The speed of light might be the fastest thing around but the speed of rumour is right up there too. Thinking about Marie's note last night I came up with an idea of my own and, after a brief consultation with her on my arrival, added it to the arsenal. Not only was a photocopy of a certain someone's desk diary doing the rounds this morning, but also a report from one of the cleaners that she'd found used prophylactics in a certain someone's rubbish tin last night. What was even more gratifying was that by the time I returned from lunch the rumour had undergone inflation by Chinese whisper and was returned to me as the cleaner having discovered them in flagrante on the desktop. But the really interesting thing was that I hadn't actually said who the rubbish tin belonged to! I think I could rather get to enjoy this disinformation lark ...
As predicted, the luncheon with my brother proved to be dripping with significance and decidedly dodgy. In short, he's offered me a part-time job as a so-called creative assistant to none other than himself. In actual fact I'll be working exclusively for Barry Kennedy but through Stuart. (There's something shady in this arrangement and Stu clammed up when I asked him for details. All that I could glean was that his agency has an 'informal' deal with Kennedy and that Stu felt using me had the added security of keeping it in the family. It also appears that it's being done under the guise of normal PR consultations for government ministers although, because some of it might be construed as electioneering, it's not all being charged for. Either someone is repaying a favour here or anticipating an awfully big one in the future.)
From my own perspective I was still a little unsure — that is I until certain events that transpired after my return to work. Now, I might need the job.
It'll be a strictly part-time arrangement, something, Stu thinks, I can do in my own time in the evenings and weekends — at least to start with. I've always been somewhat (no, make that hugely) cynical about the public relations/advertising/marketing business but, especially from a storyteller's perspective, it does have a certain appeal. And it's not as though I'm really selling out. It's only part-time and may not even last.
Marie and I had afternoon tea together and I reported back on the results of my handiwork this morning. She was delighted. Like Stu, she was being cagey about what she could get out of it — apart from the embarrassment factor — but I can put two and two together. Tom apparently has a fabulous house and of course every one knows about the Coutts family trust.
She did misjudge one thing, though — the aforementioned speed of rumour. Part of the longer-term plan was for a positive pregnancy test, but it may not get to that because things are moving faster than anticipated. As we were heading down the stairs from the cafeteria a voice boomed from above us, 'Just a minute young lady, I want a word with you,' and the gentleman himself joined us on the landing.
'You can carry on, Steven, this is private,' he said.
'No don't, Steven,' she retorted. 'I might need a witness.'
I stayed where I was.
'I don't know what the hell you're playing at but you can stop it right now,' he said.
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Oh yes you damn well do. I've just come back from the tenth floor after having to answer to some ludicrous allegations. I don't know where this poison's coming from, but I have a pretty good idea. That slutty get-up you're wearing, cracks about cellphones, ordinary business reports sealed in envelopes marked "Private and Confiden ...'
'Oh, you mean it's not from a certain story about a fictional sexual conquest last weekend then?' That stopped him in his tracks. 'Or about the theft of an item of my personal clothing? Maybe I should be the one talking to the tenth floor.'
'If you say anyth ...'
'I don't have to say anything. Not now I've got their attention. I've only to walk out of your office adjusting my skirt or buttoning my blouse and they'll say it for me.'
'You little bitch.'
'I am what you've made me, Dr Frankenstein. I'm all your own creation.' With that she walked off, leaving Tom and me alone.
He glared at me. 'I see your grubby little fingerprints in all this too, Spalding. I suggest you start looking for another job because you're going to find things around here getting tougher and tougher.'