. Every morning at ten a.m. the Sunday Globe had a news conference for the editorial team and, as today was Friday, the urgent item on the agenda was the splash for the Sunday front page, the first edition of which was sent down to the printers at six p.m. on Saturday night. Friday was therefore the most hectic time of the week, with the staff often working right through the weekend until the early hours of Sunday morning, ready to change the splash if a better story came in. In newspapers, the front page was everything.

‘So. Nothing obvious for the splash yet,’ began news editor Ben Leith boldly, when the key editorial staff were gathered around the oval conference table. Tess narrowed her eyes. She knew Ben was after her job, but there was no need to blatantly undermine her at the first opportunity.

‘Well, what do you have?’ asked Tess pointedly. ‘Speaking as news editor.’

Leith sighed. ‘There’s still the air hostess/prostitutes story hanging around. But the lawyers think the airline might sue.’

Tess grimaced. That particular story had been filed three weeks earlier and so far Andy had passed it over, leaving it for a dire week when there was nothing to splash with. Tess certainly didn’t want to run the lame-duck story in her week as editor.

‘We have Serena Balcon’s hen-night shots,’ said Jon Green, the Globe’s photo director eagerly. ‘She’s in Miami topless.’

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 splash.’

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 green 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 in his 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. Run these pictures and the legal ramifications could be punitive for your newspaper.’

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 could claim 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 lie 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 warn 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 unnerved. 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, Vauxhall 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 two 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 publicist, 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 surprised 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.’

Meredith smiled politely. ‘I’m sure you’re correct,’ she said. ‘But please be aware that my offer comes with a bonus. A two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar bonus when the bride and groom marry.’

‘A quarter of a million dollars?’ said Tess slowly. She’d definitely be able to afford that Chelsea flat with that cash injection. Dom would do cartwheels. But Tess’s head was doing its own back flips – she too had heard rumours about the recruitment of a co-deputy editor being brought in to work beside her. More importantly, Tess had always wanted to work in New York, and this might be just the opportunity to get a visa, and look for a proper job at the New York Post or Daily News.

‘This is an opportunity to make some real money, Tess, not to mention contacts and friends at the highest level,’ said Meredith, seeming to have read her thoughts. ‘The secret of all successful people is an ability to think outside the box. Think of Howard Rubenstein or Max Clifford in London; they make far more than any newspaper editor and have far more real influence. Besides, PR is more civilized than tabloid journalism, don’t you think?’

‘This wedding has to happen, doesn’t it?’ said Tess, and again, behind the cool patrician façade, she saw a flutter of anxiety.

‘Yes. I will not let anything stop it,’ said Meredith firmly. ‘Now, have you eaten?’

Tess shook her head. Behind them, they could just hear Big Ben striking nine p.m.

‘How about you join me for a late supper? I’m at the Connaught. I can tell you all about Brooke’s fabulous engagement party that’s going to be held at the Billington compound. I assume you’ve never been?’

‘Not yet,’ smiled Tess.

‘Well, I think that you might like it there. In fact, it’s tomorrow night; you can hop on the jet with me back to New York. How’s that sound?’