Troy felt he had little choice. He called young Alex at the Sunday Post .
‘What have I done now?’
‘Nothing. I need a favour.’
‘Freddie, your favours are proving rather costly.’
‘Meaning?’
‘After your visit to Tara her fortnight off became a month. I don’t know what you said to her, but she’s still out in the sticks. If she doesn’t sit down and write the story with me soon it’ll lose momentum altogether.’
‘I doubt the saga of the Ffitch sisters will ever go cold.’
‘I didn’t mean cold. I mean it’ll be eclipsed by the next scandal.’
‘You mean there’s more!’
‘Of course there’s more, Freddie. Don’t be naive. They’re going to roll out for the rest of our days. We have unleashed the flood, opened whatsername’s box. There’ll never be an end to it. This is the shape of things to come. And the shape is priapic.’
Troy wondered if he was shocked by this. He was not accustomed to being shocked. ‘Can you meet me after work?’ he said.
‘I suppose so. The Scandalmonger’s Arms. About six thirty?’