2

Judith woke to the shrill bleep of her alarm clock, and fumbled for several moments in the semi-dark before finally silencing it. Then she flopped back on to the pillow, closing her eyes. She was exhausted; her head throbbed; her mouth was dry and foul as a sewer. She was desperate for one of the cans of Coke she knew were in the fridge, but the kitchen was down three flights of stairs; it seemed a very long way away. Blinking open one eye, she scanned the small bedroom with its strewn clothes and tipped-out handbag, before closing it again, events of the night before seeping back into her consciousness.

Last night had been a mistake. Not just a boozing, smoking, four-hours-of-sleep mistake. Worse. It had been a Ted Gilmour mistake. She hadn’t slept with him, thank God. She’d only made that mistake once before, and she suspected she’d had more than Carlsberg in her pint glass that particular night. But she’d spent the whole bloody evening with him. She dully remembered the smoke-filled interior of The Mitre, steaming in the late-August heat. He’d chosen the pub in Farringdon, where he was meeting some analysts from Merrill Lynch who worked nearby. A few of their colleagues from The Herald had started off there too. But as the evening had gone on, first the analysts had left and then, one by one, the other journalists, leaving just Ted and her. There’d been a lock-in and the two of them had stayed on into the early hours. She’d needed a shoulder to cry on.

Now she grimaced metaphorically, as she remembered that, some time well after her fifth or sixth, tears had indeed been shed; God – why did she humiliate herself like that? Through the all-engulfing hangover she recalled Ted hammering his fist on the table between them – ‘Alex Carter is the most arrogant shit on Fleet Street,’ he’d cursed with feeling. And therein lay both of last night’s problems. Alex Carter, City Editor of The Herald, Britain’s biggest-selling broadsheet newspaper, was indeed an arrogant shit. He was also sadistic, pompous, sexist, idle, blatantly favouritist – and her boss. Fleet Street, on the other hand, had ceased to be the centre of gravity for national journalism over a decade before – before Judith had even started her career, in fact. But Ted Gilmour still talked about Fleet Street, every reference to it only serving to underline their age difference – only one of many reasons that made the idea of a relationship with him unthinkable.

Her mind slowed way down when she was hung over. Instead of the usual flurry of unrelated mental chatter which perpetually swept through her mind, the morning after the night before she would survey each idea with an alcohol-induced passivity which reduced everything to numbed, slow motion. Not that she wanted to relive the events of yesterday afternoon in slow or any other kind of motion. But she found herself drawn ineluctably back to the moment that Alex Carter, having hit his post-Savoy Grill low, appeared in the doorway of his office and, bellowing across the newsroom, demanded she present herself to him instantly.

It was a well-known fact in the office that Carter’s approach to managing his female staff was a simple, binary one; it was either frolicking or bollocking. Women were either sex goddesses or useless bitches. Summoned to his office they could expect to be flattered and flirted with, or to be heaped with sardonic acrimony. From his tone of voice, even before she’d got to his office door, Judith had had no doubt which this afternoon’s session was to be. She’d felt her stomach turn.

‘Output.’ Carter slammed the door behind her as she stepped inside. ‘What’s yours been? Two, three pieces in the last fortnight?’

‘We have five different investigations underway—’

‘And I have a paper to fill. Twelve pages of business news a day. This newspaper carries the most comprehensive business supplement of any broadsheet. There’s no place for passengers.’

‘We’re pushing ahead as fast as we can. Investigative journalism—’

Carter strode behind his desk and dropped into his chair. He was a short man with a short man’s complex, a large, balding head, glittering, dark eyes and a fat bum. Lard-arse, they called him.

‘Of course, I know nothing about investigative journalism,’ his mouth twisted into a disparaging sneer, ‘I’m only the City Editor, what the fuck do I know about it?’

Judith couldn’t think of anything to say, so she said nothing. She stood there, meeting his blazing resentment with a blank expression until he finally said, ‘You need to cultivate more contacts. I’ve already spoken to you about this before.’

‘Yes, Alex.’

‘If you’re serious about a career in journalism you’ve got to get out there. Circulate. Make yourself available to people.’

She knew precisely where this conversation was heading. And she despised him for it. How dare he question her commitment to journalism? Only nine months before, when she’d still been at The Guardian, she’d been feted as one of their brightest stars. She’d even been the youngest recipient of an industry ‘Scoop of the Year’ award for her investigative piece on the American Tobacco Corporation. But for week after week now, Carter had been so disdainful of her writing, so relentless in his carping criticism, there’d been moments she’d begun to wonder if she really was as good as she’d always thought. Carter just didn’t seem able to accept the fact that investigative work required far more time and effort than standard news reportage. Of course, he paid lip-service to the idea. During her job interview he’d waxed lyrical on the specialist demands and abilities required of investigative reporters whom, he had told her over a glass of the aptly named Meerlust Rubicon in a glistening City brasserie, he regarded as the créme de la créme of the industry. But when it came to the crunch, Carter didn’t accept the realities of investigative reporting. He was only interested in word count. A thousand words a day to be precise.

‘Supporting right-on causes might have served you well when you worked down the road,’ he jerked a disparaging thumb in a northerly direction, ‘but when you work at this level we expect a lot more from you. There’s no place for slackers.’

‘I work longer hours than most in the department.’ Judith wasn’t going to let that one past.

‘Then where’s the output?’ He raised his shoulders, before gesturing to the notice-board running down his office wall, to which copies of that week’s Herald were always pinned. ‘A feisty twenty-year-old from a provincial rag would be more productive. Quite frankly, we’re hugely overpaying you if all you can come up with is an average of two hundred words a day.’

Then go hire yourself a feisty twenty-year-old to lech all over, you slimy ponce, she felt like telling him. But she didn’t. Instead she’d replied, ‘If they’re the two hundred words that make people buy the paper—’

‘My, my, aren’t we grand?’ he pouted, ‘and I suppose Alison MacLean’s articles are just padding?’

‘Alison MacLean does different stuff to me.’

‘You know,’ his voice was sing-song, ‘I don’t think I’d ever have noticed that if you hadn’t pointed it out.’

It wasn’t the first time he’d compared her, unfavourably, to Alison MacLean. Two years younger than she, Alison had been plucked by Carter from the obscurity of The Herald library several years before, and now she had bylined articles in the paper every day – sometimes several of them. Not that she actually wrote the articles. Oh, no. What she did was lightly edit the ceaseless flow of press releases faxed to the City desk by public relations agencies throughout London, and present the results to Alex Carter as the fruits of her labours.

When she’d first stumbled on Alison’s modus operandi, a week after arriving at The Herald, Judith hadn’t known what stunned her more – her colleague’s audacious reproduction of PR feeds, complete with spin, or Alex Carter’s unquestioning acceptance of the material she’d supposedly created. But Judith had soon learned that the reason for Carter’s unhesitating use of PR-generated stories was, quite simply, because he was utterly dependent on them himself. On more than one occasion she’d read through the impressive ruminations of his City Editor’s daily column, only to discover he’d reproduced, word for word, a PR briefing note. And she’d frequently heard him on the phone practically commissioning pieces from various spin-doctors who were, of course, only too happy to provide a few hundred words containing oblique plugs for their clients.

The idea that there might be some kind of objective analysis, or primary research of a story, rarely seemed to cross Carter’s mind. Which was one of the two main reasons why Alison MacLean epitomised his notion of the perfect female journalist. The other was a lot less cerebral; Alison MacLean dressed for a particular kind of attention. Plain-looking and with an unremarkable figure, she was never without a face thick with make-up and in clothes like crotch-length minis and thigh-hugging jodhpurs, skin-tight blouses, see-through tops, black stockings and suspenders ... in short Alex Carter’s most cherished fantasies.

There had been moments, especially in the last few weeks when Judith’s professional self-esteem had hit rock bottom, that she’d wondered if she was being a fool for not playing the game. Perhaps she too should take up editing press releases, if only to get Carter off her back. Maybe if she invested in a short, black leather skirt and knee-high boots, his views about her journalistic prowess would also change? But no sooner did she find herself thinking along those lines than she’d wonder, how could she even think of being so unprofessional? How could she allow a man who thought that journalism meant editing press releases to have such a degenerative influence on her? So what if he just happened to be her boss.

Now, Carter regarded her balefully. ‘I expect more stories from you, Judith. Either a lot more stories, or much bigger stories. So you want to take your time over things? Fine. Just make sure they’re big enough to warrant it. If not, we’ll have to find you a home somewhere else in the department.’

It was the first time he’d used that threat, but she instantly knew what it meant. The City desk produced monthly survey ‘supplements’ on various industries and countries. They were, in truth, nothing more than a vehicle for The Herald to sell extra advertising, and the articles they carried were overt, PR puffery supporting the advertisers. No one liked writing supplements, but it was entirely at Carter’s discretion who did. And that fact made the supplements desk The Herald’s Gulag Archipelago, with next step the Job centre. Supplement writers rarely lasted long, a couple of months at the outside, and then they disappeared, rarely to surface in national journalism again.

‘You probably think I’m a bastard? Well, it’s just that I have high standards. I expect a lot of my staff.’ Carter now adopted his Mr Reasonable demeanor. ‘I know you can do it. I wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t think you were up to it. I just don’t see the commitment.’

‘I am committed,’ she tried to seem forceful, but it came out sounding weak.

‘Well, start proving it to me,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘and be quick about it. I want big stories. Big, big stories. It’s your job.’

Lifting his telephone receiver, he began dialling. Her audience, it seemed, had come to an end.

Everyone hated Alex Carter. Just her luck, thought Judith, to end up working for the most despised City Editor on any national paper. Later, at the pub, when she’d replayed that afternoon’s conversation to Ted, he’d had plenty of his own venom to unleash – there were few journalists who hadn’t had a run-in with Carter. Brutish, egotistical Carter. Carter, whose intellectual idleness was exceeded only by his social ambition; he had married the daughter of an earl and, from time to time, was to be found on the Society pages of Tatler, noxious little toad that he was. Carter, Ted had declared, hadn’t had an original thought in years – and he didn’t care. So long as he had bright PR men to do his thinking for him, and glistening socialites to massage his titanic ego, what did it matter?

It was comforting for Judith to be reminded that she wasn’t alone in her persecution. In a way, she appreciated the reality check. But, in another way, it only made her despair all the more; what was to become of her journalistic career which, until just recently, had held such promise? Ted had already suggested a transfer to his department. As Features Editor of The Herald he was, like Carter, an editorial head, but running a features desk was a less prestigious, and certainly a less well-paid position, than that of City Editor. As much as Judith appreciated Ted’s offer, she knew that moving to Features would be wrong – wrong for her reporting career which had been spent, so far at least, investigating big businesses; and wrong for Ted, whose evident interest in her she just couldn’t reciprocate.

Ted was always stimulating company over a drink at the end of the day, and was unstintingly chivalrous and attentive. She respected him as a journalist and, having seen him fill six pages of newspaper in just two hours, she admired his creativity and contacts. But that was it. There were no blue moons, red roses and gypsy violins in the relationship for her. It wasn’t only the ten-year age difference, which didn’t have to be a big deal, although Ted’s journalistic reminiscences sometimes made it so. It was, more basically, that she just didn’t fancy him.

She’d made this quite clear the very first time he’d hinted at his romantic intentions. ‘You’re not really my type, Ted, and I’m sure if it wasn’t for the three double gins, I definitely wouldn’t be yours,’ she’d tried the firm but tactful approach. But then she’d gone and complicated the situation by sleeping with him. She still couldn’t believe herself capable of it and kept on wondering if maybe Giles Ayling from Advertising Sales didn’t have a case to answer. Giles, who with his public-school bray, Hugh Grant hairstyle and pea brain couldn’t have been less her type, but who had monopolised her company during the evening in question. One minute, she’d been feeling pleasantly mellow, at the bar of The Herald’s local in Wapping, then, hardly any time at all after returning from a visit to the Ladies and taking another sip of her drink, she’d felt the almost physical sensation of sinking into a trance state. She did remember pushing away Giles Ayling’s face, which loomed suddenly close to her own, before Ted had appeared. There had been something of a tussle, then she’d been gliding out of the door on Ted’s arm. Next thing she remembered was waking up in a strange bedroom next morning, with the melodic strains of ‘Oklahoma’, in Ted’s surprisingly well-modulated baritone, wafting out of the bathroom. She’d run a hand down her body, feeling her nakedness. Oh, shit.

She’d spared him the embarrassment of telling him she didn’t remember a thing, but after that it had been more difficult than ever trying to persuade Ted that their relationship should remain on a just-good-friends footing. Now, as she awakened to discover the assault of the night before once again laying siege to her body, the prospect of a sweet, wet Coke and two Nurofen began to outweigh her desire to remain under the duvet. Climbing out of bed, she donned her bathrobe and made her way downstairs.

Half an hour later, she was a woman transformed. Bright-eyed, Ysatis-scented, and headache gone, she stood in her underwear, blow-drying her hair. At twenty-nine she still had a good figure, despite years of alcohol abuse and smoking. Her breasts continued perkily to defy gravity, and she retained her slender form and a hand-span waist, even though she was always shoving junk food down her neck. At school she’d been nicknamed ‘Pix’ and she was still light on her feet, her dark hair was cut short, and her large, dark eyes were still brightly inquisitive. She was lucky, she knew, not to have turned into a bloated, hacking wreck. From time to time she’d make a resolution to quit smoking, cut down on drinking, even return to swimming, which had been her raison d’être as a teenager. But the pressure-cooker of work since joining The Herald meant that by the time she finished each night it was at least half past seven and she felt she deserved a very hard-earned drink and a fag.

Climbing into her working gear, with no compromise in the tight black skirt direction, she checked her watch and decided she had time for a quick breakfast. Having already discovered the fridge was bereft of milk – thanks, no doubt, to gay Simon, her flatmate – she rushed downstairs and out of the front door, heading for the local newsagent.

She’d been a loyal J. P. Patel customer for seven years – ever since moving to London. She’d always flat-shared in the same part of Earl’s Court and in that time had visited the corner shop practically daily, at all hours and in every condition. After about three years, when she’d established herself as a permanent resident, as opposed to part of the transient tide of colonial youth that washed through the area, Sanjay Patel had started to greet her. By year four she was on first-name terms – not just with Sanjay, but also with Gita, Sanjay’s wife, Amala his mother, Gautama, Devi and Harsha his three children, and Kirana and Pradeep Kahn, Sanjay’s sister and brother-in-law – all of whom lived above the shop.

Sanjay had been curious why she always bought a copy of every newspaper; after she told him she wrote for The Guardian, it didn’t matter how early in the morning she went down for milk or a box of fags, he’d always scanned the paper and had a ready critique of whatever she’d written, which he made sure she heard, whether she wanted to or not. He treated her as his own personal celebrity, adopting a protective, fatherly air, tut-tutting about her boyfriends, her lax attitude to personal safety, her diet, while, with uncharacteristic largesse, surreptitiously providing her with much-needed credit at the end of each month.

For all his illiberal views and idiomatic English, however, Sanjay’s heart was in the right place. Last year he had rescued two nephews from appalling circumstances after their parents, Sanjay’s brother Hamid and his wife, were killed in a factory fire in India. Paying for their air fares to Britain, he’d taken them into his already overcrowded home and was bringing them up as though they were his own. Judith had followed the rescue of Nandan, nine, and Sohan, seven, who had mysteriously vanished on the night of the fire, and whom Sanjay had feared dead until, several months later, he heard a rumour that they’d been seized by a Delhi businessman in lieu of debts supposedly owed by the boys’ father. For five months Nandan and Sohan had laboured as child slaves, weaving carpets, until their outraged uncle had come to the rescue.

Now attending the local school in Fulham, having to learn English and a completely foreign culture, their lives weren’t easy. Judith had always had a soft spot for the two boys, who often helped in the shop. She marvelled at the way they were adapting so quickly.

Judith stepped into the shop and made her way to the refrigerator at the back. Sanjay and Nandan were unpacking newspapers at the counter.

‘You all right?’ queried Sanjay, as she returned, holding out money for the milk.

‘Fine,’ she nodded, smiling at Nandan.

‘Nothing today?’ he tapped a pile of Herald newspapers awaiting delivery.

She pulled a face. ‘You’re getting as bad as my boss-’

‘How is that fat bastard?’ Sanjay asked with feeling. Once, she had explained to him how the business desk was run, and described Carter’s predilection for short skirts and PR puff. Since then, Sanjay hadn’t had a good word to say about The Herald’s City Editor.

‘Never changes,’ she told him now. ‘More stories. More cleavage. I really don’t know what to do.’

The moment she said it, she wished she hadn’t; it was an opportunity Sanjay couldn’t resist. Puckering up his lips, he assumed an earnest expression, the prelude to a well-intended, but superfluous homily.

‘Sometimes the answers we seek’, he intoned solemnly, ‘are right beneath our very noses.’

‘Yeah,’ she took her change from Nandan and made her way to the door, ‘I’ll remember.’

Trudging back up the road to her flat, she couldn’t help reflecting – if only it was that easy. If only the next exposé was beneath her very nose. For in the unforgiving greyness of the morning, another ten hours in the office looming ahead of her, Judith knew she needed a story, and a big one, if she was going to survive.