“Come with me,” said Bev, leading him through the office to her desk, where she had a copy of a free newspaper open to the centre pages. One side readLord Moresby’s Son Flouts Lockdown Rules. Four photographs in full colour sat around the story. One that jumped out at him was of random people crowding the dance floor. But, when he looked carefully, he could make out himself and Nile at the very moment they had kissed. Who the hell had taken that?
“After we left on Saturday, the barn got raided. There were around thirty-five people left. Blake and Ambika had asked close friends and family to stay behind and party on. Until—wait for it—at around eight o’clock, the police and the press turned up. After they eventually found him, Blake got charged. Under the current lockdown regulations any illegal gathering of over thirty people and the police can issue a fine of ten thousand pounds.”
“Shit!”
“I know, right? He knew he should never have held the party. Thank goodness we left early, otherwise we’d have been complicit. No idea how your picture got in there. Prince thinks someone must have snuck their phone into the party. Probably the same person who was the whistleblower.”
“Blake must be so pissed off.”
“Yes, but not about the fine, which no doubt Mummy and Daddy will take care of,” said Bev, grinning, then tapping her forefinger lower down the page. “Read the second-to-last paragraph. Out loud, please.”
“‘Clearly eschewing social distancing rules but keeping things in the family, the husband-to-be, Blake Moresby II, was found outside the venue among the bushes by police officers—’“
“‘—having fellatio performed on him by the bride-to-be’s youngest brother,’“ finished Bev with a flourish, trying hard to stifle a laugh. “Yes, darling. Your ex royally fucked up.”
“Poor Ambika,” said Spencer quietly. She didn’t deserve that kind of embarrassment. Then again, maybe finding out now was better than after they were married. “What has Muriel had to say? Is she in the office?”
“No, she’s off all this week. Supposedly preparing for the client-party interview. Not sure if that’s even going to happen now after having the family name splashed all over the paper. Do you think Marshall will walk away?”
Spencer hadn’t thought about Marshall all weekend. After hearing nothing back from him, Spencer had decided to beat a dignified retreat.
“Actually, no. I think Marshall’s interview would be the perfect antidote. Let’s face it, he’s had a fair amount of public shit to deal with himself recently. I reckon he might make a good ally.”
“Are you going to talk to him, to Marshall?”
“I’ve tried, Bev. He’s not returning my calls.”
“Oh, babe. I’m so sorry.”
Just then, Bev’s phone rang.
“Oh shoot. I need to answer this and it’s going to be a long one. Can you take the paper? There’s something on page two you might be interested in.”
Back at his desk, he switched on his computer and took off his coat, readying for the day ahead. The story on page two centred around Hollingbroke, who had walked away from yet another television show due to ‘artistic differences’ with the producers. The article went on to analyse Hollingbroke’srecent outing of ex-lover, Marshall Highlander, his spats with television executives, his fading career, and his rapidly declining popularity among viewers. Rightly or wrongly, Spencer thought there might be a comment about the actor being checked into rehab, after what he had seen at the restaurant. But the article mentioned nothing.
Once again Spencer lost himself in his work and only came up for air at around eleven, when his phone rang with an external call.
“Hello, can I speak to Spencer Wyrrell.”
Spencer thought he recognised the voice, female and professional. But the name temporarily escaped him.
“Speaking.”
“This Madeleine Morrison from Peerpoint Consultancy. Do you have a moment?”
Spencer knew about Peerpoint. They specialised in recruiting journalists and other professional editorial staff. Blackmore Magazine Group rarely used them, Peerpoint’s specialism aimed more at serious-minded journalism. Not surprisingly, Muriel despised them. But sometimes senior members of staff at Blackmore were called upon to provide references for juniors going on to better things, something Clarissa would have dealt with in the past. Spencer would need to become familiar with this side of the role if he was going to fight for the promotion.
“I have a few minutes. Please go ahead.”
“Can I call you Spencer?”
“Yes, of course,” said Spencer, chuckling while continuing to work on the article on his screen.
“Can I ask, Spencer, have you heard of Ed Coleman?”
Ed Coleman headed up theNational Herald. Spencer only knew him by reputation. A hard-nosed, hard-working journalist, he had fought his way up through the ranks of the national newspaper industry to become the editor-in-chief at one of themost respected British newspapers in the country. Whoever had snagged a job with him, in no matter what capacity, was one lucky so-and-so.
“Of course. But by reputation only, not personally. What’s this about, Madeleine?”
